#...the horse asks... the bird..the...everything

A heir like Valarr had been raised for one purpose alone: to rule. From the moment he could remember, his father, Prince Baelor, taught him to observe details, to weigh decisions, to understand that one day the people would look to him for answers. But before being an heir—and even before being a knight, though he was one, and a good one, with the cloak, the vows, and everything that came with it—Valarr was a man. And like any man, he had a heart that beat for something more than duty.

Your arrival in his life was not a grand event, the kind poets sing about. It was something simpler, and for that very reason, more real. Your father was lord of a minor house, sworn to the Tullys, and every time spring ended and the air began to smell of wet earth and new blossoms, the sound of Valarr’s horse echoed against the drawbridge of your home. You grew up watching him dismount—first as an awkward boy who needed help getting down from his horse, then as a straighter-backed youth, and finally, as a man. And you were always there, on the castle steps, with a smile you could never quite hide, because deep down you knew: that boy with the clear gaze and large hands would one day be your husband. Sooner or later.

Your first kiss happened in a place that smelled of dust and old parchment: your father’s library. You had slipped inside in secret, fleeing the noise of knights drinking in the courtyard. He looked at you, and you looked at him, and suddenly his face was so close you could feel the warmth of his cheeks. When his lips touched yours, it was as quick as the flutter of a bird’s wings. Then he pulled back, his eyes wide as plates.

"What if I’ve gotten you with child?" his voice—still not fully settled—sounded high and frightened. Valarr ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. "We would have to marry at once. My father would say so. Or yours. Or both. Both, surely. There would be a ceremony, and—"

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. Not at him, but at the way his mind was already weaving weddings and septs and bridal cloaks over a mere brush of lips.

"I don’t think that will happen," you said, your voice calm, as if you were speaking about the rain or the evening bread.

He looked at you, confused. Then his brows furrowed.

"Can I… become with child? Is that possible?" and as he said it, his voice cracked a little more. Now the panic was for himself.

You smiled, shaking your head. You stepped closer and took his hand. It was warm, a little damp.

"My mother says it requires a process. It’s not something that just happens like that," you explained. "And no, my prince. You cannot become with child. That is impossible."

Valarr exhaled so deeply he seemed to deflate. But his relief didn’t last long. That very afternoon, as soon as he could, he sought out his cousin Aerion. And Aerion, who always knew more than he should and spoke of it in ways that made squires laugh and maidens blush, explained everything. Valarr listened, asked questions, and though some things seemed strange to him and others frankly repulsive—especially when Aerion began imitating certain sounds—he stored every word in his memory. Because when the time came, when you were ready and felt comfortable, he wanted to know exactly what to do.

The years passed, and Valarr did not change. He grew, yes. Taller, broader in the shoulders, his voice settling into a deep tone pleasant to hear. But inside, he remained the same boy who had once feared getting you with child from a kiss. When at last you were wed—in the sept of your castle, with the scent of warm wax and the crackle of candles—everything was better than you had imagined.

You would always remember his hands. The way he intertwined his fingers with yours beneath the table, just to feel you close. How, before the ceremony, he helped smooth your dress, his palm gliding over the fabric with the same care one would use to stroke a newborn foal. When the moment of the cloaks came, he placed his over your shoulders with almost solemn slowness, then stood still, savoring the moment as you fastened yours around his neck. His eyes never left your hands.

And when you stepped out into the courtyard, and the evening wind struck your faces, he paused. Carefully, as if afraid of breaking something, he brushed a strand of hair from your face and tucked it behind your ear.

"Your hair always gets carried away," he murmured, smiling. And in that smile lived every late spring of your childhood—and all those yet to come.

The nights in your chambers became sacred. When the sun set and candles were lit, Valarr ceased to be the heir prince and became something more intimate, more yours. The love you shared was shown then without words, through touches that carried the weight of desire restrained all day, through his large hands exploring your skin as though he were still learning it. Perhaps that was why, not long after the wedding, your belly began to swell.

The dizziness came first, then the sickness. You would grip the edge of the bed as your stomach churned, and Valarr would sit beside you with a damp cloth, brushing it over your forehead without a word, simply being there. The maesters came, took your pulse, asked questions, and in the end nodded with satisfaction.

"It is a strong child," they said. "You can hear it in the heartbeat."

But what they called strength, you called battle. Your body changed, your moods as well. Some days you woke laughing, only to find yourself crying by dusk without knowing why. And Valarr, instead of frowning or withdrawing as other husbands might, became even more attentive.

At midnight, when a craving woke you with an ache so strong it hurt—once it was candied fruit, another time warm honeyed bread, another a broth only made in your home’s kitchens—he never complained. He rose in his shirt, hair tousled, bare feet against the cold stone, and went to wake the servants. He did not command; he explained. "She wants this. Like this, not otherwise. Make sure it’s warm." And when he returned, he sat beside you on the bed, watching you eat with a foolish smile, as if seeing you satisfy that craving were the greatest achievement of his day.

