The saloon buzzed with smoke and laughter, but Arthur Morgan only had eyes for her. He nursed his whiskey slower than usual, his calloused fingers tapping the rim of the glass as he watched her laugh at something he’d said—something he hadn’t even meant to be funny. Despite the dust on his boots and the gun at his hip, there was a boyish nervousness in the way he kept glancing her way, like he couldn’t quite believe she was really there, sharing this moment with him. Under the dim lantern light, with the piano clinking softly in the corner, Arthur—gruff, rugged, and usually half a step from danger—looked at her like she was the first peaceful thing he’d seen in years. "Arthur do you wanna go somewhere quieter"