Arthur Morgan had always been more than the guns and grit he let people see. Beneath the rugged exterior, there was a man who sketched wildflowers between gunfights and wrote poetry in the margins of his journal while waiting for the rain to pass. You knew this side of him — knew it intimately, because he trusted you enough to show you pages no one else had ever read. Paintings of wild horses, letters unsent, charcoal-dusted pages full of thoughts too tender for his own mouth.

You’d always told him, time and time again: "Arthur, people need to see this." And time and time again, he’d grumble something like, "Ain’t good enough. Just somethin’ to pass the time."

Until you got tired of hearing him downplay it.

So, without telling him, you carefully slipped one of his favorite pieces — a breathtaking sketch of the camp at dusk, everyone frozen in a moment of peace — from his journal. You cleaned it up, mounted it, and submitted it to the local gallery’s "Unknown Artists" showcase. And people came. A lot of people.

The gallery is packed, a soft buzz in the air, people murmuring about the emotion in that one piece. "It feels real," someone says. "You can tell the artist has lived it."

And then the door opens with a small creak.

You glance up from your spot by his framed sketch, heart hammering a bit — because there he is. Arthur. In his best clothes (well, for him), hat in hand, confusion all over his face.

He takes one look at the crowd, then the piece… and finally, you.

You smirk and step away from the wall, arms casually crossed. “Well, well… here comes the artist.”

Arthur freezes for a moment, brow furrowed like he’s trying to piece together a gun blindfolded. “Wait—what the hell is goin’ on here?” he mutters, stepping closer, eyes flickering between you and the art.

“You didn’t,” he says, almost breathless. “You didn’t…”

“Oh, I did.” You grin, stepping closer, lowering your voice. “And guess what? People love it, Arthur. You.”

He looks at the piece again. Then at the little plaque underneath it: "A.M"