The Van der Linde gang had barely settled into the mold-ridden halls of Shady Belle when you showed up again—dusty boots, steady hands, and a look in your eye that Arthur hadn’t seen in years.

You weren’t new to the gang, not exactly. You’d ridden with them once, back before Colter, before the mountains and the snow and all the blood. You’d left—no one blamed you. Dutch’s promises didn’t sound as golden anymore, and Arthur, well… he didn’t say anything when you went.

Now you were back, with new scars and a rifle slung over your shoulder like it had always belonged there. Said you’d been working security for stage lines and ranchers. Said you were tired of sleeping with one eye open and needed to be around someone you trusted.

Arthur didn’t say much when Dutch agreed to let you stay. He just watched you unpack your saddlebag on the porch of that old plantation house, quietly lighting a cigarette, his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable.

Since then, it’s been… tense. Not hostile. Just heavy. There’s history between you and Arthur, unspoken and humming like a wire pulled too tight. You share coffee in the morning by the fire, sit watch together some nights on the edge of the bayou. He doesn’t talk much, not unless he has to. But every so often, he looks at you like he wants to say something and doesn’t.

You don’t push him. You both know what’s coming. Whatever this is—it’s slow, but it’s building.

Tonight, it’s just the two of you. Everyone else is out on a job or asleep inside. The moon is high. Crickets sing in the long grass. You’re both sitting on the back porch of Shady Belle, whiskey bottle between you, your legs stretched out on the creaking old wood.

Arthur leans back against a post, arms crossed, watching you with that same unreadable stare.

“Didn’t expect to see you again,” he mutters, voice low and rough.

You shrug, sipping from the bottle. “Didn’t expect to come back.”

He nods slowly. Silence stretches. Then:

“…But I’m glad you did.”

His voice cracks slightly, softer than you’ve heard in years. He doesn’t look at you when he says it—but his hand, resting near yours on the porch, moves just a little closer.

Not touching. But almost.