(RDR2 / Reader - Arthur Morgan x Reader intended, but not obvious.)
pull up a log
Tonight’s story is about power.
The kind you get by accident.
About laughter that spreads faster than orders, and a camp that humors you just long enough for the joke to feel real.
Sometimes leadership looks like strategy.
Sometimes it looks like a borrowed hat and a very patient cowboy.
— 🔥
Hey, Nice Hat.
It starts as a joke.
At least that’s what everyone thinks.
The hat shows up first — too nice, too clean, too not camp. Somebody found it in a supply crate that definitely didn’t belong to anyone currently breathing dirt and bad decisions. You pick it up, turn it over once, then set it on your head just to keep your hands free.
It fits.
Which is already a problem.
Arthur notices the second you settle it. He doesn’t say anything at first — just watches the way your posture shifts without you realizing. Chin a little higher. Shoulders squared like you’re testing how it feels to occupy more space.
Hosea looks up from his book, takes in the hat, then the stance, and his mouth quirks.
“Well,” he says mildly, “seems we’ve got ourselves a change in management.”
You glance at him. “Temporary oversight.”
Arthur snorts softly, propping himself up on his elbow. “Mm. What’s my position?”
You consider him like you’re reading a file.
“Probationary.”
Camp immediately perks up.
“Probationary?” Javier echoes, grinning.
Arthur’s brows lift. “That right.”
You nod once, calm. “Pending performance review.”
He leans back like this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened all week. “Reckon I better impress you then.”
You pivot, scanning camp like you’re taking inventory of a ship that might sink if you blink wrong.
“Status reports.”
Bill looks around. “You serious?”
Hosea answers for you. “You heard the boss.”
Laughter ripples, but people play along because it’s more fun than not.
You nod gravely, as if this is a systemic failure.
You turn toward the horse line next.
“Inspection.” you say.
Someone groans. “Oh come on.”
You point to Sean. “You’re up.”
“Why me?”
“Because you complained yesterday.”
Camp laughs again as Sean trudges off, muttering, and starts actually checking tack like he’s proving a point. It’s ridiculous — and somehow completely effective. Within minutes, three more people wander over to help just because they’ve been assigned something.
Arthur watches the whole thing with a quiet, crooked smile, like he’s witnessing a perfectly executed con and he’s not even mad about it.
You step closer to him.
“Security.”
He looks up, amused. “Promotion?”
“Temporary.”
He nods solemnly. “I accept the responsibility.”
“Primary duties,” you continue, ticking them off on your fingers, “watch perimeter, deter nonsense, and refrain from starting fights unless absolutely necessary.”
Arthur huffs a laugh. “That last one’s tricky.”
“Probationary.” you remind him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hosea nearly chokes on his coffee.
For a while, camp leans into it fully — people giving half-serious updates, pointing out tiny “issues” like crooked bedrolls or a pot that’s been boiling too long. The energy shifts from restless to playful, the kind of shared joke that makes everyone feel like they’re in on something.
You move through it like you belong at the center of it, the hat shadowing your eyes just enough to make your expression unreadable.
Arthur falls in step beside you eventually, close enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours.
“You always this organized?” he murmurs, low so only you hear.
“Only when unsupervised.”
He smiles, slow and warm. “Reckon we been runnin’ this place wrong.”
Across camp, Sean calls out, “Horse line cleared! No mutiny detected!”
You nod approvingly. “Good work.”
“Do I get a raise?”
“Try again next quarter.”
Arthur laughs under his breath, shaking his head.
That’s when Dutch arrives.
Drawn by the sound of a camp that’s suspiciously coordinated.
He takes in the scene — Sean reporting, Bill actually stacking crates, Lenny scribbling something like he’s documenting it — and finally you, standing there with that ridiculous, perfect hat.
“Well now,” Dutch says, voice edged with curiosity, “what’s all this?”
There’s a beat — the kind where everyone waits to see if the joke ends or becomes something else.
Dutch smiles slowly.
“Carry on.” he says.
And just like that, it’s sanctioned.
Arthur leans closer as Dutch walks off, voice low and fond. “Looks like you got executive approval.”
You glance sideways. “Probationary.”
“Of course.”
By late afternoon the reports taper off, the joke softening back into normal camp noise. But the effect lingers — things are a little tidier, people a little lighter, like the structure gave everyone permission to breathe.
You finally pull the hat off, turning it in your hands.
Arthur watches, expression soft.
“You done bein’ boss?” he asks.
You set it down beside you. “For now.”
He nods, then after a moment nudges it back toward you with two fingers.
“Keep it,” he says. “Camp runs smoother.”
Hosea lifts his cup from across the fire. “Best leadership we’ve had in months.”
Arthur glances at you again, smile quiet but certain.
This one's for anyone who's ever wondered if love can make room for both the past and the present... and for Arthur Morgan, who answers that question the only way he knows how.
A big thank you to @crumbledcastle28 for the request that inspired tonight's fire.
Hope you enjoy!
── 🔥
The Road Not Taken
The camp didn't change when Arthur came back.
