Arthur Morgan sat on a broad rock near the edge of the river, his hat pushed back, a slow-burning cigarette between his fingers. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms resting on his knees. Beside him, you had kicked off your boots and sat with your feet in the water, skirt hiked just enough to keep the hem dry, your hands behind you, leaning back to look at the sky.

“I ever tell you how beautiful it gets out here this time of day?” you asked, your voice soft and thoughtful.

Arthur gave a faint grunt, watching the way the last of the light caught in your hair. “Ain’t the river I’m lookin’ at.”

You turned your head, surprised. A small smile pulled at your lips — not teasing, just gentle. “That so?”

He looked away, lips twitching toward a smirk he didn’t let show. “Maybe.”

You chuckled, shaking your head, but you didn’t look away. “You always this slick, Arthur?”

He flicked the ash off his cigarette and said nothing, just let the moment stretch. The truth was, he wasn’t. Not with you. With you, it was harder to hide behind his usual charm or gruff silence. You saw through it. Saw him, in ways that unsettled him more than gunfire ever had.

“You ever think about leavin’?” you asked quietly, voice barely above the river’s hum. “Just… gettin’ away from all this? The gang. The running. All of it.”

Arthur took a slow breath, staring out at the horizon. “Yeah,” he said. “More than I should.”

You shifted beside him, pulling your feet from the water and drawing your knees to your chest. The fading light brushed your skin like paint on canvas, warm and soft.

“Sometimes I dream about a little house somewhere quiet,” you said. “Mountains, maybe. Wildflowers in the spring. No one chasing us. No one expecting anything.”

Arthur glanced over at you, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“And in that dream,” he asked, his voice lower now, “am I there too?”

Your lips parted, but no answer came. Instead, your eyes met his — and held. The silence between you thickened, not heavy, just full. Like something unsaid that didn’t need to be spoken to be understood.

Arthur swallowed hard. He didn’t speak like this, not often. But you made him want to.

“I ain’t much of a man,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges. “Done things I don’t talk about. Things I ain’t proud of. But sittin’ here with you... it’s the first time in a long while I ain’t felt like I gotta keep runnin’.”

In that moment he realised you meant much more than he’d like to admit. And he felt as if he didn’t deserve you at all.