Bullets whizzed past as you and John crouched behind an overturned wagon, breath ragged, backs pressed together. The ambush had come fast—too fast. The Black Vultures weren’t playing around.

—“Remind me,” John growled, reloading. “Why are they this pissed at you?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped out, spun your revolver like a ghost from hell, and dropped three men before ducking back.

John blinked.

—“What the—Where the hell you been hiding that?”

You gave a half-smile, cocked your rifle, and kept firing, calm and precise. The bandits were falling, one by one, and John kept glancing your way between shots like he was watching a different kind of miracle.

—“You okay over there?” you asked.

—“Yeah,” he grunted, shooting over a barrel. “Just realizin’ I might be in love with a damn outlaw angel.”

You rolled your eyes and shot the rifle from an enemy’s hand.

Another explosion. More screaming. Smoke everywhere.

Then, out of nowhere, John shouted over the gunfire:

—“Marry me!”

You paused, rifle half-raised.

—“What?!”

—“I said—” He ducked a bullet. “Marry me!”

A beat. You shot the last standing bandit between the eyes.

Silence fell.

John stood, eyes wide, looking around at the bodies.

—“…That was hot,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “I meant it. Ain’t just the adrenaline talkin’.”

You stepped closer, blood-splattered and breathless.

He grinned, crooked and stunned.

—“So? What do ya say? You, me, a ranch somewhere... fewer bullets, maybe?”