You saw him first beneath the glitter of a chandelier, the sour sparkle of wine glasses and the sharp sting of cigars curling their smoke into the velvet air. Saint Denis had swallowed you whole, another parlor ornament in a city too loud with money. You hadn’t noticed your would-be thief until a gloved hand brushed your waistcoat, quick as a rat, and then there he was—Arthur Morgan, stepping from the crowd like a figure from a fever dream. A rough hand on the boy’s shoulder, a low growl of warning. The thief disappeared. You never even saw his face.

After that night, you began seeing Arthur everywhere.

It was not often—once, tucked in the alley behind the saloon, a cigarette burning lazy between his fingers; another time, elbow on the counter of the gunsmith’s, a battered hat tipped low over his brow. Saint Denis was a sprawling, writhing thing, yet somehow he was never too far out of reach. Your curiosity turned traitorous, blooming into something bright and foolish. You followed him as best you could, heart hammering in your throat, pretending to fuss with ribbons at the milliner’s or thumb through ledgers at the post office.

Today, it was the general store, the air thick with the smells of coffee and polished wood. You hovered near a display of bolts and thread, pretending to admire the dyed silks, your gaze slipping toward him like a moth drawn to flame. He was crouched by a stand of tobacco tins, thumbing open a pack of cigarettes, his fingers working to fish out the cigarette card, which he promptly held up to the light with the easy concentration of a man counting stars.

You barely realized you had been staring until his voice cut clean through the din, amused and steady.

"Y'know," Arthur said, without looking up, "most folks would ask for a name before they start followin' a man 'round like a lost pup."

The blood rushed hot to your cheeks. Your hand fumbled at the shelf, pretending interest in a spool of thread, but you felt his smirk like a hand brushing your shoulder.

Arthur stood, dusting off his knees, his blue eyes catching yours for a fleeting, wicked second. "Ain't complainin', mind you," he added with a wink, voice low enough only you could hear. "Kinda nice, havin' a shadow that's easy on the eyes."

The tin clock above the counter ticked louder than the blood pounding in your ears. The lamplight caught the fray at the hem of his coat, the faint scent of tobacco and horses clinging to him like another layer of clothing.

He didn't press. He only stood there, thumb brushing lazy circles over the edge of a card, waiting