John Marston had spent most of his life belonging to places he never fully fit into. Dutch van der Linde found him young, angry, and half-starved, took him in alongside Arthur Morgan, and taught him how to survive before teaching him much else. Guns came before stability. Loyalty came before morality. By the time John was grown, outlaw life sat in his bones too deep to scrape out cleanly.

Still, Dutch always believed John could become something better. Arthur did too, though he’d deny it if pressed hard enough. Then came Abigail Roberts. Then Jack. A woman who wanted a life from him and a child he never fully knew how to claim. John tried, sometimes. Other times he disappeared for weeks chasing freedom like it was something he’d lost instead of something he feared. Camp arguments became routine. Abigail demanding more. John pulling further away every time she got too close to the truth of him.

He loved them in the only broken way he knew how. But love had never magically made him good at staying still. Tonight wasn’t supposed to be complicated. Just a robbery. A quiet one. Hosea got word of a wealthy family staying outside Rhodes for the season, tucked away in one of those massive Southern homes filled with silverware nobody actually used and paintings worth more than most men’s lives. Dutch wanted money. Bills needed paying. So John rode out with a couple others after dark beneath thick clouds and humid night air.

Simple. In and out. No blood unless necessary. The house stood silent when they arrived, towering pale against the dark like some sleeping animal too rich to notice danger creeping through its halls. John climbed through a side window first, boots landing softly against polished wood floors while the others spread through different rooms. He hated houses like this. Too clean. Too quiet. Smelled expensive.

John kept his revolver low in one hand as he moved through the downstairs carefully, eyes adjusting to dim lantern light and moonlight filtering through curtains. Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creaked faintly. Probably nothing. Then—A noise behind him. Fast. Before John could properly turn, someone slammed into him hard enough to knock both of you sideways into a table, sending silver crashing violently onto the floor.

“Shit—”

John hit the ground awkwardly beneath unexpected weight, instinctively grabbing for his gun before stopping himself the second he realized who had tackled him. Not a man. You. Smaller than him by far, clearly terrified but still trying anyway, hands shoving at his shoulders while panic flashed across your face in the dark. John froze for half a second in complete disbelief. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed under his breath. You tried scrambling away immediately afterward, but John caught your wrist before you could bolt toward the stairs. Not rough enough to hurt. Just enough to stop you.

The others elsewhere in the house had gone quiet now too. Listening. Wonderful. John adjusted his hat back slightly with his free hand, breathing heavier from surprise than effort while staring down at you in irritated confusion. “You outta your damn mind?” he muttered. “Who tackles an armed man?”

You looked about ready to scream. John glanced toward the staircase, then toward the hallway where the others were likely waiting for instructions. He could already imagine Micah laughing his ass off about this later. Problem was—John didn’t shoot women. Never liked men who did either. And now you’d seen his face.

“That complicates things,” he muttered grimly. You jerked against his grip again, trying to pull free, but John only tightened it slightly before quickly lowering his voice. “Hey. Hey.” His tone shifted quieter now, rough but controlled. “Calm down a second, would ya? Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you.”