Pearson still grumbled that nobody appreciated a decent meal until Karen threatened to make supper herself. Uncle had somehow claimed the best chair despite contributing nothing but commentary, and Jack raced between the wagons with Cain happily at his heels, waving a crooked stick he insisted was a sword.
Everything carried on exactly as it had that morning.
Only Arthur was different.
It wasn't the sort of thing anyone else would have noticed. Around camp, silence wasn't unusual. Men came home from jobs with blood on their sleeves and thoughts they weren't ready to speak aloud. Some evenings, the fire did all the talking.
But you'd spent enough nights beside Arthur to know the difference between a man who was simply tired and one who was carrying something heavier.
He answered when spoken to. Laughed quietly when Jack nearly stumbled over the dog. Even tipped his hat toward Tilly when she teased him about tracking mud across camp.
From a distance, he looked exactly like himself.
Up close...
You caught the way his eyes drifted somewhere beyond the wagons when conversation lulled, how his coffee sat untouched until it had gone cold in his hands, and how, after seeing to his horse, he'd lingered a little longer than necessary with one hand resting against the animal's neck before finally turning back toward camp.
It wasn't unusual for Arthur to brood.
Lord knew he'd made an art of it.
Still, this felt different.
You watched him over the top of the shirt spread across your lap, guiding your needle through a fraying cuff while the camp settled into the slow rhythm of evening. He'd returned nearly an hour ago, yet every so often his attention slipped away from whatever was happening around him, as though some part of him was still walking the streets of Valentine.
You knew why.
Everyone did.
Mary.
The name had drifted through camp in quiet conversation after Arthur returned. Never loudly enough to invite questions, never long enough to become gossip.
"Saw Mary, did you?"
"Mm."
"She doin' alright?"
"Seems it."
That had been the end of it.
No stories.
No reminiscing.
No wistful smile lingering on Arthur's face.
Just a few words before he'd wandered off to tend to his horse as though the conversation had meant nothing at all.
It should have put your mind at ease.
Instead...
It left far too much room for your own thoughts. They crept in quietly, dressed in reason instead of jealousy, which somehow made them harder to dismiss.
You weren't angry.
Not at Arthur.
Not even at Mary.
How could you be?
She'd been part of his life long before you'd ever stumbled into it. Before the gang. Before the running. Before years of hard living had carved permanent lines into the corners of his eyes. Whatever had existed between them had belonged to another time, another Arthur, and you had never once expected him to pretend otherwise.
Still...
You found yourself wondering about that younger version of him.
The one who laughed easier.
The one who'd looked at a woman and believed there was still enough goodness in him to build a home instead of another campfire.
Had she known that Arthur? Had she watched him smile before life had taught him to hide behind tired little huffs and crooked half-grins?
Your needle caught against the fabric.
You frowned down at the shirt in your lap, easing the thread free before you'd pulled a knot into it.
It was a ridiculous thing to dwell on.
Arthur had come back.
He always came back.
The thought should have been enough. Instead, your eyes drifted toward him again.
He'd settled onto an empty crate near the fire, elbows resting on his knees as he stared absently into the flames. The conversation around him came and went without much notice. Javier and Charles were debating the best route west, Sean insisted they'd both get lost before they crossed the next county, and somewhere behind you Susan scolded Uncle for tracking mud near the wash line.
Arthur didn't join in.
He simply listened, turning his coffee cup slowly between both hands as if the answer to whatever occupied his mind might be hidden somewhere inside it.
You hated that you noticed.
Hated it even more because, until today, you probably wouldn't have.
"Need a hand?"
You startled at Tilly's voice.
She smiled knowingly as she nodded toward the shirt spread across your lap.
"You've been sewin' the same cuff for near twenty minutes."
Heat rushed to your face.
Had it really been that long?
You looked down, only to discover you'd stitched barely an inch since sitting there.
"I reckon I'm more distracted than productive."
"I reckon you are."
Tilly lowered herself onto the log beside you, gathering another pile of mending into her lap. For a while neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the quiet pull of thread through worn fabric.
"You alright?"
The question came gently.
Not prying.
Just... observant.
You smiled without looking up.
"I'm alright."
She hummed, unconvinced, but kind enough not to press.
After another moment she nudged your shoulder with her own.
"You know..." she said, tying off a loose button. "Mr. Morgan's looked over here about six times since he sat down."
You blinked.
"...Has he?"
"Mhm."
Almost against your better judgment, your eyes lifted.
Arthur wasn't looking now, he was speaking to John who had wandered over carrying two tin bowls of whatever Pearson had declared stew that evening.
Just as you convinced yourself Tilly had been mistaken...
Arthur glanced up.
His gaze found yours immediately.
His expression softened in that quiet way it always did when he saw you. The corners of his mouth tipped upward just enough to be called a smile before he raised one hand in a small beckoning motion.
Come here.
Simple as that.
The invitation warmed something in your chest.
It also made the guilt settle a little deeper.
Because even now, with Arthur looking at you like you were the easiest thing in the world to find… Your mind insisted on asking whether he'd ever looked at Mary the same way.
You held his gaze for only a moment before looking back down at your sewing.
