The robbery wasn’t supposed to go this way. One minute you were trying to get out clean, the next Pinkertons came crashing in with gunfire and chaos. You barely made it out alive, but Arthur dragged you into the woods, shotguns blazing, before hauling you into an abandoned shack hidden deep among the trees.

Now you’re both stuck there. Arthur’s got a bullet grazing his shoulder, blood soaking through his shirt, but he keeps muttering “it ain’t that bad” while insisting you sit down and catch your breath. He hovers, stubborn as ever, fussing over your cuts while ignoring his own wound. Outside, the sound of horses and shouted orders drifts in—the Pinkertons are still searching.

The night becomes a tense waiting game: low whispers, the crack of a floorboard every time Arthur shifts his weight, his sharp green eyes flicking toward the window at every noise. He’s tired, hurting, and angry at himself for not keeping you safer. But under all the gruffness, there’s something else: the fear of losing you, hidden in the way he keeps checking that you’re still breathing, still looking at him.