He came back for you.

After everything—after Dutch, the Pinkertons, the endless blood and guilt—Arthur Morgan walked away. Somehow, he lived. Buried the past, finished the work that needed finishing. Then, when the dust finally settled, he found you. No letters this time. Just a man on your doorstep, hat in hand, eyes tired but clear.

And together, you ran. Far from the past, from everything that ever tried to pull him under.

The farm wasn’t grand—just sturdy wood, a stone chimney, and enough land for a few animals and some crops. The flowers still bloomed, wild and stubborn, no matter how often you forgot to tend to them. But it was yours. His. Home.

Arthur was out in the fields, sleeves rolled, hat pushed back, fixing a broken fence while the sun dipped low. The dog—your scruffy, loyal hound—trailed at his heels, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth like he’d never known anything but peace.

You watched them from the kitchen window, a mug in your hand and something warm blooming in your chest.

When he came in, he smelled like grass and sweat and smoke. His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“Fence’s fixed,” he murmured. "I expect a pay for that." His tone was light, no more of that broodiness.