At court, the lords gathered around the Iron Throne. Valarr sat beside his father, Prince Baelor, listening to grievances, disputes over land, quarrels between houses. His face, when he listened, was that of an heir: serious, attentive, clear eyes fixed on whoever spoke. But it only took a servant approaching and murmuring in his ear—"your wife, my prince, has begun to cry"—for everything to change.

The other lords watched him leave. Some frowned. The women, especially the servants, discreetly placed a hand over their hearts with tenderness. "Pregnant women become unbearable," some men muttered. "It’s not such a great matter." But Valarr did not care what they said. He rose, gave a brief bow to his father, and strode out through the main doors, his cloak billowing behind him.

When he entered the chamber, you were sitting on the bed, eyes wet, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The servant, shrinking into a corner, could only say, "She says she misses her husband, my prince." And that was enough. It was always enough for him.

He embraced you. You could hear his heartbeat, steady and firm, against your ear.

"You should never have married me," you sobbed into his chest. "I am a burden."

He shook his head, and though you could not see it, you felt the motion, the brush of his faint beard against your hair.

"Not at all," he whispered, his hand moving in slow circles along your back, while the other rested on your swollen belly. "Before I am a prince, I am your man. And I must answer to your needs before any other."

You lifted your gaze, eyes still full of tears.

"You won’t leave me? You’re not tired of me?"

He wiped your tears with his thumbs, with that tenderness of his that seemed reserved only for you.

"Never. I married to spend my whole life with you."

And he kissed your forehead. And for a while, you stopped crying.

The birth came on a summer night, the air so heavy it was hard to breathe. You screamed, pushed, cursed and prayed in equal measure. Valarr was not in the room—the maesters said it was no place for men, and for once, he obeyed—but you could hear him beyond the door, pacing, asking every servant who came out if it was done, if everything was well, if you were still alive.

And then, a cry. Sharp, strong, furious. The cry of a child who came into the world determined to stay.

The maester placed him in your arms, wrapped in white linen. He weighed so little, so very little, and yet he was the weight of the entire world. His face was wrinkled and red, his fists clenched, and when he opened his eyes to look at you—to look at you, yes, as if he already knew who you were—you saw they were two different colors. One violet, Targaryen to the bone. The other brown, like yours.

You wept. You wept so much the maester had to dry your cheeks so no tears would fall on the child. And when Valarr finally entered, when you saw him standing in the doorway, pale-faced and bright-eyed, you knew he too was holding back tears. He approached slowly, as if afraid of breaking something, and knelt beside the bed. He looked at the child, then at you, then back at the child. He extended a finger, and the baby grasped it with a strength no newborn should have.

"He is perfect," Valarr whispered. And his voice trembled.

Everyone expected that now it would be your responsibility. That the child would belong to women, to servants, to wet nurses. That was what they said at court, in the halls, in the kitchens. "The princess must devote herself to raising him. Prince Valarr has more important matters to attend to." But it was not so.

You carried him everywhere. To meals, to walks in the garden, to sit by the window while you sewed. But sometimes it was too much. The child cried at night, woke every two hours, demanded milk or comfort or who knew what. And you, worn thin with exhaustion, could barely keep yourself upright.

Valarr, on the other hand, seemed to have energy to spare. Or perhaps it was simply love. Love in the form of sleepless nights.

The first time he entered the council chamber with the child in his arms, everyone fell silent. The lords frowned, some in disapproval, others in confusion. Their gazes fixed on that small bundle wrapped in a blue blanket that the heir prince held against his chest. Valarr took his seat beside his father, and with one hand he supported the child while with the other he took notes on what was being said. The baby slept, oblivious to the stares, the murmurs, to everything.

Prince Baelor looked at his grandson. And for a moment, his stern face softened.

Rumors spread like wildfire. Some said Valarr had gone mad, that an heir prince could not go about with a child in his arms while matters of the realm were being decided. Others—women, especially—spoke of him with a newfound tenderness. "Just look at that," they said. "A father who loves his son. That is how all should be."

You heard of it, of course. And one night, after another battle with the little one who would not stop crying, you told him:

"Stop taking him with you."

You were both standing beside the cradle. Valarr had not picked him up, only watched him, with that expression of his that meant he was thinking about too many things at once. He turned toward you. With one finger—his little finger—he traced beneath your eyes, following the curve of your dark circles.

"Why?" he asked. "You haven’t slept well. It doesn’t bother me. Having my son with me is the most natural thing in the world. You have him all night so that I may sleep. It is the least I can do."

You smiled, despite your exhaustion.

"I chose to be a mother. I knew what I was facing."

He smiled too. That smile of his—the real one, the one only you ever saw.

"And I chose to be a father. I knew everything a child entails."

You shook your head, laughing softly.

"You’re not going to let me win, are you?"

He shrugged, with feigned self-assurance.

"I am an heir prince. I must know how to debate and defend my position."

And he leaned down to kiss you. It was a slow, gentle kiss, as though you had all the time in the world.

Then Valarr pulled away and bent over the cradle. Carefully, as one handles something fragile and precious, he lifted the child. The little one stirred, pouted, but did not cry. He settled asleep against his father’s shoulder.

