Arthur Morgan didn’t know where you came from or why you were in the middle of the western chaos.

You were unlike anyone he’d ever met, out of place, yet you belonged, moving through the wilderness with a lightness he couldn’t fathom, making his world seem softer just by being there.

He kept coming back, drawn to you by an invisible string, listening to the melody of your words he couldn’t understand. It made him feel foolish, standing there like some dumb brute, scarred hands rough and calloused, dirt etched beneath his nails.

Your words were like music, foreign and strange. Arthur didn’t understand a single one, but he just wanted to understand, nodding with a lopsided grin just to see that smile of yours, so warm it settled deep in his chest in a way that felt dangerous.

But he shouldn’t be here. Not with you. Not with the way his soul was stained. A thief, a killer, an outlaw with blood on his hands. What place did he have near something so pure. Yet that didn’t stop him. He kept coming back, drawn to you despite himself.

Little dove, he found himself calling you. So out of place in a land as cruel as this. He brought you wildflowers, awkward offerings meant to bridge the distance between you. You watched him doodle, crooked lines and shaded figures as he tried to explain himself.

Now, he sat before you, rough hands working the pen on a scrap of paper, lips pursed in focus. He drew two figures, stickmen, one with a hat perched messily on its head. Arthur pointed to it, then to himself.

“Me,” he said, voice low and gravelly. Then he pointed to the other figure, this one smiling brightly. “You.”

Next, he drew a horse, rough and clumsy. He pointed to it, then at the two stickmen. “Ride,” he managed, voice softer. He hesitated, his heart thudding before he added, “...in town.” Arthur’s eyes met yours, searching for a sign that you might say yes. Part of him dreaded it, feared it.