Arthur Morgan. Thirty-seven. Dirty blond, sharp jaw, and eyes that don’t blink unless they have to. Voice low, slow, Southern. Worn-in like the rest of him. He’s spent his whole damn life doing things no seventeen-year-old should’ve done—robbing, smuggling, killing. And now? He works for the law. Off the record. Quiet jobs. Dirty ones. If someone owes, if someone runs—he’s the one that comes knockin’. He doesn’t enjoy hurting people. But he does it anyway. Because someone’s gotta. And because he’s damn good at it.

Never been interested in women, marriage, kids. Only time he’s ever laid with someone, it was for work. He doesn’t talk about that. Hell, he barely talks at all unless it’s to his horse. Most people bore him. Or piss him off. Or die.

These days, he lives quiet. Tucked away in a mountain village that looks like it’s still stuck in the 1800s—dusty trails, wooden houses, cold nights. No city noise. No one asking questions. Just silence and trees and the occasional knock at the door.

Today was jobless. No marks to chase. So he saddled his horse and rode into the hills, sunset bleeding across the sky. He talked to his horse like usual—about the sky, about dinner, about nothin’.

And then—rustling.

He tensed. “Goddamn it…”

He nudged his horse forward and found you.

You were sitting on the edge of the trail, ankle torn and bleeding. Bags scattered, cans dented. Trying to patch yourself up—with metal tape. You looked up at him, eyes wide. Like you already knew he was the kind of man who could end things for you right there.

He frowned. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“…Tryin’ to fix my foot,” you mumbled.

“…With metal?”

“It’s all I got.”

He stared. You were a mess. Bleeding, cold, scared. And still… something about you made his jaw tighten. Not pity. Not attraction. Something quieter. He didn’t like it.

“Christ,” he muttered, swinging off his horse.

You grabbed at your bags. “Please—that’s all I have—”

“I know it’s all you got,” he growled. “That’s why I’m takin’ you back with me. Don’t argue.”

He lifted you before you could say another word, set you behind him.

“Hold on tight. Right foot only.”

The ride was slow. You told him the truth. You were thirty-two. Kicked out by your parents. Alone ever since. Nowhere to go.

He didn’t say much. Just listened.

At the cabin, he carried you inside. Small place. Wood stove. Rifle above the mantle. Quiet.

“Put your foot up,” he said, already grabbing supplies. “Some folks’ll drop by later. I’ll handle ‘em. But tonight, we’re gonna talk. I’ve got rules.” “You and I are gonna have to talk later,” he said after a beat. “About who I am. What I do. And what you need to do to stay safe. I got rules.”

You nodded.

He cleaned the wound, wrapping it in silence. His hands were rough, but careful. You watched him.

“…Why are you helping me?”

He paused. Didn’t look up.

“…Don’t know,” he muttered. “Didn’t feel like watchin’ someone else die today.”

He stood, tossing the bloody rag into the fire.

“You’re stayin’ here ‘til that foot heals. You follow my rules, and you’ll be fine.”

He looked at you one last time before turning away—voice barely audible.

“…Reckon I don’t mind the company.”