You stepped closer from behind. On the ledge by the window lay the shawl you used to carry the child when you needed your hands free. You picked it up, and Valarr, feeling you near, turned.

"Do it, my love," he said, lowering his voice so as not to wake the baby. "I am still a fool when I try to put this on. I do not know how you do it. Surely you are developing those things only mothers can do."

You laughed again and spread the shawl. You placed it carefully over his back, wrapping it around the child, adjusting the fabric so it was firm yet comfortable. You covered his little head—that head with two strands of platinum-blond hair, one on each side, as if the gods had wished to mark him from birth. When you finished, Valarr’s hands were free, resting over the fabric to pat the child gently.

You looked at him. At your husband, with his son asleep against his chest, wrapped in a shawl you had embroidered yourself. His hair was tousled, his shirt wrinkled, and still he carried that air about him, that quiet gravity that showed even in the way he stood.

"You look adorable," you whispered.

You rose on your toes and kissed him on the lips. It was a brief kiss, barely a touch, but it said everything that needed to be said.

"I love you," he murmured as he pulled away. "Now go to bed. I will return when he wakes to eat."

You nodded. And when he walked out the door, with the child asleep and the shawl securely in place, you knew you were right. Valarr did know how to manage. He could be both heir prince and father at once. He could sit in council with a child in his arms and make decisions as though nothing were amiss. He could love you with both madness and reason at the same time.

And that, you thought as you slipped into bed and closed your eyes, was more than many princesses could say.

𖤝 cregan, as your husband, would be so adorable! you weren't used to the weather of the north just yet, so he had the seamstresses make you a ton of dresses lined with hare fur. they were made of the finest silks imported from lys, gemstones harvested from crownlands. of course, you denied the abundant gifts, but cregan rarely took no for an answer. 

𖤝 every night you would return to bed around the hour of the bat, taking a bath your maids prepared. you requested the oils and soaps he favored, as he would compliment you every single night. your perfumes were, of course, imported from across westeros. every time you finished one, another would come right in. "creg, did you get this refilled?" you would ask. your lord husband would chuckle, "they came in this noon, from dorne. do you prefer the previous scent?" "no, my love, i love both." 

𖤝 cregan would ensure the fire was lit in your shared chambers every single night. he would poke at it, watching the embers crackle. you would turn over, begging him to come to bed. "i'm warm enough, darling. come here." you wouldn't have to tell him twice! 

𖤝 even though he exerts all of them, cregan's top love languages are definitely physical touch and quality time. he would cherish your touch, no matter what you were doing. simply holding his arm while you walked around winterfell would rile him up. combing his hair before going to break your fast. scratching his back at the end of a long day of hearing lesser lords bicker. he loved it all. 

𖤝 just like his father, cregan was quite present and spent quality time with you as if you would disappear from his arms. whenever he could, he would just sit by you. you could just be embroidering the stark sigil into a slate frame, and he insisted on being shoulder to shoulder with you. 

𖤝 if you ever get a cold from the harsh north's chills, he would actually faint. he would have multiple furs atop of you as you rested, maids and maesters by your side, body full of ointments. he would sit by your side, worried out of his mind. "cregan, i can assure you i am well. i just need more rest." "i am well aware, my love, but i need to stay by your side." you were far too drowsy from the milk of the poppy to refuse him. 

𖤝 cregan would bring you up in every conversation he is in. of course, everyone knows you are the lady of winterfell, but how could they ever forget with cregan's constant reminders? "yes, my lady wife craves the lemon cakes the chefs make for conqueror's day almost monthly. we must find a more efficient way to make them." "my darling wife says we should ease on this particular wine. she did a tasting in king's landing and said she was quite crazed afterwards!" "the riverlands have choices of fashion that my sweet wife would die for. the textiles and dyes range quite differently from ours, don't you believe?"

𖤝 cregan would go hunting with his men, but sometimes he would ask you to go. reluctantly, you'd go anyway. he had an efficient gown and boots made for you, so there was no excuse to decline. you would ride on your horse beside him, gazing at the birds flying across the grey sky. you asked cregan if it would be okay if you didn't hunt, and he respected your wishes. it also made him change his mind, because now your hunt was turned into a bird-watching stroll. 

𖤝 on cregan's name day, you would go all out. you and your ladies in waiting would prelare for weeks, hiding and cutting all kinds of corners to avoid him deciphering his presents. when you woke up next to him, you pressed a fat kiss to his lips, wishing him a great name day. you made sure that when you broke your fasts, all his favorite meals and dishes were present. soon after, you'd stroll along the corridors, talking about nothing and everything. "i know, i know! i told her that house beesbury was not a wise choice to marry into!" "nonsense, their honey supplies half the north." "i'm sure lord beesbury doesn't supply any honey to her in their chambers-" 

𖤝 cregan, who would absolutely be enamored with you when the two of you lie together, but especially afterwards. his strong, muscular back would rest over your frame, full of red crescents from your nails. his sculpted arms would cage you, and his head would rest on your chest, hair tussled. you would stroke it, occasionally pressing a kiss to his forehead as you both drifted off into the night. 

