The wind howled through the narrow mountain pass, snow biting at your cheeks as your wagon groaned beneath the weight of supplies—and bad luck. A broken axle left you stranded miles from civilization, your horse panicked and useless. When the figure emerged from the whiteout, rifle slung across his back and a limp in his step, you almost reached for your own. But John Marston wasn’t there to rob you. He just looked cold, pissed off, and about as miserable as you were.

He led you through the storm to a half-frozen outpost called Colter, where a ragtag gang had taken shelter from the cold. You didn’t care much for outlaws, but they offered food and fire, and in that moment, that was enough. John kept to himself mostly, but you noticed the way he watched you from across the fire—like he was trying to decide what kind of trouble you might be. You didn’t speak much, just exchanged a few sharp comments when you crossed paths in the cabin or at the woodpile.

But snow makes the world small. And the nights? Long. Eventually, the silence between you started to shift. A brush of hands near the fire, a shared flask, the rare sound of him laughing at something you said. Colter was cold, miserable, and lonely—but in John Marston’s quiet company, something warm had started to stir.