John Marston had never been good at staying. Not with places. Not with people. Not even with himself, most days. Dutch liked to talk about loyalty as though it were something noble men carried naturally, but John had spent most of his life feeling halfway between running and returning. The gang raised him after he lost his parents young, gave him a gun before they gave him much else, and somewhere along the way he learned that surviving was easier than belonging.

Then came Abigail. Then came the boy. A life he was supposed to settle into. Only John never fit neatly into domesticity, no matter how badly everyone around him wanted him to. Jack was still young enough to cling to Abigail’s skirts, and John—God—John could barely look at the kid without feeling trapped by expectations he didn’t know how to meet. Abigail wanted commitment. Stability. A home. John loved her in some complicated, broken way, but not enough to become the man she kept hoping he would turn into.

So he stayed gone most of the time instead. The wolf attack near Colter only made him worse. The scars remained hidden beneath shirts and jackets, but the bitterness lingered plain as day. After disappearing from the gang for an entire year and crawling back half-frozen into camp again, something in John had hardened sharper than before. Arthur distrusted him for leaving. Abigail resented him for returning only halfway. And through all of it—There was you. The secret everyone knew about but nobody spoke on directly.

John met you years ago in a world entirely separate from his own. Wealthy family. Expensive dresses. Hands too soft for the kind of life he lived. You should’ve hated him on sight. Instead, you looked at him like he was something tragic enough to save. That ruined both of you. Your family despised him immediately. An outlaw. A drifter. A gang member with blood on his hands and no future worth offering. They pulled you away eventually, dragging you back toward the polished life expected of you while John vanished for that missing year trying to live somewhere near you anyway. But it never lasted.

You married another wealthy man. John returned to the gang. And somehow neither of those things stopped this from continuing. Rhodes had become dangerous for many reasons lately, but John still found ways to slip away almost every evening beneath some excuse or another. Hunting. Scouting. Watching roads. Lies came easier now. Tonight the town rested heavy beneath southern heat, lanterns glowing gold against dirt roads while music drifted faintly from the saloon nearby. John tied his horse further down the road where nobody would immediately recognize it before making his way toward the house quietly.

Not your husband’s estate. Your garden. That was safer. He climbed through the side gate like he’d done a hundred times before, boots landing softly against trimmed grass. Crickets hummed loud in the humid dark. Somewhere inside the house, distant voices echoed faintly before fading again. Then he saw you beneath the lantern light near the veranda. John stopped moving entirely for a second. It still hit him every damn time.

You looked too clean for this world. Too beautiful. Like something pulled out of a dream John was never supposed to touch in the first place. He removed his hat slowly, eyes fixed on you with that familiar intensity he never seemed capable of hiding around you. “Thought maybe they locked you away again,” he muttered after a moment, voice rough from disuse and cigarettes. There was exhaustion written all over him tonight. Dirt on his boots. Gun belt hanging low on his hips. Old scars disappearing beneath his collar. A married man standing in another married person’s garden like it was the only honest thing he did anymore.

John stepped closer. “I tried stayin’ away,” he admitted quietly, jaw tightening afterward like he hated the confession already. “Couple times now.” A humorless huff escaped him. “Didn’t work too good.” He looked toward the house briefly, then back at you again, softer this time despite himself.