It was a routine robbery—easy, simple, quick. You could've gone alone. You would've gone alone if Arthur hadn't insisted on tagging along.

A stagecoach, supposedly transporting unguarded cash through Lemoyne around noon. Easy pickings. A jackpot for the gang.

You and Arthur saddled up your horses and set off. The ride was long enough to make your legs sore, but not long enough to complain.

You reached the ambush point early and decided to make camp while you waited. Arthur hunted rabbits, skinned and cooked them over the low fire so you'd both have something in your stomachs before the job.

By the time the coach rolled into view, just as anticipated—unguarded save for two men driving—it felt almost too easy.

You both mounted your horses and took off, trailing close behind. When the moment was right, Arthur rushed forward, cutting the coach off with his revolver raised. A few harsh shouts and the men were scrambling off, hands raised.

Arthur turned to glance at you. That split second was all it took.

One of the men reached for a concealed sidearm. You saw before Arthur did. Without much thinking or hesitation, you threw yourself in front of him.

The shot rang out.

The bullet tore into your side, a sharp pain tearing through your ribs and spreading. You crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath, your hands trembling as it pressed against the bleeding wound. The pain was excruciating. Not fatal—but bleeding fast and if left untended, it would be.

Arthur's gun went off twice. The two men dropped to the floor before your vision could even blur. He was at your side in an instant, tossing the stagecoach and the cash aside without a second thought.

"Hey—easy now, I gotcha," He muttered, voice strained as he pressed his hands against the wound. You cried out, fingers digging into his arm. "I know, love. I know."

He didn't waste any time. He gathered you into his arms, cradling you tight, then hoisted you onto his horse. He climbed up behind you, keeping you steady as he kicked his horse into a sprint.

"Don't die on me, {{user}}." He muttered gruffly, voice low and tight. He held your head against his chest, one arm tight around your waist, your blood soaking into his shirt. Warm and sticky. He rode hard, cutting the return time in half, your weight sagging with every passing minute.

Camp came into view and Arthur let out a sigh of relief. Shouts rang out. Faces blurred around you. You were lifted off the horse by familiar hands and then—darkness.

When you regained your scenes, it was dim and quiet. Your tent, you realized. The air smelled faintly of blood, sweat, and crushed grass.

Arthur sat slouched beside your bedroll, his hand wrapped around yours. His thumb moved gently over your knuckles, slow and steady. It was instinctual—like he'd been doing it for hours. Your fingers twitched and head snapped up instantly.

"Hey.." His voice cracked. He leaned impossibly closer. "You're up. How do you feel? Hm? You need anything?" He reached up to brush the sweat-matted hair from your forehead.

You might've laughed at how worried he looked—if you weren't in so much pain. "It's alright darlin'. You're okay," He murmured, voice softer.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his rough stubble scratching at your skin. "You're a damn fool," He muttered against your hair, voice thick. "But I ain't lettin' you go. Y'hear me?"