𖤝 your lord husband always desired a large family. his was small, just a brother and a bastard sister by his side, both of whom were lost in time. he never begged, never, but he would sometimes drop little hints into conversation. he didn't even intend to; the majority of the time, it just happened! one night, he was twirling your locks between his fingers as you rested on top of him. "do you think our children will have your hair, or mine? or will some have yours, some have mine?" "maybe our daughter would like that," he mentioned, as he looked at a doll that a young girl was holding. "our son would be a great swordsman. perhaps even better than i or my father," he would say to himself as he sharpened his blade. 

𖤝 cregan, who would ultimately pump you full of children. he assured you at the beginning of your betrothal that he would wait as long as you wished to start your family, as you were both still fairly young for a wedded couple. however, the bond between you and your husband was stronger than the wall itself. you never set a limit on how many children, because you didn't realize it would get this far. you were already at four, with a fifth on the way. he was present at every birth, holding your hand as you howled. 

𖤝 the two of you would decide on names the moment you found out you were with child. he named your first son after his father, the second after your brother. your two daughters were named after your sister and a previous stark wife. you have yet to find out the gender of your fifth, but he was ecstatic nonetheless. he would rub your swollen feet, massage your tight shoulders, and tend to your cravings. he would immediately have the chefs put together your insane meal requests, never questioning them. 

𖤝 at a feast to celebrate the arrival of your child, he would proudly parade through the halls with you, hand on your belly. oh, and don't even let a lord be near you during your pregnancy or not! he would be glued to your side, making sure that the stark sigil on the gown was shown. he corrected anyone who referred to you with your birth house name instead of stark. it was more subtle, though. you told him many people either were used to calling you your previous name or simply didn't know which you preferred. 

𖤝 a lesser lord would say,  "lady ___'s father said she was particularly fond of the paintings in the vale." cregan would be slightly annoyed but would remember your little reminder. "lady stark enjoys them quite much. i was planning on requesting access to them, or somehow bringing them to winterfell for her to see." 

𖤝 cregan, who sneaks around the corridors with you, giggling in the dead of the night. you kiss passionately in the halls, shushing each other when you hear faint footsteps. as if you were both a lad and a maiden still, you never dared to engage in anything outside your chambers. he preferred the privacy and quiet of your shared chambers, surrounded by the crackling fire and, in a distant room, the faint slumber of your newborn. 

𖤝˚｡ 𓃦 ˚☽˚｡⋆

“You knew the man who lived here?” Arthur asked, riding just ahead of you, easy in the saddle—as if the land itself had shaped him to fit it.

To your left, Lenora View rested like a postcard of domestic peace. Old, weathered fabric swayed on the clothesline in the morning breeze, grayed by years of sun. Garden tools leaned where they’d been set down and never picked up again. Wrapped parcels and paper bundles waited patiently on the front step, untouched since ‘99. The little blue cabin now belonged to the ivy spilling from its flower baskets, roots claiming timber and eaves with quiet, possessive insistence—telling the ending to a mystery you’d first heard about last century.

“Saw him around town a few times,” you said, your eyes drifting back to Arthur, watching him without meaning to—memorizing the lines of his back, the way his head lifted toward the peaks as if greeting old friends. If your hands held even a fraction of the talent his did, you’d pull the reins right there and capture every sharp line, every soft shadow until he was yours to keep, long after the seasons changed and took him with them. “Went missin’ around the time I left town, don’t know if they ever found him.” You finished, forcing your attention back to the conversation.

“Oh, they did,” he replied, his shoulders moving with the horse, not against it. Free. Untethered. “Poor bastard drove himself off a cliff.” He tipped his chin toward the bridge, where the land fell away into jagged, cruel stone. “Wanna know what’s worse than dyin’ like that?”

Your face contorted with a wince. You couldn’t imagine much worse than meeting the rocks face-first. Even if fate gave you the mercy of a quick death on impact, the terror of the fall would be enough to shatter even the bravest soul.

“Dyin’ like that on the very road meant to take you to your bride,” he explained quietly, his voice barely rising above the thud of the horse hooves. “Man never showed up at his in-laws’ porch.”

A cold shudder rippled through you. It was a most horrible fate, indeed. Two, in fact. A lonely corpse forgotten under the shadow of a bridge. And a widow hauling her trunks back inside, step by confused step, as the realization set in that he wasn’t coming for her.

You wondered which was crueler—if she ever learned the truth, if she knew her lover was now a broken heap at the bottom of a canyon, or if she spent her years believing herself simply forgotten. Left behind by a forever that had only just begun to bloom. Haunted by the promise of mornings—quiet and ordinary—that now felt borrowed from another life. Coffee shared in comfortable silence. A soft sleeve brushing hers as he reached for the tin. A faint smile she hadn’t realized she wore whenever he teased her about the years ahead. Small things. Domestic things. Fragile, beautiful things that had shattered before they could ever truly begin.

The kind that made one’s chest ache with both possibility and dread in equal measure.

You knew better than to let yourself imagine too far ahead.

