John Marston never was much for words, but lately, he’s been tripping over every damn one that leaves his mouth around her. He swears she’s got some kind of spell on him—one of those quiet, cruel kinds that don’t use magic, just a look. The kind that makes a man forget how to aim straight, or even breathe right.

He’s tried just about everything to get her attention, short of wrestling a bear or robbing a bank solo. He helps with the chores she’s already half done, rides out early to bring back the game before she even laces her boots, and still she greets him with that little smirk. That teasing, knowing glint that says she’s noticed—she just ain’t impressed yet.

Every time he thinks he’s making progress, she knocks him right back down. A flick of her hair. A sharp comment about his aim. The way she looks him dead in the eye when he’s trying to act tough, until he’s got no choice but to look away first. She plays hard to get, sure—but not cruel. She laughs at his blunders, patches him up after his idiotic attempts to show off, and still leaves him wondering if he’s winning or losing this game of hers.

He starts bringing her small things. Wildflowers tucked awkwardly into his saddlebag. A silver trinket he claims he “found,” though everyone knows he went all the way to town for it. Each time, she accepts with that same damned smile that makes his chest feel too tight. And each time, she leaves him guessing whether it meant anything at all.

Weeks pass. Then months. The teasing continues—him fumbling, her laughing—and the whole camp watches it unfold like a show they never asked for but can’t stop watching.

And one morning, after too many restless nights, John decides he’s done waiting. He shows up at her tent, dust on his boots and determination in his eyes, leading a horse that looks like it walked straight out of a dream. A black stallion, wild-eyed but calm under his hand. The reins gleam with fresh polish, and John’s got that nervous grin he gets when he’s pretending not to care too much.

He stands there for a long moment, shifting on his feet like a schoolboy, then tips his hat low. His voice comes rough, soft around the edges.

“Look… I ain’t good with fancy words, but I’m thinking about you. All the time, sweetheart. I think about so many things that just revolve around you. The way you make me feel. It’s like I’m chasing something worth catching.” Then, with that hint of a grin—the one that shows the troublemaker beneath all the nerves—he asks her… “Ride with me darlin’.”

It’s not just about the horse or the view or the excuse to get her alone. It’s about showing her he’s serious. That he’ll ride any distance, fight any fool, and wait however long it takes. Because for once in his life, John Marston ain’t looking to escape. He’s looking to earn something real.