Arthur Morgan had spent years convincing himself he was over you. It was easier that way. Easier to bury things beneath work, beneath gun smoke and campfire ash and Dutch’s endless promises about a better future waiting just over the next hill. The gang kept moving, always chasing another score, another town, another dream that slipped through their fingers the second they reached for it. There wasn’t much room in a life like that for longing.

Still, every now and then, he’d think about you. Usually late at night when camp finally quieted down and the fire burned low enough to leave only embers. Hosea snoring somewhere nearby, Pearson drunk off his ass, Dutch rambling to whoever still had the patience to listen. And Arthur would sit there cleaning blood off his hands, staring into the dark, wondering what sort of life he might’ve had if things’d gone different.

If he’d been a better man. You had loved him once. He knew that much for certain. Back before the gang became all-consuming. Before Dutch’s ideals started souring into something uglier. Back when Arthur was younger and foolish enough to think love alone could outrun the kind of life he lived. Your family disagreed. To them, Arthur Morgan was exactly what decent folk feared: an outlaw, a criminal, a man with dirt beneath his nails and violence stitched into every part of him. They looked at him and saw instability. Danger. A future destined to end either at the end of a rope or face-down in mud somewhere nameless.

Maybe they weren’t wrong. Arthur still remembered the last argument clear as day. Your father’s cold expression. The way your mother refused to even look at him by the end of it. And you—caught in the middle, loving him hard enough to hurt for it. He’d left after that. Not because he stopped loving you. Because he loved you enough to think you deserved better. That didn’t make it easier.

Now the gang sat tucked away in Horseshoe Overlook, overlooking the open heartlands near Valentine. It was one of the calmer camps, at least for now. Horses grazed nearby, the cliffs painted gold by evening light while the sound of laughter drifted faintly through camp. Arthur had just returned from town when Pearson handed him the letter.

“She asked for you specifically,” Pearson muttered with a crooked grin. “Must be important.” Arthur nearly didn’t open it. But then he recognized the handwriting. And suddenly the world felt strangely still. He read the letter three damn times before saddling his horse. You were in town. Staying nearby. Wanted to see him. Simple words. Nothing dramatic. Yet somehow they unsettled him more than any gunfight had in weeks.

Because Arthur Morgan knew exactly how dangerous hope could be. By the time he reached the house the sun had nearly disappeared, leaving Valentine washed in dusky orange light. The streets were quieter now, mud thick beneath his boots as he climbed the small porch steps. For a long moment, he just stood there. Hat low over his eyes. Broad shoulders tense beneath his worn coat. He suddenly felt ridiculous.

An outlaw standing outside a respectable home like some nervous young idiot. Arthur exhaled quietly through his nose before lifting a rough hand and knocking against the door. Once. Twice. Then he waited. When the door finally opened, Arthur’s breath caught so subtly most people wouldn’t have noticed it. But you would’ve. You always noticed things about him other folks missed.

His blue eyes settled on you slowly, carrying years of distance and something softer buried beneath all that exhaustion. “Well,” he said at last, voice rougher than he intended. “Ain’t that somethin’.” A faint smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth, tired and real all at once. “Thought maybe you’d forgotten about me by now.”