Coward.
The word came unbidden, earning the smallest shake of your head.
Arthur hadn't done anything to deserve your uncertainty. If anything, he'd spent the better part of every day making sure you never doubted where you stood with him. He sought you out without thinking, reached for your hand whenever the two of you walked anywhere together, and never once crawled into bed without first making sure there was room for you against his side.
This wasn't his burden.
It was yours.
You just weren't entirely sure how to put it back down.
By the time supper had been scraped clean from everyone's bowls and the campfire settled into easy conversation, you'd managed to convince yourself the feeling would pass if you simply ignored it long enough.
It was a convincing argument.
Unfortunately, Arthur Morgan had never been an easy man to fool.
You were rinsing the last of the tin plates near the water barrel when you heard his boots behind you.
"You keep scrubbin' that thing," he said, amusement tucked into his voice, "there ain't gonna be much plate left."
You glanced down.The bowl in your hands had been clean for quite some time. A sheepish smile tugged at your lips as you set it aside.
"Suppose I got carried away."
"Suppose you did."
He stepped up beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Arthur reached for the towel draped over the barrel, drying his hands with slow, absent movements before hanging it back where he'd found it.
It was the sort of comfortable silence the two of you shared often.
Tonight, it felt heavier.
Arthur seemed to feel it too.
"You feel like takin' a walk?"
You looked over at him.
"...Now?"
"Ain't much farther than the edge of camp."
His tone was light, almost casual, but there was something behind his eyes that made it clear this wasn't really a question about stretching his legs.
You hesitated only a second before nodding.
"Alright."
The two of you wandered away from the fire without much fanfare. Nobody called after you. Nobody thought anything of it. Couples disappeared for a little peace all the time, especially after a long day.
The sounds of camp faded behind you with each step, replaced by the steady chorus of crickets and the soft rustle of evening wind through the trees.
Arthur kept an easy pace, his hands resting in his pockets as he walked. Every now and then, his arm bumped yours.
Not enough to make you stumble.
Just enough to remind you he was there.
"You been quiet."
It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't even really a question.
You let out a small sigh.
"I know."
"You wanna tell me why?"
"I don't."
Arthur nodded once.
"Alright."
That was it. No pushing, no disappointed look, just acceptance.
You'd almost convinced yourself he was willing to leave it there when he spoke again, his voice carrying that same quiet steadiness you'd come to lean on more times than you could count.
"...Can I tell you what I think, then?"
You looked up at him.
The moon caught the tired lines around his eyes, silvering the edges of his hat and softening the hard angles of his face.
"You've been lookin' at me all evenin' like you're waitin' for me to disappear."
The words stopped you where you stood.
Arthur took another step before realizing you'd fallen behind. He turned, his brow knitting together ever so slightly.
"I ain't sayin' that to make you feel bad."
His voice was gentler now.
"I'm sayin' it 'cause... whatever's got hold of you..."
He closed the distance between you with two slow strides.
"...I want you to quit carryin' it by yourself."
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The breeze stirred the grass around your boots, carrying with it the distant murmur of camp. Someone laughed behind you. A horse snorted somewhere in the darkness. Life carried on, blissfully unaware that your heart suddenly felt lodged somewhere in your throat.
Arthur didn't rush to fill the silence. He simply stood there, watching you with the same patient expression he wore when coaxing a frightened horse or waiting for a wounded animal to stop struggling.
"I know it don't make much sense," you admitted at last, your voice scarcely louder than the wind.
"It don't have to."
"It does."
You let out a quiet breath, dropping your eyes to the ground between you.
"'Cause if I say it out loud..." You gave a humorless little laugh. "I'm afraid it'll sound as foolish as it feels."
Arthur's mouth twitched, though not quite into a smile.
"I've said plenty foolish things in my life."
"I know."
"I still do."
That pulled the smallest laugh from you, and for just a second, the knot in your chest loosened.
Arthur caught it.
He always did.
"Better?"
"A little."
"Good."
He shifted his weight, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.
"Now tell me."
You looked at him again. Really looked at him. The familiar crease between his brows, the scar near his chin, the silver beginning to creep into the stubble along his jaw. There wasn't a single part of him you didn't know by heart.
Which somehow made this harder.
"It's Mary."
He blinked.
Not because he was offended.
Because he hadn't expected the answer.
His brow softened almost immediately.
"...Mary."
You gave a small nod.
"I know there ain't anythin' between you anymore. I know you came back." You managed a weak smile that disappeared almost as quickly as it came. "You've never given me a reason to doubt you."
The quiet stretched just long enough for you to find the courage to continue.
"I think..." Your words caught for only a moment. "I think people don't just stop lovin' someone because enough time passes."
He didn't disagree.
He didn't look away.
He simply waited.
"I ain't askin' if you still love her," you said softly. "I'm not even sure that's what I'm afraid of."
You sighed, shaking your head at yourself.
"I kept watchin' you after you got back today, and all I could think was... what if seein' her reminded you of the life you thought you'd have?"
The question lingered between you.
"A home. A family. A place where you could finally stop runnin'."
