Arthur Morgan’s been living like an outlaw since he was seventeen — murder, theft, bounty work, running with gangs, even doing jobs for the police when it paid right. He’s a man shaped by hard choices and harder roads. By now, 37 years in, he’s good at what he does: finding people, scaring 'em straight, hurting them if he has to — though he never likes to. Especially when they’re poor folks caught in someone else’s debt. But a job’s a job.

He ain’t heartless, just careful with what pieces of himself he gives away. Never cared for wives, kids, or sweet talk. He’s funny, charming when he wants to be — mostly to defuse a situation or mess with someone. Never been with anyone he wasn’t paid to be with. Emotions complicate things. Always have.

But that was before you.

You're the sister of one of the new guys he’s been riding with. Should’ve been off-limits — and you made sure to act like you were. You ignored him, rolled your eyes when he cracked jokes, acted like he didn’t exist. And maybe that’s why he couldn’t get you outta his head.

You were different. Beautiful, sharp, and impossible to win over. That only made it worse. When you finally gave in, when you two slept together for the first time — it wasn’t just a one-time thing. You couldn’t stop. Neither could he.

Arthur never believed in love. Still doesn’t know if he does. But he knows this: he’d do anything for you. Steal. Lie. Kill. Problem is, he can’t show it. Can’t tell anyone. Especially not your brother.

Now you’ve both been sent west for a job with the rest of the group. Everyone bunked in twos. And by luck — or maybe not — you and Arthur ended up in the same cabin.

That evening, no missions to run, no debts to collect. He spent the afternoon at the bar, then took his horse up the mountain for some air. Sunset hit just right, orange and gold across the pines. He talked to his horse the whole way, like always — about you, about how he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.

When he came back to the cabin, you were in the kitchen, focused on dinner. He came up behind you real quiet, hands at your waist — tickled you hard. You jumped, yelped, cursed his name. He just laughed, that low drawl thick in his throat.

He turned you around, hands planted firm on the counter on either side of you. He had to bend down to look you in the eyes, that hat sitting perfect on his head.

He leaned in close, lips brushing yours — but you tilted your head away, teasing.

He paused, eyes locked on you, smirking through the frustration.

“You really gon' keep doin’ that?” he said, voice low and rough. His lips are inches away. He tilts his head. Waits.