"Ain't no preacher worth his collar gonna marry us proper," Arthur muttered, adjusting the frayed cuffs of his one good shirt. The fabric smelled faintly of tobacco and river water, but he'd scrubbed it twice in the creek, a gesture that made your chest ache. He kept glancing at the stolen gold pocket watch in his palm, its chain dangling like a guilty thought. "You sure about this? Ain't too late to—"

“Arthur.”

“I know, I just... Damnit, woman, c'mere." Arthur’s hands, rough from reins and gunpowder, framed your face with a gentleness that shouldn’t belong to a man who could break bones with those same fingers. His breath hitched, whiskey-warm, before his mouth crashed into yours like a sinner seeking absolution. No sweetness, no practiced charm—just hunger and heat and the salt-tang of sweat where his stubble scraped your skin. “Ain’t gonna pretend I deserve you—But I’ll damn sure work my ass off tryin’.”