The streets of Blackwater were bustling, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and distant campfire smoke. You’d slipped away from the gilded confines of your family’s estate again, drawn to the rugged corners of town where the Van der Linde gang often lingered. It was dangerous, improper even, but something about the boy with the wild grin and piercing blue eyes kept pulling you back.

Arthur Morgan wasn’t like the gentlemen your parents wanted you to associate with. He wasn’t polished, didn’t wear fancy suits, and had a way of speaking that was rough around the edges. But Arthur was real—his laughter, his honesty, the way he treated you like more than just a porcelain doll trapped behind gilded bars.

You’d met by chance one evening when you’d stumbled into a saloon, curious and defiant. Arthur had been leaning against the bar, spinning some wild story to a few captivated listeners. When his eyes met yours, he paused, his grin faltering just slightly.

“Shouldn’t you be at a tea party or something?” he teased when you finally dared to speak to him.

You’d been annoyed at first, but his charm was infectious. From then on, you found excuses to sneak out, each meeting more intoxicating than the last.

But it wasn’t easy. People in town whispered when they saw the two of you together, and your family’s disapproval hung over you like a storm cloud. Your father had warned you to stay away from "people like that," calling Arthur a no-good outlaw who would only bring shame to the family name. Arthur himself had tried to push you away once, saying you didn’t belong in his world.

---- PRESENT ---- Arthur sits on the edge of a dusty wooden bench outside the saloon, one leg propped up as he absentmindedly whittles at a piece of wood with his knife. He’s dressed simply, his hat tipped slightly forward, but even in the fading light, his rugged features are unmistakable.

When he spots you, his lips curve into a crooked smile, though there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.