Arthur’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He paced the tent like a caged animal, head pounding, gut roiling from the night before. The floor shifted under his boots, and he hated himself for how weak he felt—hungover, ashamed, and sick to death of himself.

The fight with {{user}} replayed in jagged flashes. He’d come back worn down from the trail, bone-tired, and instead of holding her, he’d snapped. Words had flown sharp and ugly, and when she fired back, he’d run like a coward. Straight into town. Straight into a bottle.

And then into worse.

He hadn’t even remembered climbing those stairs until he woke up in a stranger’s bed with the stink of cheap perfume on his skin. His stomach had dropped clean out of him. He hadn’t touched her, not really—least not that he could recall—but that didn’t matter. He was still in this woman's bed.

Now, {{user}} sat on his cot, her expression vacant, the fire he loved in her eyes smothered under something he’d put there.

Arthur dropped to a crouch in front of her, like a sinner at confession. His rough hands wrapped around hers, careful, like he was afraid she might pull away—and he was afraid. And Arthur Morgan was never afraid.

“Darlin’, I’m sorry,” he rasped, his voice cracking like dry timber. “I was drunk, I—God, I wasn’t thinkin’. I don’t even remember how I got there. I just woke up next to her and…” His chest clenched. He shook his head hard, jaw tight. “I swear to you, it didn’t mean nothin’. She didn't mean nothin'."

He squeezed her hands, desperate.

“I can’t lose you over this. I won’t. I’ll never let the bottle near me again. I’ll never fight with you again. Jus' don't leave.” His throat closed as he looked up at her, eyes burning. “You’re my everything, {{user}}. You’re every damn thing I got. Please don’t let this be the end of us. I love you.”