❁⚘Lumina⚘❁ @gallantys - Tumblr Blog

a summer’s worth of sugar. (2)

arthur morgan x fem!reader

summary: Just a quiet collection of domestic moments shared in a remote forest cabin with a wanted man you happened to find bleeding in your kitchen. Somewhere between shared breakfasts, sketches in a worn journal, and the intimate hush of the woods, the dangerous stranger slowly begins to feel less like a guest and more like a husband you never planned on having.

genre: 50% fluff, 50% smut, 100% Arthur is hot.

warnings: none (just small mentions of blood and stuff)

notes: Fulfilling your Arthur Morgan husband fantasy. Slow burn (patience is the longest yet most scenic road to smut.) Includes Arthur’s canonically perfect round ass naked in your kitchen. Includes Arthur enjoying a very ripe, very juicy, very pink peach in front of you. (I’m serious)

other chapters: (1) | AO3 | masterlist

wc: 5k

“You should’ve seen them, Mr. Morgan. They are a beauty,” you explained, your voice as lively as your hands as they scrubbed the last of the porridge from the breakfast bowls. The water in the basin had gone cloudy with soap, steam lifting faintly as it met the morning chill. “Maybe you’ve seen ‘em too. You must be well-traveled if you reached this far end of West Elizabeth.”

You paused, turning toward him to emphasize your point. “They’re big, but easy to miss. If that makes sense.”

“Oh it does. Don’t worry, I’m followin’,” he commented, seated at the small kitchen table, brow furrowed in deep concentration as he tried to clean his pistol one-handed. It had been a full week since the incident with the Skinners but his right hand still bore fresh bandaging, stiff and tender. The doctor had said he was lucky—the blade had passed clean through his palm without catching a nerve, but it left him frustrated and clumsy. You considered offering to help, then thought better of it. He’d only refuse, likely with a grumble about his “good-for-nothin’ hand.”

“What do they look like?” he asked instead, glancing up at you.

“They’re purple. Both the bulb and the leaves,” you explained, bubbles popping and sliding down your wrists as you drew the shape in the air, enthusiasm making your hands as clumsy as his. “Don’t smell like anythin’. I tried cookin’ em once. Tried dyein’ cloth with’em too. Useless as can be.” You smiled to yourself, the memory of your failed experiments still fresh in your head. “Just real pretty to look at.”

“Sounds like a lotta folk I know.”

“Exactly.” You laughed softly. It had been seven days together now, and his dry, gravelly humor was starting to feel familiar—comforting even. It felt nice, talking to a room that talked back. When you lived alone long enough, even silence got loud. “But like I said, they’re easy to miss. ‘Cause they don’t grow in clusters. You find one, then the next is scattered a good ways off. They’re real shy.”

“You half-butterfly or somethin’?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothin’. Just ain’t never heard someone talk about a flower like that.” He huffed a quiet breath. “Especially one that seems dead set on not bein’ found.”

He shifted, then set the gun aside, finally conceding defeat to his injury. He rested the pistol beside his worn leather journal and a small bowl of freshly picked berries.

“Speakin’ of,” he added, glancing back at you, “where’d you find ‘em, ma’am?”

“They grow ‘round here. I reckon I’d find more deeper in the woods, but…” You shrugged slightly, rinsing a bowl clean and setting it to dry with a quiet clink. “With Skinners about, I’m content lettin’ that mystery be.”

“Wise decision,” he said, his voice holding a faint note of approval. He flipped through his journal, pages whispering softly as he searched. “Leaves got little dots in ‘em?”

Your head snapped up. “Yes! And I always thought they looked like a slipper.”

“Well,” he said, turning the notebook toward you across the scarred wood of the table, “that’s ‘cause they are.”

You abandoned the sink without thinking, water still dripping from your fingers as you stepped closer into his space. You leaned over his shoulder, the heat from his body and the scent of gun oil and old leather wrapping around you like a blanket in the chill morning air.

“That’s it, Mr. Morgan!” you exclaimed, your eyes widening to confirm the claim. There, in delicate lines of charcoal was a perfect rendering of the flower you’d seen. “Lady Slipper Orchid.” You read the name slowly, reverently. “Would you look at that. I’d have spent my whole life wonderin’.”

