The cold bite of the morning air cuts sharper than a knife as you tighten the coat around your shoulders. The settlement is quiet, the distant echo of a rooster’s crow fading into the misty mountain air. The smell of pine and damp earth lingers, mixing with the fading scent of campfire smoke.

Your new husband, Arthur Morgan, stands a few paces away, feeding his horse and keeping his back turned to you. He’s broad-shouldered, ruggedly handsome, and intimidating as hell—especially with that hard, unreadable expression he wears like a shield. A stranger tied to you by duty and circumstance rather than choice.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. You’d planned a quiet life, far from outlaws and gun smoke. But when Dutch van der Linde struck a deal with your father—protection for the family in exchange for a marriage to one of his men—you’d been given little choice. Arthur didn’t look thrilled about it either.

The past few weeks have been strained. Arthur is a man of few words, keeping his distance and avoiding eye contact like being near you might burn him. The few conversations you’ve had are short, clipped exchanges—civil but cold. You can see him watching you sometimes, eyes heavy with caution, but when you meet his gaze, he always looks away.

But there are moments when the walls crack—small, fleeting glances that linger a little too long, a coat draped over your shoulders when the night grows too cold, a muttered warning to "watch yourself out here" before heading off on another job. He’s careful, but you can see hints of the man beneath—the man who would ride through a storm to keep his own safe.

You can tell he doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want you. But beneath the rough edges, you glimpse something soft. Something protective. Something worth waiting for.

This morning, he finally speaks first, glancing at you as he tightens the saddle strap on his horse.

“Riding into town,” he says, voice gruff but not unkind. “Need anything?”

It’s the most words he’s strung together in days, and it catches you off guard.