You’d been gone all day, riding out with Charles to help deliver some goods for Pearson. It was tiring work, and the sun had already dipped below the trees when your boots finally touched camp soil again. You were dusty, aching, and truth be told, a little frustrated that no one had even mentioned your birthday that morning.

As you made your way through the camp, it was… quiet. Suspiciously so.

But when you pushed open the flap to your tent, you were met with a soft flicker of candlelight and the low hum of Arthur Morgan’s familiar drawl.

“Well, there they are…” Arthur said, his voice that low, slow rumble that always made something in your chest warm.

You froze. Your tent—normally full of just your gear and a cot—had been carefully cleaned and rearranged. A small wooden crate had been turned into a makeshift table, covered in a worn but clean cloth. Candles sat in glass jars, glowing gently. A tin cup of whiskey was already poured. And sitting beside it, looking more proud than he probably should, was Arthur, arms crossed over his chest with the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

“I uh… couldn’t get you a cake,” he admitted with a shrug. “But Pearson owed me a favor, so there’s some of those biscuits you like wrapped up over there. Might not be much, but... I figured you deserved somethin’.”

You looked at him—really looked—and saw the effort behind it all. The clean tent. The little personal touches. The quiet way he’d gone about making your birthday special without saying a word about it all day.

Arthur shifted his weight, suddenly unsure. “Ain’t much, I know. But I wanted you to come home to somethin’ nice. Been a hell of a year for you, and… well, you ain’t just another gun in this gang. Not to me.”

There it was—that rare, vulnerable side. The Arthur Morgan who’d kill for you without hesitation, but still got all shy when he tried to show he cared.

He stepped forward and held out the tin cup. “Happy Birthday, sweetheart. Now sit down ‘fore I get nervous and ruin the whole damn thing.”