Your gaze drifted from the page to him, and only then did you realize how close you were. From here, you could see the small pink blemishes scattered across his cheeks, and the deep lines etched around his eyes—quiet evidence of a life lived under the sun. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice, his eyes remained fixed on the book in his hands.

“You’re half butterfly too,” you said, straightening back again, looking at two more flower drawings below the Orchid. He liked flowers too.

Your eyes moved to the page beside the orchids.

It was a drawing of a house—if it could even be called that—with a roof rounded and lush, covered in a thick carpet of moss and grass. There were no windows that you could see. Just a single door, tucked into the earth like it’d been grown there instead of built. It looked like something out of the same storybook the orchid had come from, belonging more to folklore than flesh-and-blood people.

And yet the lines were careful. Precise. So detailed you could almost feel the moss of the roof under your fingertips. So intricate you wondered how such a thing could be imagined. Either he’d seen it with his own eyes, or he possessed a staggeringly vivid imagination. Whatever the case, his talent was undeniable.

“You’re a draftsman, Mr. Morgan,” you murmured, leaning in closer again, although a bit more aware and careful this time. You studied the way he’d shaded the curve of the roof, the way the ground seemed to cradle the structure like it had always belonged there and not drawn by human fingers. Your eyes were completely lost in the small world held between the lines of his charcoal. “An artist.”

He shifted in his seat, gaze sliding away as if he weren’t quite sure where to put it. “Nah, I just scribble things I see.”

“These are more than scribbles,” you insisted, unable to hide the awe in your voice. You looked at him, your heart giving a strange little thump of curiosity. “I’d love to see more. May I?”

“If you want,” he said, his fingers tapping against the edge of the journal. “Just reckon I oughta warn you, ma’am… you’ll find a fair amount of nonsense written in there too.”

You chuckled, the sound soft and easy. So it was a diary—something private. You had no business digging through the intimate thoughts of a man you’d only known for a week, so you let the pages rest where they were.

Still, you couldn’t ignore the gentle, unexpected warmth blooming in your chest.

You’d assumed Arthur Morgan was a name printed on a wanted poster—an outlaw the law hadn’t quite managed to catch, or something close enough. But you hadn’t imagined the patience in his lines. The care. The quiet way he put pieces of himself onto paper. You’d never pictured him as an artist.

Mr. Morgan was proving to be a man full of surprises.

“Is this a real place, mister?” you asked at last, pointing to the house.

“Sure,” he replied. “Might not have much sense left in my head, but I ain’t gone so far as imaginin’ strange houses like that.” He tilted his head slightly, his eyes distant for a moment. “Ever been to Bacchus Station? There’s a hill nearby.”

You shook your head. You hadn’t traveled much at all. West Elizabeth was about the extent of your world.

“Ambarino,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “You seem to drift wherever the wind takes you, Mr. Morgan.”

He chuckled, a low, dry sound. “Usually. When I ain’t full of arrows.” Then quieter, almost to himself. “Or under the surveillance of a lady who takes offense when I use my damn legs.”

You let out a huff and returned to the sink. “Well, you’re free to go, sir.” You splashed the last of the bowls in the water. “Just as soon as you prove to me you can walk to the porch. Walk. Not limp.”

He shook his head, something tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You know, those flowers you like… they sell for a small fortune,” he said casually, leaning back in the chair. “Some folks’ll pay real good money for ‘em. I know a man in Saint Denis who could show you the way of it.”

He paused, and his eyes darkened just a touch, a spark of mischief making the blue sparkle. You knew exactly who he was about to trash-talk.

“Or,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave, “you could ask that husband of yours to take ‘em to my contact. Make yourselves a tidy sum. Leave the cookie business behind and get you outta this damn place for good.”

The words hung there—too easy, too pointed—like he knew exactly where to press to see you squirm.

And somehow, you got the feeling he enjoyed pressing it.

-

The rhythm of the world outside shifted over the next couple of days, spring shyly blooming into buds of baby pink and soft yellow—the early strokes of a painting unfolding just beyond your window. It was still too cold to leave the panes open, but every time you stepped outside, the wind would invite itself in for a moment, making the air smell sweet with witch hazel and rain-kissed dew, instead of the bitterness of frost and wilted trees.

