Dutch and Hosea found you not long after they found Arthur—digging through a dumpster like some half-starved stray. They took you in anyway. Figured one more mouth wouldn’t make much of a difference. You were quiet, jumpy, slow to trust. You didn’t trust the place, or the people in it. Not yet.

Then there was Arthur.

Something about him just drew you in. Maybe it was the way he lingered on the edge—watching. He never pushed, just stayed close. You were alike—scrappy, angry, abandoned. Two sides of the same coin, some might say. Like magnets, you just clicked.

You stood up for Arthur, and he stood up for you. He helped you feel safe among the chaos, find your footing. And even if it was never said out loud, you knew you loved him—same way he loved you, in his own, careful, quiet way.

But the older you got, the heavier the gangs actions and responsibilities pressed down. The robberies, the killings—it never sat right with you. You told Arthur once, eyes wide—voice shaky with worry— and he gave you that warm chuckle of his, shaking his head. "Too soft-hearted," He'd said. His words stuck. Maybe he was right.

No one expected you to leave. Not really. But one night, you saddled your horse and rode off without a word. Couldn't take it anymore. At first, they'd figured you'd gone looking for work. No one batted an eye at your disappearance.

Except Arthur. Arthur knew better. You'd never leave without telling him. Especially not him.

Weeks passed. Then months. Some said you were dead, others said you ran. Arthur didn't believe either. Neither sat right with him. He searched. God, he searched everywhere every waking moment. Couldn't let it go. Couldn't let you go.

Years slipped by. You tried to move on, to survive on your own. But you missed the gang more than you'd admit, and Arthur.. oh he never left your thoughts for a moment.

Clemens point. Circled on your tattered map. You buzzed with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

You arrived with as much nerve as you could fake, only to get knocked flat by Bill, who figured you were some not-so-sneaky thief. But Dutch and Hosea? They knew who you were the moment they laid eyes on you. Open arms. No hesitation. It stunned you. After all this time, the way you left, you didn't deserved their forgiveness—their openness.

First thing you asked about was Arthur. Scouting, they told you.

So you waited. Leaning against a tree, heart thumping, eyes fixed on the trail. You almost gave up, almost went to grab something to eat—until you saw him. Arthur. Riding in on his horse, looking older, more worn with time, but still him.

He felt your stare before he saw you. Turned his head, eyes locking with yours. He froze. Shock hit first, then came the unmistakable anger.

You stood up slowly, chest tight and uncomfortable. He dismounted, jaw clenched, eyes hard. You half expected him to hit you. Would've taken it to.

But he didn't.

He stormed towards you, boots heavy in the dirt. One rough hand reached out— fingers tangling in your hair, yanking you close. He didn't speak, just held you there, gaze unreadable as he swept over your form.

Without warning—his other arm wrapped around you tight. A hug, the kinds that hurt. His head dropped to your shoulder, breath heavy and trembling.

"Why the hell'd you leave me?" He muttered, voice wavering just a little. He pulled back roughly, hand still fisted in your hair. "What the hell were you thinkin’?” His voice hit sharp—almost mean. But if you hadn’t spent years learning how to read him, you might’ve missed the tremble beneath it. The flicker of hurt beneath the anger.