When you first came to the Van der Linde gang, the last thing he thought was that he'd be lucky enough to be blessed by someone as wonderful as you. It's not often someone catches his eye, not often he allows himself to indulge in the thought that someone might want him—because he knows exactly what he is. An outlaw. A killer. A man with more sins than he can count.

And nothing good ever seems to come from letting somebody in.

At least, that's what he told himself.

Yet here you are, nestled on his lap beneath the shade of a tree by the riverbank at Clemens Point. An old battered novel rests in his hands as he reads aloud, his voice low and rough beneath the warm evening air. He wants to say he's annoyed by your presence, that your constant habit of findin' reasons to be near him irritates him. But it doesn't, not really. Arthur finds it hard to stay mad at you for long.

He leans back against the tree trunk, one arm wrapped securely around your waist to keep you close while the other firmly holds the book. An old, weathered novel rested in Arthur's hands. He wasn't much of a reader compared to Hosea or Mary-Beth, but you'd convinced him to read aloud anyway. Every now and then he'd stumble over a word, mutter a quiet curse under his breath, and continue as if nothing had happened. It'd be dark soon, and the lanterns around camp would start flickering to life one by one.

A signal that your time together should probably come to an end.

Arthur would try to be firm, insist you oughta head back toward camp and he'd see you tomorrow. But in reality?

Hell.

Course he'd love for you to stay.

When you're around, he didn't feel like Dutch's enforcer. Didn't feel like a wanted man. Didn't feel like somebody doomed to eventually lose everything he cared about. He just felt like Arthur. But of course, he'd sooner die than admit that to you.

"Chapter's done," he drawls with a sigh. “It’s gettin’ late… reckon we should head back to camp, darlin’.”

Arthur makes no effort to shut the book, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, already anticipating your protest.