But when you closed the door, the cabin still carried the forever familiar scent of woodsmoke, leather, and fresh linen. Inside, the everyday unfolded at a gentle pace, soft and unremarkable in the best way possible, quietly mirroring the shift beyond the weathered timber walls.

He no longer slept in your mattress, having finally reached a point of stubborn recovery where he refused to take your bed, no matter how much you protested. At some point during a particularly cold night, he’d migrated to the floor, claiming he’d slept on “cots harder than your floorboards” for half his life. He’d grumbled that your bed was too soft, that it pulled at his ribs when he turned. You suspected pride had more to do with it than comfort, but you let him have that. That, and the thick blankets you’d knit last winter, plus a thin mattress pad you’d dragged up from the cellar.

Now, every morning, you woke to the sight of a mountain of wool spread out by the hearth and the melody of restful, heavy breathing. And you’d had to admit that the arrangement left you better rested than you’d been in days. Rested enough that, one morning, you woke with a list already forming in your head.

You needed supplies.

Manzanita Post wasn’t exactly close, but it was close enough if you left early while the world was still dark, and kept your wits about you. The pantry had grown thin. Coffee was running low. Flour, too. And you’d been living off what little fresh scraps you could forage nearby.

You were sitting on the edge of your bed tying your boots when he noticed.

“Finally movin’ to Saint Denis, ma’am?” he asked, his voice husky with the kind of deep rasp that only came with the first spoken words of the day.

You snorted. Very funny.

“As much as you’d celebrate if I left you to your own devices so you could comfortably pull open those half-healed wounds, Mr. Morgan, I’m sorry to say the answer is no,” you announced, finishing a messy but tight ribbon on your bootlace as the dawn fog blurred the dark world beyond the windows. “We’re outta coffee, and if I gotta eat one more bowl of plain porridge, I might just walk straight into the lake and tear the head off the first fish I see with my bare teeth, mister. I’m headin’ to Manzanita.”

He was on his feet before you could even finish the word, his hand instinctively reaching for his gun belt resting on the table. “The hell you are. Not alone.”

You didn’t even look up. “Already saddled my horse.”

“Ma’am, it’s barely five in the morning. I’ll come with y—“

“Absolutely not.” You slung the satchel over your shoulder and reached for your coat. “You’re barely healed. Had a fever just yesterday, remember? You can hardly make it to the porch without huffin’ like an old dog, Mr. Morgan,” you reminded him. Your voice was gentle, as the quiet hour of the day demanded, but firm all the same. “I ain’t havin’ you bounce around on a horse for half a day like you’re invincible.”

“I ain’t helpless.”

“No,” you agreed calmly. “But I ain’t either. I know this land and I’ll be fine.”

“I ain’t lettin’ you wander though these woods while ‘em bastards are still breathin’,” he grunted, reaching for the denim the doctor had butchered and you hadn’t yet had the chance to mend. He turned away under the pretense of dressing, thinking you couldn’t see him wince as the movement pulled at his side.

“I’m takin’ the north road,” you added, already stepping past him, your fingers tightening around the door handle. “Skinners don’t go that way,” or, at least, that was what the general store owner had claimed once. “It’ll take longer, but I’ll be back before the sun’s high past the middle of the sky.”

He looked like he meant to follow you anyway, still fumbling up with his clothes, scanning the firelit room for his boots as if you hadn’t just laid out every logical reason why he couldn’t.

He couldn’t walk properly yet. There was no way he could reach the stables, let alone mount that massive Shire with his mangled thigh. But you weren’t about to give his pride the chance to argue nor prove you wrong. Before his stubbornness could catch up to your resolve—or the Skinners to your recklessness—you slipped out the door, and set off while the woods were still half-asleep.

-

The dark morning ride had been brisk and blessedly quiet. Somewhere along the way, the sky had tipped from dawn-lavender to sunrise-pink, eventually blooming into a vast, cloudless blue. By the time you’d come out on the other side of the dense canopy of Tall Trees, the world was fresh and wide awake. You’d hitched your horse at the general store, where you’d found everything on your list, save for the assorted biscuits. And you couldn’t resist adding a few treats and surprises to replace them. Saddlebags loaded, you turned back a little later than expected, the light weight of a certain brown parcel in your satchel feeling like a secret you couldn’t wait to share.