You looked past him, toward the faint orange glow of camp through the trees.
"What if, for just a little while..." Your voice grew quieter. "You remembered the man you were when you loved her."
The thought had lived in your chest all afternoon, growing heavier each time you tried to ignore it.
"And then you came back here."
A humorless smile tugged at your lips.
"Back to Dutch. Back to the gang. Back to all of..." You gestured vaguely toward the wilderness around you. "...this."
You finally looked at him again.
Arthur held your gaze for a long moment.
Something in his expression shifted, so quietly you almost missed it. Whatever he'd expected you to say, it hadn't been this. He'd been prepared for anger, perhaps even jealousy. Instead, he'd found you grieving a future that had never been yours, afraid that a single afternoon had reminded him of everything he'd lost.
"You been carryin' that around all day?"
You gave the smallest nod.
Arthur let out a slow breath through his nose, his eyes dropping to the ground before lifting back to yours.
"I reckon..." A faint, almost wistful smile crossed his face. "I reckon you're right."
Your stomach sank.
"I don't think people just stop lovin' somebody because enough years've gone by."
The words were gentle. Matter-of-fact. Honest.
"I loved Mary."
He didn't rush past it or soften it with excuses. He simply let the truth exist between you.
"I loved who she was. I loved what we thought we might have together."
His gaze drifted for only a moment, toward nothing in particular, as though he could still see two young people making plans neither of them understood life well enough to keep.
"That ain't somethin' I can pretend never happened."
His eyes found yours again.
"But, honey..." His fingers curled just a little tighter around your hand. "Missin' a dream ain't the same thing as wishin' you were still livin' it."
A quiet breeze stirred the trees around you, carrying the distant sound of laughter from camp.
"When I saw her today, I remembered who I used to be." He smiled to himself, though there was more sadness than joy in it. "Young enough to think life listened when you made plans."
He gave a small shake of his head.
"For a little while... yeah. I thought about it."
The admission stung, if only because he'd trusted you enough not to hide it.
"But then I rode back."
His smile softened as he looked at you.
"And I came home to you."
There wasn't a trace of hesitation in his voice.
"I ain't sayin' that because it's the right thing to say. Lord knows I ain't ever been much good at findin' the right words."
A quiet huff of amusement escaped him.
"I'm sayin' it because it's true."
He took your hand in his, just enough for his thumb to brush across your fingers.
"I can't change the life I almost had."
His eyes never left yours.
"And I don't spend my days wishin' I could."
For a long moment, you simply looked at him. The ache that had settled beneath your ribs that afternoon was still there, but it had changed somehow. Softer now. No longer sharp enough to steal your breath every time you thought about it.
"I didn't know," you admitted quietly.
Arthur's brow furrowed.
"I didn't know if you ever... let yourself think about it."
"I don't much make a habit of livin' in the past."
"No..."
You smiled faintly.
"I suppose you don't."
A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. The breeze stirred the leaves overhead, carrying with it the distant laughter from camp. Somewhere behind you, Pearson was almost certainly arguing with Uncle again.
Arthur gave your hand a gentle squeeze.
"I ain't gonna tell you I never wonder how things might've turned out," he said after a moment. "Everybody does."
His eyes drifted briefly toward the trees before returning to yours.
"But wonderin' ain't the same as wishin'."
The words settled over you with surprising ease.
You'd spent the better part of the afternoon convincing yourself those two things were one and the same.
They weren't.
"I reckon..." You let out a quiet laugh at yourself. "I made the two sound awfully similar in my head."
"They usually do."
You searched his face for another moment before shaking your head.
"I'm sorry."
Arthur looked almost offended.
"What're you apologizin' to me for?"
"For..." You gestured vaguely between the two of you. "All this."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"Honey."
There it was again.
Warm.
Steady.
The way he said it made the knot in your chest loosen just a little more.
"You don't owe me an apology for tellin' me what's on your mind."
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
"I'd rather know."
The words settled between you, quiet enough that for a moment all you could hear was the breeze moving through the trees.
You'd spent the better part of the afternoon convincing yourself that Arthur had ridden back from Valentine carrying the weight of a life he'd rather have lived. Somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten that if there was one thing Arthur Morgan had always done, it was tell the truth, even when it would've been easier not to.
A small smile tugged at your mouth.
"I've been an awful fool."
His own smile answered yours, tired around the edges but warm all the same.
"I wasn't gonna say it."
"You were thinkin' it."
"...Maybe a little."
A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
It felt good.
Arthur seemed to think so too.
He stepped closer, the space between you disappearing so naturally it hardly felt like a decision at all. One arm slipped around your waist, drawing you in until your forehead found the familiar place against his shoulder.
"There." he murmured, more to himself than to you.
His chin rested lightly against the top of your head, and for a while neither of you spoke. There wasn't much left to say. The fears that had followed you through the evening had finally run out of places to hide, and Arthur had met every one of them with the same steady honesty he'd always given you.
You smiled into his shirt.
"I do love you, you know."
His arms tightened around you.
"I know."
You pulled back just enough to look up at him.
"I was sort of hopin' you'd say it back."