A man like Arthur didn’t belong to a life measured in seasons and routines, in lavender gardens and evenings by the fire. He belonged to motion. To horizons. To roads that never truly ended. And yet—treacherous thing—your mind still betrayed you with images of him splitting wood outside your cabin, of boots much bigger than yours resting by the door, of his laughter carried on crisp forest air as he leaned down to pick bay boletes beside you. Of shared meals eaten off mismatched plates. Of his coat—heavy and smelling of cigarettes and highland sun—draped carelessly over the back of a chair that had never expected to hold the weight of such a man.

He glanced back then, just briefly, as if he’d felt the weight of your gaze. His eyes softened when they met yours, something unspoken passing between you in the space of a heartbeat. He didn’t pry. Instead, he tipped his head toward the sprawling Valley ahead—a silent come see this—and you smiled despite yourself.

“How ‘bout a little race, butterfly?” he called, the breeze playing with those caramel locks you yearned to be the one whose scissors he asked for when they grew too long for his liking. “If I win, you leave that husband of yours for good.”

“And if I win?” you shot back, almost certain that he knew there was no husband thinking about you in Saint Denis—that the lie was nothing more than a thin, pointless game you both kept playing because it was just too fun to quit.

“Doubt that’ll happen,” he said, a challenge sparking in his blue eyes as he spurred his Shire into a sudden, thundering gallop.

You swallowed your doubts and urged your horse onward, the ground beneath you beginning to blur.

“Well, look at you!” you shouted after him. “All healed and bouncin’ on a horse like you weren’t bleeding to death last time I checked.” Your lips curved and your eyes crinkled under the sun, a smile that carried the ache of all your thoughts gently, like something brittle yet still very much alive. “If I had known that was all those wounds needed, I would’ve let you ride much sooner!”

His answer was laughter. Bright and unguarded. A sweet sound carried on the fresh breeze rolling into the open greens ahead of you.

The wind kissed your cheeks and tangled your hair, rushing cold and clean through your lungs as you rode fast along the creek. Morning had long since shaken off its sleep; the sun stood confident now, catching on river water and mossy stone, setting the world aglow as if it had something to prove. It was a freedom so real you could only feel it in the flesh—and never imagine.

Whatever tomorrow held—whatever ghosts waited for him, whatever roads might pull him toward an inevitable horizon where you didn’t exist—this was yours.

The day.

The sunlight.

The man riding ahead of you through a land far too beautiful to promise anything lasting.

So you let yourself have it.

Fully.

Without apology.

All of it:

The warmth of his familiar hands on your waist as he helped you down from your horse once you reached the sun-drenched fields he’d promised. The air crisp and heady, a smirk gracing his lips after having won a race you would have forfeited anyway. The price of losing—the promise to leave a ghost of a husband behind—was a prize far greater than any victory.

You let yourself have the press of his honey lips against yours beneath the bright, unapologetic sun—a sweet, butterfly claim that took hold the moment your feet touched the emerald grass, dusted with clumps of rebellious purple that refused to listen to the seasons. A few sprigs bloomed around your boots just because they could. Just like his kiss—born of pure whim, done simply because he felt like it. Because he could.

You let yourself have the sight of him setting up the tents in the heart of that purple sea—lavender still too young to pick, yet perfect to drink in with your eyes—his broad shoulders working beneath a vast, cloudless sky. It was a fairytale scene you glanced back at now and then as you knelt in the cool grass a few feet away, picking wild mint for the lunch he’d promised to hunt—as if you feared that looking away for even a minute too long, meant the horizon would finally decide to take him back.

You let yourself have the comforting scratch of charcoal against paper beneath the mellow afternoon sun. He sat on a flat rock by the water’s edge, black hat resting atop his satchel, lost in the quiet sanctuary of his art and his thoughts. A few rocks away, your bare feet greeted the creek like an old friend, threading carefully over mossy stones, skirts gathered as cool highland water slipped past your ankles.

The sharp, clean scent of the creek mingled with the faint, ever-present aroma of his cigarettes, a perfume that had become your new definition of safety. And in the silence—between the birdsong and the rushing water, between the soft grazing of the horses in the field and the wind stirring drowsy leaves awake—there was a peace so profound it felt fragile, like a soap bubble that could burst at anytime if the breeze blew in the wrong direction. You watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his large, scarred hand moved with such surprising grace across the journal page. In the early afternoon light, he wasn't an outlaw or a face on a wanted poster. He was just Arthur—simple and still—sharing a piece of the world with you.

And for the rest of the afternoon, at least while sunlight seeped into skin and moss alike, the quiet was enough.

But as the first stars pricked through the purple silk of the sky, as the last brushstrokes of orange slipped behind snowy peaks, and the Valley finally surrendered to the evening chill, the fairytale day began to drift away on the night breeze—feeling more like a memory than the present moment you were still allowed to experience. The quiet ache in your chest nudged you toward him, seeking the kind of bone-deep warmth you knew no campfire could provide.