The road back home was quiet too, though you still caught yourself glancing over your shoulder more often than you meant to, reins gripped hard, muscles tightening at every rustle from the nearby brush. Just old habits you end up picking up when your neighbors are insane freaks.

When you finally rounded the bend and saw the familiar column of smoke curling peacefully from your chimney, the sun sat high in the sky, a little past the middle—still, proof you’d kept your word.

A light breeze kissed your cheeks like the softest lips the moment you saw his black Shire grazing nearby—proof that he’d kept his.

He was still inside. You only hoped his stitches were all in the same condition you’d left them that morning.

You guided your horse to the stable, unloading the heavy saddlebags and parcels, and then slipping him a fresh carrot from the bag with the murmured promise to return and unsaddle him properly once everything was inside.

As you climbed the porch steps, arms full and bags brimming with paper-wrapped bundles and twine-tied parcels, an unfamiliar scent drifted toward you on the soft breeze.

It was earthy and minty.

Sharp. Tangy. Full-bodied.

Not unpleasant, just deeply, almost shockingly, unfamiliar.

Just as you were about to nudge the door open with your shoulder, it pulled inward from the other side. The midday sun spilled through the doorway, catching in his deep blue eyes the same way it did on the surface of the Basin on the brightest, warmest summer day.

“Took your sweet time,” he said, already reaching for the parcels in your arms.

You let him take a couple—judging them light enough not to pull at his stitches.

“Got a little distracted,” you explained, your hand reaching into your satchel to confirm the brown paper parcel was still safely tucked there. “Somethin’ caught my eye at the store. They’d just gotten a shipment in from Blackwater.” You tipped your head toward him, your lashes fluttering with deliberate mischief. “Why, Mr. Morgan? You miss me?”

“But of course,” he grumbled softly, turning back into the cabin to set the bags down by the sink. “The shirts and the skirts did too. Who else is gonna ask ‘em how they’re doin’ if not you?” he said, pulling a can of pineapples from the bag, though the ghost of a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth.

You smiled back, making your way to the sink too.

It felt…nice. To have more than an empty cabin to come back to.

“Flour, sugar, coffee,” you murmured to yourself, unpacking alongside him. “Salt. Beans. Apples—don’t touch those yet!” You warned, your hand instinctively flying out to catch his forearm as he moved to bite into the crunchy skin.

“They’re for…a pie,” you said, glancing up at him. Your palm felt far too comfortable against the warm, thick muscle of his arm, the lush hair of his forearm golden in the light. “You’ll thank me later when the syrupy chunks melt in your mouth,” you joked, withdrawing your hand quickly before those sky-colored eyes staring down at you could take offense at your sudden familiarity.

Now that you were inside, the scent was stronger—richer. This wasn’t the thin porridge you’d both endured the past few days, nor the familiar sweetness of the squash soup that usually comforted you through lonely winters. This was different. Something homely. Something shared. A table for two set next to a warm hearth on a chilly day.

Your eyes followed where your nose had already led you: the pot simmering gently on the stove, its contents bubbling in time with a strange, sweet heat blooming in your chest.

“Mr. Morgan, you…” you began, setting two tins of ground coffee down on the counter, only to pause when you noticed the cleaned rabbit carcasses resting in your sink. The smell of wild mint and oregano coaxed your senses awake.

“Figured you’d be hungry,” he said, unpacking cans of corned beef and jars of pickled eggs with careful hands, eyes deliberately fixed on the groceries instead of yours.

“I am. Thank you,” you whispered, smiling for the second time in less than two minutes. It seemed to come especially easy today.

It felt…nice. To have someone waiting. Someone expecting your return with a warm pot already on the fire.

The warmth bubbling in your chest, the scent of herbs simmering softly on the stove—you figured now was the right moment. If you made too much ceremony of it, it would only make things uncomfortable for him—and you got a feeling that a man like Arthur Morgan didn’t handle “presents” with much grace.

“I got you more tonics,” you said, just loud enough to catch his attention over the rustle of paper as he unpacked beside you.

“Thank you, ma’am,”

You nodded, reaching into your satchel and pulling out the brown paper parcel. “And this, too.”

He glanced over, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “This’ for me?”

You nodded again, another smile easing onto your lips—this one as reassuring and gentle as you could make it. “Open it.”