That crooked grin finally appeared.
"I love you too, honey."
He said it so simply that it stole the breath from your lungs.
Then, before you could think of anything clever to say in return, he ducked his head and pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead.
It wasn't hurried.
It wasn't meant to fix anything.
It simply felt like Arthur.
When he leaned back, his smile was still there.
"C'mon," he said quietly, giving your hand another squeeze. "Let's get back."
You let him lace his fingers through yours without another word.
By the time the glow of the campfire came back into view, the knot that had followed you all afternoon was gone.
Not because Arthur had promised you'd never worry again.
But because he'd reminded you that when you did...
It starts with a name everyone thinks they understand. A reputation that reaches town long before the man himself ever does.
But men like Arthur Morgan aren’t always what the posters say.
And sometimes, all it takes is one bad assignment to turn a deputy into the very thing she was sworn to hunt.
Take your time with this one.
Neither of them knows where the road is leading yet.
And he’s not in a hurry.
── 🔥
Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4,
Chapter 1 - The Poster
The sheriff didn't look up when he called your name.
He sat behind his desk with one elbow resting on the worn wood, pen scratching steadily across a sheet of paper. The office smelled the way it always did, like old tobacco, drying ink, and dust that no amount of sweeping ever seemed to chase away.
You stopped a few feet from his desk, folding your hands behind your back out of habit. It was the posture he'd insisted on when you first started helping around the office. Stand like a deputy, he'd told you. If you look like you belong here, folks will start believing you do.
It hadn't happened yet.
Most days you were still fetching paperwork, organizing reports, or running errands through town while the other deputies rode out to do the work you'd spent months asking to learn.
"You wanted to prove you're useful," the sheriff said, finally setting his pen down. "Here's your chance."
Only then did he look up.
Around the room, the conversations had gone quiet. You hadn't noticed it at first, but every deputy in the office had found something to occupy themselves with while keeping one eye on the sheriff's desk.
One leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.
Another rested against the window, staring outside without really looking.
A third let out a quiet snort through his nose.
"This oughta be interesting," someone muttered.
The sheriff ignored them. He blew lightly across the page he'd been writing on before sliding a folded piece of paper toward you.
It stopped just short of the edge of the desk.
You stepped forward and picked it up.
A wanted poster.
The paper was still stiff, the ink just dry enough not to smear beneath your thumb. A weathered face stared back at you beneath the brim of a dark hat.
You didn't need to read the name to know who it was.
Still, your eyes found it anyway.
Arthur Morgan.
The bounty printed beneath his name was enough to make your stomach tighten.
You looked back at the sheriff.
"You want me to bring him in."
It wasn't a question.
One of the deputies laughed.
"Good luck."
Another shook his head.
"Hell, I'd sooner wrestle a grizzly."
A few quiet chuckles followed, though they didn't last long.
The sheriff raised a hand, and the room settled again.
"I thought you wanted to be treated like every other deputy."
"I do."
His eyes stayed on you for another moment, searching your face for something you couldn't quite place.
Then he leaned back in his chair.
"Then consider yourself deputized."
The words should have felt like everything you'd been working toward.
Instead, they settled in your chest with a weight you couldn't explain.
Outside, a wagon rattled down the street. Someone across town shouted after a runaway mule, followed by a string of curses that drifted through the open window. The piano from the saloon stumbled through another familiar tune, carrying faintly into the office.
Inside, no one moved.
No one offered to ride with you.
No one suggested where Morgan had last been seen.
They just watched.
Waiting to see what you'd do.
You folded the wanted poster carefully and slipped it inside your coat.
"I'll bring him back."
For just a moment, the sheriff's expression almost softened.
Then it was gone.
"Sure you will."
You turned before anyone could read the uncertainty creeping into your own face and headed for the door.
The afternoon sun hit you the moment you stepped outside, warm enough to make you squint after the dim light of the office. Your horse waited patiently at the hitching post, flicking an ear as you approached. You rested a hand against her neck while pulling yourself into the saddle, taking one last glance at the courthouse behind you.
The wanted poster seemed heavier tucked inside your coat than it had in your hand.
Arthur Morgan.
You'd never met the man.
Only heard the stories.
Train robberies.
Shootouts.
Lawmen who never made it home.
If even half of those stories were true... the men inside that office hadn't sent you after an outlaw.
This one’s for the moments that almost go too far… hands that linger, breath that stutters, and the kind of restraint that makes your chest ache worse than giving in ever could.
This is a complete one-shot. It's not... unfinished. Or is it?
If it left you warm, flustered, or staring at the screen a little too long…
Yeah. Me too.
Not sorry.
— 🔥
Unfinished
It isn’t supposed to happen like this.
You’re meant to be checking tack behind the old barn — quick, quiet, in and out. Arthur follows you in with a muttered comment about the door hanging crooked, and then the door shuts behind him with a dull, final thud.
Too loud.
You turn at the same time he does.
The space is narrow — dust motes floating in the lamplight, the smell of leather and hay thick in the air. Arthur’s close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without touching.
“You do that on purpose?” he asks, low.