“Here,” you said softly, handing him a steaming cup of coffee. You lowered yourself beside him at the entrance of his tent, sitting as close as you dared. Your head found the reassurance of his shoulder, resting there as you bid the day a silent, reluctant goodbye.

He said nothing beyond a low thank you—the words a husky, honeyed rasp carried off by the wind somewhere in the purple sea—before finishing his coffee in just a couple sips.

His warm hand came to rest on your knee, a bittersweet reminder that today was still here. That he was still here. You took a sip from your own mug, the cool night breeze kissing your sunburnt cheeks as if to soothe the worries you wouldn’t voice to him.

Your free hand found his under the fire glow—soap-worn fingers lacing through violence-worn knuckles. The gentle squeeze of his palm felt like it was pressing the ache right out of the tight muscle of your heart.

You stayed like that for a long while, listening to the chorus of cicadas humming somewhere in the brush and basking in the quiet comfort of his hand resting in yours. The Valley had gone blue with dusk, fireflies began to spark in the distance, and the firelight from camp flickered low and gold against the canvas of your tents.

Your thumb traced lazy circles along the base of his forefinger, feeling the rugged, uneven ridge of a scar—thickened like a ring of old damage that told a story of its own. You lingered there—curious, thoughtful.

“How’d you get this one?” you murmured, the question more tease than concern. Your gaze drifted briefly toward the darkening woods surrounding the camp—somewhere out there, a cellar hidden under the Valley, and an old woman who might still be haunting it. “Was it the old lady?”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound a low vibration in his chest.

“This? No,” he said, leaning back a little, eyes lifting toward the first stars blinking awake overhead. “Bastard down in the Bayou.”

You shifted slightly closer without meaning to, your knee brushing his thigh as the night cooled.

“We’d been trackin’ him and his buddy for weeks,” he went on, gaze unfocused as he was pulled back into the suffocating, muggy wetlands of Lemoyne. “Got ‘em cornered in some half-rotted shack. I got my man. My friend took the other. All clear, all good…” His jaw tightened just a touch. “Until a gator crawled out from under the bed.”

“Oh—God.”

“I got distracted. As one does when a gator shows up.” He huffed a dry laugh, eyes flicking back to you. “The bastard I was tying up thought he’d try his luck, broke free and caught my finger between his teeth. Wouldn't let go.”

Your hand tightened around his instinctively, wincing as the image bloomed in your mind. The ring of scarred flesh felt even thicker now that you knew the story behind it. “Christ—how come you still got to keep the finger?”

He shrugged, as if being bitten by human teeth was just another part of the job. “Punched his jaw until he couldn’t close it no more.”

You winced again, a phantom pain throbbing in your own hand and jaw.

“Don’t worry,” he added quickly, the corner of his mouth lifting as he caught your expression. “He’s fine. Happily livin’ behind bars until they decide to hang him and his buddy. Reckon the law shouldn’t take its sweet time, though. Those two are known for their talent of squeezin’ themselves out of tight holes.”

You shook your head slowly, gaze dropping to the fire as it snapped and settled, still making sense of the story you’d just heard.

“Are you a bounty hunter?” you asked after a moment, your voice barely rising above the hush of the wind.

“Somethin’ like that. More like an assistant, really.” His thumb brushed once against your knuckles. “My friend does the huntin’. I just help her out sometimes.”

“Jesus.” The word slipped out before you could stop it, your thoughts drifting to this faceless woman—this unnamed force of nature—wondering what kind of life sharpened a lady into a blade like that. “Your friend’s tough.”

“She is,” Arthur agreed, his voice growing heavy with a different kind of respect. “Tougher than most men I know.”

The fire cracked softly in front of you, embers glowing with a drowsy, orange heat, while above, the stars stitched a brilliant quilt across the open sky. You held his hand a little tighter, suddenly aware of the life etched into every ridge and scar along his skin—knowing, with an aching certainty, that a life like his was not something a man simply stepped away from to pick mushrooms and chop wood in a forest cabin until the end of time.

And yet…

That same hand rested gently in yours tonight.

The same hand you’d found clutching his side, shedding precious drops of life on your kitchen table one fateful winter day. The same hand you’d cleaned and bandaged every morning as you nursed him back to health. The same hand you lifted to your lips now, pressing a soft kiss to the skin the doctor had stitched back together what felt like a lifetime ago. Your kiss was a silent plea wrapped in warmth.

To always remember you.

Wherever the wind took him next.

After all this.

After you.

Your gaze drifted up to his, content to simply look at him. Then, drawn into the blue depths of his eyes, you rose to press a wistful kiss over the scar on his chin, wondering—briefly, uselessly—who had put it there, wishing he’d linger around long enough to share that story with you some other night. Under these same stars.

You nudged him back gently, his back meeting the blankets inside the tent with a soft thud. And then you were straddling him, your weight settling comfortably over his, as you traced a line of slow, honeyed kisses along the caramel bristle of his jaw.

His hands came to rest at your hips, easy and familiar. His chest rose steady beneath you as your mouth drifted to his neck, your kisses sweet, caring and entirely his. That was how you wanted him to remember them: the ‘pretty lips’ he’d written about in his journal. Just softness. Just sugar. Just his.

