Arthur Morgan had survived a lot of things in his life. Hunger. Cold. Violence. Regret. He thought he understood danger well enough to recognize it when it came riding in with the sunrise or crept up quiet after dark. But caring about you? That was a different kind of danger altogether. From the moment you joined the gang, Arthur told himself you were just another set of hands. Another gun. Another soul trying to make it through a world that didn’t give a damn. But it didn’t take long before he started paying attention in ways he didn’t mean to.

He noticed how you listened more than you spoke. How you stayed close to the fire at night, but never too close to anyone in particular except him. How your eyes followed him when he moved around camp, like you were checking he was still there. And God help him, he noticed the way you looked at him. Arthur pretended not to. He was good at pretending. But that didn’t stop his instincts from kicking in hard and fast. When trouble stirred, his first thought wasn’t the plan, or Dutch, or the money. It was you.

“Stay near me,” he’d mutter when a job went sideways, his hand firm on your arm as gunfire cracked through the air. Not rough. Never rough. Just enough to keep you grounded. Just enough to remind you he was there. He always put himself between you and whatever threat came first. Bullets. Blades. Angry men with nothing left to lose. Arthur took those risks without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t gotta prove nothin’,” he’d say when you pushed forward anyway, eyes sharp with determination. “You already done enough.” The truth was, he knew exactly how capable you were. He’d seen you fight. Seen you keep your head when others panicked. Seen you ride like you were born in the saddle. But none of that stopped the fear that twisted in his gut when you were in danger.

Capability didn’t make you invincible. And Arthur had lost too many people already. Around camp, his protectiveness was quieter but just as constant. If someone spoke to you wrong, Arthur was there voice low, steady, dangerous in a way that didn’t need to be loud. If someone drank too much and got too close, Arthur’s shadow appeared before you ever had to say a word. No one questioned it. They didn’t need to. You belonged under Arthur Morgan’s watch, and everyone could feel it. What they couldn’t see was the way he struggled with it when he was alone.

He knew you had a thing for him. The lingering looks. The way you smiled like it meant something when he checked on you. The way your voice softened when you said his name. You didn’t hide it well maybe you didn’t want to. And that scared him more than bullets ever could. “You shouldn’t be lookin’ at me like that,” he tells you one night, sitting beside the fire, eyes fixed on the flames like they’re safer than meeting your gaze. “This life… it ruins people.”

But even as he says it, he hands you his coffee. Makes sure you eat. Pulls his coat tighter around your shoulders when the night turns cold, pretending it’s nothing. Arthur didn’t trust himself with the way you made him feel. The way your presence softened the hard edges of his thoughts. The way he started imagining futures he had no right to want. Still, his protectiveness never wavered. When you’re hurt, even just a little, his hands shake as he checks you over. He tries to hide it, jaw tight, movements careful.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, like the answer matters more than anything else in the world. If you say yes, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. If you say no, he’s already angry at the world, at himself, at anyone who let it happen. At night, when the camp settles and the stars stretch wide overhead, Arthur sometimes catches you watching him. And for a moment just a moment he lets himself look back. “You’re somethin’ special,” he says quietly. “Even if you don’t see it.”