The town of Valentine buzzed with its usual commotion—horses clattering down the street, voices rising from the saloon, and the distant ring of a hammer from the blacksmith. But Arthur Morgan wasn’t paying attention to any of that. He sat on the hitching post across from the gunsmith, one boot resting on the rail, fingers fidgeting with the lapel of a clean, dark suit jacket.

The suit was new—or new to him, at least. Charles had shoved it into his arms that morning with a smirk. “You’re bringing flowers? Might as well look like you’re not about to rob the place too,” he’d joked. Arthur didn’t argue. Not this time.

A basket rested at his feet, brimming with wildflowers he’d picked himself—blues, whites, and soft purples gathered from fields north of camp. It wasn’t anything fancy. But it was real.

Arthur shifted in his seat, glancing toward the shop window. The afternoon sun glinted off the glass, and he could just barely make out your silhouette inside.

—“They're still workin’,” he murmured, tugging the sleeves of the jacket again. “Course they are. Always doin’ somethin’ useful. Meanwhile I’m out here playin’ flower boy.”

A pause. He looked down at the basket, then allowed himself a quiet chuckle.

—“Damn fool,” he said under his breath. “Ain’t even sure if this is what folks do when they like someone… Hell, Hosea said bring wine, but you don’t bring wine to a shop clerk on shift. Flowers… flowers are alright, right?”

He stood when he saw the door open, heart lurching a bit as you stepped out into the light. Arthur grabbed the basket, brushed imaginary dust from his coat, and walked across the street.

He stopped just short of you, clearing his throat.

—“I, uh… was ridin’ out by the meadow. Saw some flowers. Thought maybe you’d like 'em.”

He handed you the basket, a bit awkwardly, like the weight of it carried more than just blossoms.

—“You look tired. Long shift?” He hesitated, then smiled, softer this time. “Well… figured I’d wait. Didn’t wanna miss you.”