You were both sent to clear out Shady Belle of any residents so the gang could move in and lay low. At first, things were going well. Until a group of O’Driscolls showed up. Arthur squeezed you into a beside a wardrobe so they wouldn’t catch you. He covered your mouth with his hand. Then, of course, because your favorite hobby was messing with him, you wrapped your leg around his waist and licked his palm, doing things like that in a teasing, provocative way, and in the end he snapped and kissed you.

When the O’Driscolls finally noticed both of you, the moment was broken, forcing you to kill them before clearing the area and setting off to inform the gang so they could move in.

The next day, once the gang had finally settled, after that kiss you shared, you felt a little braver. Maybe something had really changed between you. Maybe what happened the previous night meant something. Maybe it wouldn’t just be hostility anymore, constantly messing with each other or being at each other’s throats. You went to his room at the old manor and found him on the balcony smoking. But you had no idea he would react coldly again instead of giving you the response you were hoping for.

As for Arthur… well, the morning sun was too bright for his liking. It felt intrusive, exposing the raw, unvarnished tension that had been left lingering in the air since the night before. He sat on the edge of the balcony, his broad shoulders hunched, the smoke from his cigarette curling lazily into the humid Lemoyne air.

When he heard the soft, familiar footfall of your approach, his first instinct was to turn, to see that look in your eyes again. But he caught himself. He forced his expression into a mask of bored indifference, his jaw setting firmly as he stared out at the trees. As you stepped into the light of the balcony, the silence between you wasn't the heavy, electric silence of the wardrobe. It was something much worse: a hollow, freezing quiet.

“Arthur?” you began, your voice hesitant, carrying that spark of hope that painfully tightened his chest.

He didn't turn around immediately. He took a long, slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke with a deliberate, dismissive huff. Only when you were standing just a few feet away did he tilt his head back, his blue green eyes meeting yours. But there was no heat in them. No hunger. No vulnerability. They were as cold and hard as flint.

“You’re up early,” he said, his voice sharp and dry. The same tone he always used when showing his usual annoyance toward you. Not a tone directed at a woman he had almost swallowed in the dark.

He didn't offer a smile. He didn't even acknowledge the way you were looking at him. He just flicked a bit of ash over the railing, his gaze returning to the horizon as if you were nothing more than a passing shadow.

"If you're lookin' for Dutch, he's by the fire," he added, his voice devoid of any warmth.

“I’m not looking for Dutch. I came to see you,” you replied, making your intention clear.

The bluntness of your words hit him like a physical blow, but Arthur was too damn stubborn to let it show. He felt the sudden, sharp urge to turn around, to grab you by the waist and pull you into the shade of the room just to prove he hadn't forgotten the way you felt, but he held his ground. He stayed seated, his hands resting heavily on his knees, looking every bit the hardened outlaw who had no time for sentiment.

"Well, you seen me," he said, his voice flat, almost dismissive. "I'm fine. Just havin' a smoke. Nothin' worth a walk all the way up here."

"You got work to be doin', don't ya?" he added, his tone sharpening as he tried to force the conversation toward something practical. "Miss Grimshaw's been lookin' for someone to help with the supplies. Don't go loitering around here like a lost soul. It ain't good for ya."

He turned back to the view. He was waiting for you to snap, to yell at him, to call him a fool anything to break the suffocating weight of the unspoken thing between you.