“M’lady, this—You didn’t have t—”

“I realized you’ve been livin’ in a borrowed blanket and a shirt held together by prayers and my best silk thread,” you cut in softly, deliberately fixing your attention on the groceries in front of you when you caught the faint trace of pink coloring his cheeks—a shade that had nothing to do with the heat of the stove. He wouldn’t accept it if it made him uncomfortable, so you looked away, giving him space to process the gift without the weight of your gaze.

“I figured on the size,” you added before he could protest, your eyes settling on the Basin’s glimmering surface through the window. “Shirts are easy enough. Jeans are always trickier to guess, but I’m certain both’ll fit. I’ve worked with clothes my whole life.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw him turn toward you. He smelled of wild mint, damp earth and expensive tobacco. You felt the warmth of his body radiating beside you. Even with the bandages still wrapped around his torso, his presence filled the small space of your kitchen, making it feel half its size. He was incredibly out of place among your lace curtains and floral porcelain, and yet, somehow, strangely right.

“…Thank you,” he said at last, voice low and sincere, underscored by the crisp rustle of paper as he unfolded his new clothes.

“Well, go on, Mr. Morgan,” you urged, setting two cans of sweetcorn on the counter. “Try’em on. If they’re too tight or somethin’, I can take ‘em back to the store tomorrow and exchange ‘em. But I’m fairly certain of my eye.”

You turned your attention back to the window, watching a small flock of geese drift across the far end of the Basin—granting him a measure of privacy as your hands continued stacking tins and hanging sacks on their hooks.

Behind you, the quiet rustle of denim and cotton began to fill the space. You reached for the wooden spoon he’d been using and gave the stew a stir, slow and absentminded, when a thought struck you so suddenly it made you snort into the steam.

If the doctor were peeking through a hole in the wall, he wouldn’t doubt for a second.

Husband and wife.

You shook your head, smiling to yourself at the absurdity of it.

“Somethin’ funny, ma’am?” his voice drawled from across the room. “Didn’t know my cookin’ was such a joke.”

“It’s not,” you said, your smile lingering as you turned around. “Just a thought—”

The words died in your throat.

Next to his journal on the table—sitting in a chipped ceramic vase you’d forgotten in the cellar years ago—was a speckled, vibrant cluster of purple.

Your breath hitched.

They were beautiful. The delicate, swollen bulbs you hadn’t seen since last year. The dotted leaves looking like a piece of a fairytale forest brought indoors.

You knew exactly what it had cost him to gather them. He’d had to walk deeper into the woods, his leg still stiff and his side still tender, just to find the shy flowers you’d mentioned in passing.

Words lined up on your tongue, waiting their turn. Joy came first—bright and sudden. Gratitude followed close behind. And then came the sharp urge to scold him. To tell him he was a fool for risking his stitches for a weed.

But the scolding died before it could reach your lips or erase your smile.

You picked them up carefully, the petals like velvet against your fingertips. They were fresh, still damp with the morning, their color vivid against your skin.

No one had ever brought you flowers.

Not once.

Not a single person in Strawberry had ever looked at a plant and thought of you.

“You’re a gentleman, Mr. Morgan,” you said quietly, the words sliding off your tongue like syrup.

He shifted his weight, suddenly very interested in the floorboards. The jeans fit him well—the dark denim hugging the powerful lines of his legs—but the shirt still hung open, the buttons undone.

“Found ‘em near the river when I went huntin’,” he muttered. “Figured…you might like to see ‘em when you came back.”

You did. More than words could say.

You looked at him—really looked—standing there in clean denim, his bandaged hand clumsily struggling with the buttons of his new shirt. And for the briefest, strangest moment, you found yourself wondering. About whoever had his heart. Wherever she was…how lucky she must be.

A wife, perhaps, tucked away in a distant memory. A lover waiting for him on a farm somewhere. Another in Saint Denis, receiving sketches and orchids alike. A man who knew exactly which flower to pick—how to present it—wasn’t new to making a lady smile.

“They’re lovely,” you said softly, watching his wounded fingers try to pinch a small button, his movements weak and stiff. “Truly.”

He abandoned the effort for a second, his gaze lifting to meet yours. His eyes were unreadable and vast—like the unknown depths of the Aurora you had never dared to swim in—yet warm as the surface glittering under the brightest sun.

