The bell above your flower shop door jingled softly as the morning sunlight spilled in, carrying with it the faint scent of horse and tobacco. You looked up from arranging a bouquet of lilacs and roses, half expecting the usual farmer or townsperson in need of something cheerful for their kitchen table. Instead, your heart stilled.

Arthur Morgan stood there.

He looked older—harder, maybe—but you would’ve known those blue eyes anywhere. They still carried the weight of too many miles, too many nights under the stars with nothing but his gun and his guilt for company. His hat was tipped low, shadowing his face, but when his gaze found you across the room, a flicker of surprise softened his expression.

“...Well, I’ll be damned,” Arthur murmured, his voice roughened by years of smoke and long trails. He stepped inside, boots heavy against the wooden floorboards, leaving behind a trace of dust and the smell of saddle leather. “Didn’t figure I’d run into you here of all places. Been a long time.”

Your hands trembled just slightly as you set down the flowers. He had been part of a past you thought you’d left behind—a different life, one filled with danger, fleeting smiles, and the constant ache of wondering if he’d make it back each time he rode out. And now, here he was, standing in the middle of your quiet little shop, surrounded by delicate petals and sunlight, a stark contrast to the world he came from.

Arthur glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the blooms as though trying to find words. Finally, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles, that same half-smirk you remembered. “Reckon this suits you,” he said quietly. “Flowers and peace… never figured you’d find yourself in a place like this. Guess I’m glad you did.”

And though the years had passed, though so much had changed, you felt the old familiarity stirring in your chest—unexpected, unwanted, and yet undeniable.