“Do what?”
“End up alone with me,” he says.
You swallow. “You followed me.”
He steps closer — slow, deliberate — until your back meets a wooden post. Not slammed. Just… there. His hands come up, bracketing you against the beam without touching you yet, palms flat, arms caging the space.
“You could’ve told me to stop.”
Your breath stutters. “You wouldn’t have.”
Arthur exhales, something dark and amused in it. “No.”
The kiss isn’t gentle.
It’s controlled — firm, immediate — like he’s been holding it back too long. His mouth moves against yours with intent, not rushing, not softening. You respond without thinking, hands sliding up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt like you need the anchor.
He deepens the kiss gradually — not all at once — tilting his head until your mouths fit together perfectly. Your lips part, breaths mingling, and the sound that slips from you makes his jaw tighten.
His hands finally leave the beam.
One settles at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. The other comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he kisses you again — slower now, deeper, mouths moving together in a way that makes your knees weak.
You press closer. He lets you.
The world narrows to heat and breath and the scrape of his beard against your skin. His mouth trails from your lips to your jaw, lingering there, then back again — teasing, deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He makes you feel every second of it.
“Arthur” you murmur — not a warning, not a plea. Just his name.
He presses in fully, body solid against yours, one hand sliding up your back, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His mouth finds yours again, deeper than before, and for a moment it feels like if either of you moves wrong, this will tip into something neither of you is ready to stop.
His forehead drops to yours, breath rough.
“We’re… gettin’ real close.” he mutters.
You smile faintly, breathless. “You noticed.”
He huffs a quiet laugh — then kisses you again anyway.
Slower. Heavier. The kind of kiss that promises things without saying them.
And then—
“Arthur?”
The voice is just outside the door.
You freeze.
Arthur goes still instantly, breath catching as reality snaps back into place. He pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed like he’s physically forcing himself to stop.
“Damn it.” he murmurs.
You laugh — soft, embarrassed — and duck your face against his chest, hands still fisted in his shirt. “We are terrible at timing.”
Arthur’s arms come around you automatically, holding you there like it’s instinct now. “Yeah.” he mutters. “But I ain’t sorry.”
The door creaks.
You pull back just enough to breathe, cheeks flushed, heart still racing — and Arthur gives you one last look that promises this isn’t finished.
This one’s for the mornings you swear you’ll never agree to again.
For bad sleep, strong coffee, and the people who drag us upright anyway.
If you’re reading this tired — you’re not alone. Get the rest you need, for Arthurs sake.
— 🔥
Five More Minutes
Arthur knows he’s in trouble the moment you don’t move.
The sun’s barely crested the treeline, camp still wrapped in that quiet hour where the world feels like it’s holding its breath. Horses shift softly. Someone coughs in the distance. Morning, whether anyone’s ready for it or not.
Arthur nudges the cabin door open and peers inside.
You’re still in bed.
Not resting. Not dozing. Out cold. Curled around the pillow like it personally wronged you sometime during the night. Hair everywhere. Blanket pulled up to your chin in clear defiance of the day.
Arthur sighs.
He steps closer, boots soft on the floor, and clears his throat. “Mornin’.”
Nothing.
He leans over slightly. “We gotta get movin’. Job’s waitin’.”
You shift just enough to pull the blanket higher.
Arthur squints. “…Did you hear me?”
“Mmh,” you mumble, face buried. “No.”
That’s a lie and you both know it.
Arthur tries again, softer this time. “Sun’s up.”
“Tell it to go back down,” you mutter.
He rubs a hand over his face. “You said you’d be ready.”
“I was,” you say thickly. “Last night.”
Arthur pauses. “How late did you stay up?”
You don’t answer.
Arthur narrows his eyes. “How. Late.”
“…Time’s fake.”
He exhales through his nose. “You sleep at all?”
“Technically.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, leaning down so his voice carries closer. “How much?”
You groan into the pillow. “Like… three. Maybe three and a half. But it was bad sleep. Doesn’t count.”
Arthur closes his eyes briefly like he’s praying for patience. “You got a job to do.”
“I know,” you whine. “That’s future me’s problem.”
Arthur presses his thumb into the mattress, steadying himself. “Future you is gonna be real mad at past you.”
You roll onto your back, squinting up at him with bleary, unfocused eyes. “Future me should’ve gone to bed earlier.”
“Past you’s the one who didn’t.”
“Well,” you say solemnly, “past me was makin’ poor choices.”
Arthur snorts despite himself. “Clearly.”
He reaches over and nudges your shoulder. “C’mon. Up.”
You make a noise somewhere between a protest and a wounded animal.
“No.”
Arthur blinks. “…No?”
“I physically cannot,” you say. “My bones are heavy.”
“Your bones are fine.”
“They are not. They are tired.”
Arthur shakes his head, amused and exasperated. “You promised.”
“I was delusional.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I made coffee.”
Your eye cracks open.
“…You did?”
“Yes.”
“Strong?”
Arthur nods. “Strong.”
You consider this deeply, then roll back onto your side. “Bring it here.”
Arthur laughs quietly. “Nice try.”