“They suit you, ma’am,” he said, voice raspier than you remembered. “Since you live alone out here like ‘em. Shy things. And you’re… half-butterfly.”

You chuckled, your heart aching in a way that fogged your thoughts.

"Here," you murmured, setting the vase back down and stepping into the narrow space between him and the table before you’d even decided to. "Let me."

It wasn’t exactly proper. You knew that. You also knew this was a bit unusual for a man and a woman who weren’t married to each other and had barely met a little over a week ago. But the impropriety of it all didn’t truly register until your knuckles brushed the firm plane of his abdomen through the open cotton. And it was too late to turn back.

Or maybe not. Maybe you should’ve stepped back. You should’ve asked if he needed help before offering it.

But he didn’t pull away. Nor did he protest with that snarky wit of his.

Instead, he went still—hands falling to his sides. Under your care, he became a solid, breathing statue of sturdy bone and thick muscle, towering over you.

“Damn thing,” he said quietly, almost intimately. A breath of a whisper that tickled your skin, audible only because you were mere inches away.

A chuckle escaped your lips, more delighted than you meant it to be.

“S’okay,” you reassured him, your fingers working the buttons with the ease and calm of a hundred practiced afternoons. Even though this was a first. “It’ll heal.”

The fabric was stiff beneath your touch—stiff in the way only new things ever are—still faintly carrying the scent of the store. As you reached the middle buttons, your knuckles brushed the heat of his skin through the thin cotton. He was so much larger up close—so much more powerful. And yet, not as dangerous as you’d once imagined he might be, healed, standing on his own feet again.

Because the shirt was still mostly open, your eyes were drawn to his chest without permission. Met with the sight of a rugged expanse of hard-earned muscle and golden-brown hair, mapped with the deep lines of old scars—pale and weathered—and crossed by newer ones still faintly pink. They spoke of a life you could barely imagine. A body shaped by hard work and violence in equal measure.

Your fingers lingered a fraction too long as you guided another button through, thinking of all the stories those scars could tell. Stories you realized you wouldn’t mind hearing someday—by the hearth on a starry night, wool blankets around your shoulders, a warm cup cradled between your hands.

You could smell your floral soap on him—a scent that felt almost scandalous on a man like him—but beneath it lingered what was unmistakably his: the scent of sun-warmed leather, tobacco, and woodsmoke.

Your fingers worked the last button into its hole, though you deliberately left the shirt partially open at his chest, just as you preferred it. Open enough to feel fresh, while revealing the expanse of hair and hard muscle that now looked far more inviting than it had a week ago, when your hands were getting to know him only through blood and bandages.

You stayed there, even though there was nothing left to button—because he didn’t seem to mind, because neither did you, because it felt nice. Your palms rested flat against the solid rise of his chest, feeling it lift and fall comfortably beneath your touch.

Without thinking, your gaze drifted up—straight into eyes that were already waiting for yours.

You could feel his heartbeat under your hand—steady, strong, beating life into his mending body.

For several of those heartbeats, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The silence in the room had changed. It was no longer the quiet of the woods, but the hush of a match right before it strikes—burning the world down to this cabin and the two souls inside.

“Fits like I thought,” you finally murmured, your lips curving into a small smile. The words were barely a whisper, meant only for him.

His gaze flicked—just briefly—to your lips before finding your eyes again.

“Yeah,” he agreed, voice coarse like sugar. “You were right, butterfly.”

You couldn’t help the quiet chuckle that slipped out. Nobody’d ever called you that before—or nothing special really. To the world, you’d only ever been miss, ma’am, lady, or laundry girl.

The heat of his breath stirred the loose strands of hair at your temples, making the skin tingle. You noticed the way his collarbones carved deep valleys on his chest, the way the muscles of his neck tensed as he looked down at you.

And there—in the blue of his eyes—you found a thought you’d never imagined to find just a few weeks ago, when you still lived alone in this far end of the world.

It sent a foreign tickle through you, like butterfly wings fluttering against your skin, radiating down your body until even your fingertips felt warm. The flowers he’d picked for you. The rabbit he’d caught for lunch. The raw concern he’d shown that morning. The visible relief when he’d seen you return. All of it swirled together in your mind.

You had to admit, Arthur Morgan was a better husband than your imaginary one in Saint Denis could ever be.

—

chapter (3) coming January 30th🫧

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