At the same time, your fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt. Slowly. Deliberately. Each eyelet freed with blind familiarity and careful precision. There was no rush in your movements. You had all night, after all; just the two of you and the scent of crushed lavender beneath the blanket.

You pushed the fabric off his shoulders far enough to reveal the rugged map of scars across his chest. His hands roamed the cloth over your thighs, a deep, satisfied rasp rumbling from within him as your lips met the iron-forged muscle of his torso—scattering butterfly kisses over every patch of skin where violence had stolen the chance for sandy hair to grow.

His hand tightened on your thigh when your mouth brushed the scorched, distorted mark on his left shoulder. You wondered if it still hurt—if the pain still haunted him despite the scar looking old enough to belong to another lifetime.

“And this one?” you murmured, kissing it again just to be safe—as if your warmth might help the skin finally heal, hoping the feeling of you might linger on him for days. “Who did this to you?”

“Some Irish clown,” he rasped, his voice low and molten, a pleasant whisper that melted like honey beneath your touch. “Distant time. Different life. Ain’t ‘round here no more.”

You glanced up just enough to see him—eyes closed, brow faintly furrowed, every last thread of tension dissolving beneath your care.

And for this moment, at least until the sun rose again and the horizon claimed him back, he was yours to soothe.

So you did.

You moved down from his shoulder slowly, reverently, kissing every patch of his history that didn’t include you—every chapter of a life that had existed long before your paths crossed. Every shiny, gnarled line of scar tissue that broke the smooth rhythm of his skin—each one a quiet testament to the man he had been before and the man he had become after them. The outlaw who’d appeared bleeding in your kitchen one winter afternoon. The gentleman who’d placed your favorite flowers in a vase just so you’d smile at the sight. The artist who’d sketched you like his muse instead of the simple country woman you’d always been.

The man whose chest now rose and fell beneath your fingertips, his lungs whistling placidly as your lips traced a downward path, following the coarse line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

His nails bit into the soft skin of your arm when you drifted lower, abandoning all pretense of ladylike restraint, pressing your butterfly lips to the hard, swollen shape of him—held captive beneath a suffocating layer of rough denim.

But not for long.

Your fingers worked the leather of his belt free, the quiet jingle of metal and the whisper of fabric setting your heart into a wild, impatient rhythm—one your hands did not mirror. Instead, they moved with agonizing control as you unbuttoned his jeans, savoring every second, every low grunt that left his chest despite the desperate anticipation running through your veins, despite the searing summer blooming between your thighs. Wet and unapologetic. Midday heat sizzling over sweat-pearled skin. A haze of a summer fantasy flickering through your mind—peach lemonade on a sunlit counter, sweet beads of condensation rolling down cloudy glass, reality blurring at the edges.

Your eyes lifted to his as you tugged the fabric down, denim and cotton together. He met your gaze, his eyes fixed on you as if you were the first ray of light to reach him after an endless, biting night. Unable to resist any longer, you surrender to your desires, your attention drifting lower, savoring the iron planes of his chest, the dip of his stomach, until you reached the part of him every nerve in your body ached to feel.

A whimper escaped your lips at the sight—the sound soft and honest, impatient yet reverent. Just like him: rising solid and proud between well-muscled thighs. The flushed tip already glistening with anticipation, sweet drops sliding down the swollen flesh, following the thick veins that disappeared into the coarse hair at the base.

Your eyes drank him in with gratitude. Unashamed.

He was the most beautiful sight the Valley had ever offered you.

His gaze was heavy, half-lidded, dark with a hunger that made your skin sizzle as he waited—ached—for your touch.

And who were you to make a gentleman wait?

You reached clumsily for the front of your shirt, your fingers betraying your eagerness. But you hadn’t even undone the first button when his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you cold.

Your mouth parted to protest, but he sat up and pressed his lips to yours—soft and deliberate—as if to quiet any complaint before it could form. His experienced, gunslinger fingers took over where yours had faltered.

Your mouth curved against his in a smirk you didn’t bother to hide. He had said this was the fun part, after all.

He bared you without inconvenience, sliding the cotton down over your shoulders, revealing skin his lips only seemed to know how to worship. Your head tipped back, suddenly too heavy to hold upright, your neck turning liquid beneath the warmth of his breath. A feeble sound escaped your mouth—half-need, half-delight—as his lips pressed soft and tender against your chest, painting a trail of wet heat as they traveled lower, to where plump flesh spilled from the tight lace cradling your breasts.

Your body shivered, a small, involuntary tremor, as the cool highland breeze brushed over skin still damp from his kiss. His rough fingers worked the lacing open with careful, deliberate tugs, each eyelet slipping free until nothing remained between his gaze and the sight of you—bare, undone and aching for him.

Your nipples tightened in the night air, your chest rising and falling beneath his reverent stare, as if your body was thanking him for freeing your breasts from the constricting embrace of fabric.

You smiled at him, your eyelids heavy with want, and for a moment, you wondered if he’d reach for the charcoal behind his ear and start drawing you right then and there.