You groan again. “Arthur, please. I am so tired.”
He studies you for a moment — really looks. The dark smudges under your eyes. The way you’re barely holding yourself together. The way your stubbornness has softened into something closer to exhaustion.
His tone changes.
“Alright,” he says gently. “Sit up.”
You shake your head. “Can’t.”
Arthur sighs, then reaches for you — one arm slipping under your shoulders, the other bracing your back as he helps you upright slowly. You slump immediately, forehead dropping against his chest.
“See?” you mumble. “Broken.”
Arthur steadies you without comment, one hand warm at your back. “You’re just tired.”
“Mhm. Dangerously.”
He chuckles under his breath and holds you there for a second longer than necessary. Then he presses a kiss into your hair.
“Drink the coffee,” he murmurs. “Then we’ll talk.”
You sigh but don’t pull away.
Arthur hands you the cup once you’re semi-conscious, watching closely as you take a careful sip.
“…Okay,” you admit. “That helps.”
“Told you.”
You rest your head back against his shoulder. “I hate mornings.”
“I know.”
“I hate early mornings more.”
“I know that too.”
“And I hate that I agreed to this job.”
Arthur smirks. “I noticed.”
You sigh, draining the cup slowly. When you finally hand it back, you sit there for a second, gathering yourself.
“…Okay,” you say. “I’m up.”
Arthur raises a brow. “You sure?”
“No,” you reply honestly. “But I’m vertical. That’s progress.”
He laughs, standing and offering you his hand. “C’mon, then.”
You take it, letting him pull you to your feet — wobbling slightly but upright all the same.
“Next time,” you mutter, “remind me to go to bed.”
Arthur grins. “I tried.”
You squint at him. “Did you?”
He shrugs. “You said ‘five more minutes’ about six times.”
You sigh dramatically. “I can’t be held accountable for sleepy lies.”
Arthur laughs again, squeezing your hand once. “You’re somethin’ else.”
You lean into him briefly, eyes half-closed. “You love me.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Unfortunately.”
But the way he steadies you as you stumble toward the door — the way he slows his steps to match yours — tells a different story.
And even on three and a half hours of sleep…
You’ll make it.
Mostly because Arthur won’t let you fall back into bed.
A can, a handful of rocks, and Arthur taking the game far too seriously.
Nothing important. Just a good time.
— 🔥
Menace, On Purpose
It starts with something stupid.
Which is, historically, how Arthur gets involved.
You’re tossing a small rock at a dented tin can near camp, trying to knock it off a stump. You miss. Then miss again. Then hit it just enough to make it wobble.
Arthur watches for a moment, arms crossed.
“You’re leanin’ too much,” he says.
You don’t look at him. “I didn’t ask.”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“I didn’t ask politely either.”
Arthur snorts. “That can was gonna fall eventually.”
“Oh yeah?” You finally turn to him. “Then do it.”
Arthur blinks. Smiles slow. Dangerous.
“Alright,” he says, stepping forward. “Move.”
You hand him the rock with exaggerated grace. “Be my guest.”
Arthur tosses it.
It misses completely.
The can doesn’t even flinch.
You stare at it. Then at him.
“…oh no,” you say softly. “You hate to see it.”
Arthur squints. “Wind shifted.”
“You’re standing three feet away.”
“Still wind.”
You pick up another rock and toss it. Clang.
The can tips over and falls.
You throw your hands up. “That’s a point for me.”
Arthur scoffs. “That don’t count.”
“Oh, it absolutely counts.”
By the time Hosea wanders over, the rules have somehow expanded to include:
distance
style points
“no lucky shots”
“that one didn’t count because Arthur said so”
Hosea watches in silence for a long moment, leaning on his cane.
Arthur lines up another throw. Misses again.
You don’t say anything. You just smile.
Arthur slowly turns his head. “Don’t.”
You beam. “That’s two.”
“That was a bad rock.”
“Sounds like excuses.”
Hosea chuckles. “Arthur, you always did blame the tools.”
Arthur glares. “You stay outta this.”
Hosea raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I absolutely will not.”
You toss another rock. Clang. Dead center.
Arthur groans. “This is rigged.”
Hosea points his cane toward you. “I’m afraid I’m with her.”
You gasp. “Hosea!”
Arthur looks betrayed. “You can’t just pick sides.”
Hosea smiles serenely. “I can. And I have.”
Arthur straightens, suddenly serious. “Alright. One more. Winner takes—”
“Your hat,” you say instantly.
Arthur sputters. “My hat?”
“You heard me.”
Hosea snickers. “Bold wager.”
Arthur hesitates. Then smirks. “Fine. But when I win, you’re makin’ coffee tomorrow.”
“Deal.”
Arthur steps back, takes aim like this is a duel at dawn.
He throws.
The rock arcs beautifully.
Hits the stump.
Bounces.
Misses the can by an inch.
Silence.
You stare at the can. Then at Arthur. Then slowly, slowly, you reach out and pluck his hat off his head.
Arthur just stands there.
Hosea laughs outright. “Oh, this made my day.”
Arthur rubs his face. “I can’t believe this.”
You place the hat on your own head, far too big, tilting it proudly. “Looks better on me.”
Arthur sighs. “You’re enjoyin’ this way too much.”
Hosea pats his shoulder. “That’s what happens when you underestimate people, son.”
Arthur mutters, “I hate both of you.”
But he’s smiling.
And when you walk past him, hat still on, he reaches out and nudges your side just enough to throw you off balance.
“Competition ain’t over,” he murmurs.
You laugh. “You lost.”
Arthur grins. “Yeah. For now.”
Hosea watches you both go, shaking his head fondly. “Lord help us,” he says to no one in particular. “There’s two of him now.”
The kind who don’t throw the punch — just nudge the moment along and place their bets.
Some love languages are acts of service.
Some are shared chaos.
— 🔥
We Were Just Watching
Hosea knows something’s wrong the moment you and Arthur walk into the saloon.
Not danger-wrong.
Decision-already-made wrong.
You’re smiling like you’ve got a secret. Arthur’s hat is tipped just enough to be disrespectful. The two of you exchange a look — quick, bright, conspiratorial — and Hosea sighs into his drink.
“Oh no,” he mutters. “Not tonight.”
You and Arthur settle at the bar like you’re harmless. Arthur orders drinks. You lean in close, murmur something that makes him snort.
“I’m serious,” he whispers back. “We shouldn’t.”
You grin. “You say that every time.”
“And every time I’m right.”
“And every time,” you reply sweetly, “you still do it.”
Arthur shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re a bad influence.”
“You married me,” you say. “That one’s on you.”
Across the room, a couple’s seated close together — the man loud, possessive, already a little drunk. His girl looks bored, swirling the bottom of her glass.
You notice.
Arthur notices you noticing.
You glance at the barmaid, then at Arthur. “What do you think?”
Arthur considers it for half a second. “Beer or whiskey?”
“Beer,” you say. “Less suspicious.”
Arthur flags the barmaid down and slides a coin across the counter. “Beer for the lady over there,” he says casually, nodding toward the woman. Then, just before the barmaid turns away, he adds, “Tell her it’s from the man in the blue coat.”
The barmaid raises an eyebrow.
Arthur smiles politely.
She shrugs. “Alright.”
You bite your lip, trying not to grin.
The drink arrives. The woman looks confused, then amused. She glances toward the man in the blue coat, who looks just as confused as she does — then shrugs and lifts his glass in return.
Her companion notices.
His posture stiffens. His voice rises. Chairs scrape.
Arthur shifts his chair back an inch. You do the same, already retreating to a safer distance.
The argument starts low, then gets louder. Accusations. A hand slammed on the table.
You lean toward Arthur, eyes bright. “Ten says loudmouth throws the first punch.”
Arthur squints, studying the tension like it’s a horse race. “Nah. Skinny one. He’s got twitchy shoulders.”
“You’re on.”
Neither of you step in.
You don’t have to.
The shove comes fast. The punch comes faster.
“Oh!” you gasp, delighted. “Told you.”
Arthur groans. “Damn it.”
The saloon erupts — chairs tipping, voices shouting, fists flying. You and Arthur calmly sip your drinks, tucked well out of reach, like model patrons avoiding a mess.
Arthur flicks a coin toward you. “Never bet against your instincts.”
You catch it easily. “Pay up.”
Hosea turns slowly in his chair.
He has watched the entire thing.
The drink order.
The quiet retreat.
The betting.
He stares at the two of you like a man reconsidering every life choice that brought him here.
“…Did you,” he says carefully, “just start a bar fight and then gamble on it?”
Arthur blinks. “Start is a strong word.”
“We encouraged it,” you say helpfully.
Hosea closes his eyes.
“For the love of—” He rubs his face. “You couldn’t just drink like normal people?”
Arthur shrugs. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Hosea glares at him. “You are too old for this.”
Arthur grins. “And yet I’m excellent at it.”
Hosea turns to you. “And I thought you were the sensible one.”
You lift your glass. “I married him. That should’ve been your first clue.”
The bartender shouts for everyone to get out.
Arthur drains his drink. “Well. Guess that’s our cue.”
Outside, the night air is cool and sharp, laughter finally spilling out of you both now that there’s no reason to behave.
“That was beautiful,” you say.
Arthur laughs. “You’re terrible.”
“And you love it.”
He slings an arm around your shoulders. “I really do.”
Behind you, Hosea steps out of the saloon and pauses, looking back at the wreckage — then at the two of you, grinning like you just got away with something.
“I am,” he says flatly, “deeply disappointed in both of you.”
Arthur beams. “That’s fair.”
You kiss Arthur’s cheek, still smiling. “Worth it?”
Arthur doesn’t hesitate. “Every time.”
Hosea walks past toward the horses, muttering about fools and bad influences and how he is far too old for this.
You and Arthur follow, hands brushing, already wondering who you’ll bet on next time.
And Hosea, despite himself, knows the truth he hates most of all:
They’re a menace.
But they’re each other’s menace.
And heaven help him — they’re happy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Every good story gets better the second time around.