“You’re too pretty for a bastard like me,” he whispered, leaning down to press a butterfly kiss against the goosefleshed curve of your breast. “Too damn pretty.”

Your spine arched at his touch, at his praise, the weight of your upper body resting solely on your hands, palms pressed flat into the blankets beside you.

“Arthur—” you sighed his name into the star-freckled sky as his fingers guided your skirt up your hips and over your head, leaving only your lacy drawers between you. You lifted yourself slightly—an awkward, desperate motion—but it was enough. He slipped them away without making you leave the heat of his lap.

“Sweet butterfly,” he rasped, his hand drifting down to the summer raging between your thighs, sinking into it softly, unafraid to be burned. His fingers coaxed a fragile whimper from your lips. “Too damn sweet to be touched by nothin’ but the cleanest, softest hands.”

And yet you wanted his—blood-stained and bruised. Palms scarred. Fingertips calloused exactly where they curled around a trigger. You wanted those same hands that knew how to ease you open like this, gentle as a promise. Not teasing. Just preparing. Just reassuring. Only the sweetest pressure allowed in this fairytale.

Your hands found his face, cupping it, holding his gaze as the quiet, wet sounds of his touch filled the space between your bodies.

“Clean hands ain’t makin’ me feel this way,” you breathed, your mouth parting wide in a silent moan, gasping for the air you stole from his lungs. “A-Arthur…” He touched you exactly where he’d learned you liked it the night before, as though rewarding you for making his name sound so beautiful.

“Yours is the only name these lips won’t ever stop sayin’,” you promised, arching against the arm he kept around your back, drawing you closer. His neglected length—waiting with a painful, stoic patience between you—brushed against your belly as he shifted, a searing reminder of just how much he was holding back for your sake.

“God—yes…Arthur—”

He pressed the tender bundle of nerves between your folds with his thumb, the movement as careful and artistic as when he held a piece of charcoal between his fingers.

“Men like me don’t get to have this,” he murmured, his voice a bittersweet whisper—dark coffee with barely a sprinkle of sugar—a reminder meant more for himself than for you.

You stilled, your hands resting against the steady, heavy beat of his heart. You gently nudged him back until his head met the blankets, even though it meant losing the delicious fullness of his fingers inside you. You leaned down, pressing a soft peck to his lips, your voice a hush against his skin.

“You’re a gentleman, Arthur.” Your fingers slipped into the honey locks of his hair, combing through them as you hovered above him, sinking into the honest, blue depths of his eyes. “The sweetest man… and you don’t even know it.”

“Butterfly—”

“Shhh.” You pressed your lips against his again for good measure—half-kiss, half-smile.

Then, you left him there as you straightened back, your fingertips reaching carefully for his length. He jolted faintly at your touch, a small shudder running through his massive frame as your gentle hands wrapped around him, just enough to hold him steady. You shifted your hips closer, letting your aching, slick folds brush the prominent veins along his swollen cock.

A sound escaped you at the delicious contact. Though your legs felt liquid, you managed to press your knees into the blankets, rising just enough to glide your drenched slit along him—slowly, from tip to base and back again. Not taking him inside. Not yet. Just tracing the side of his length, letting your body become familiar with every ridge of him, coating him in your heat.

His nails pressed into your knee, his brow drawn tight as he looked up at you, then down to where your bodies met. Both of you were caught in the quiet spell of it, in the hush of that moon-drenched intimacy—in the slow, mesmerizing friction of flesh that had long ached for this. Velvet against silk.

“You’re one handsome man, Arthur Morgan,” you whispered, shifting your hips in gentle, swaying motions just to see his sharp features tighten in delight. “So damn handsome. Don’t know if they ever told you.”

He gave you a brittle, flickering smile through heavy lids—a small gratitude for a truth you weren’t sure he believed about himself.

You glanced down just in time to see the glistening tip of him brush your swollen bud, a thin thread of sticky desire stretching between you.

And you could tell—by the way his muscles shuddered under your worship, by the way his fingers sank into your skin as your velvet folds soothed the painful hardness of him—that he was not used to the softness. To the devotion. To the care.

To Arthur, all his body’d probably ever been was a tool for survival, a shield for others, a target for his enemies. But to you, it was something precious whose warmth you’d always crave, even after he was long gone from these lands.

“I want this, Arthur, ah—” your voice broke as the head nudged your clit again, a jolt of lightning sparking through your core. “I—I want us like this.”

Every day, of every season, back in our little cabin.

In the summer, after a long day under the sun, sweat-damp bodies tangled in freshly washed sheets.

In the fall, behind the reliable trunk of an ancient pine, a basket of foraged berries forgotten in the carpet of needles beside you.

In the winter, quilts spread before the hearth, snow falling onto the frozen surface of the Basin, your shadows dancing in black and orange against the worn timber walls.

And every spring, in this purple sea, just like now—the Valley flowers and the star-pricked sky the only witnesses to your lovemaking.

“Please—”

—don’t leave me.

You didn’t dare finish the thought aloud. It felt selfish to want more than what he was already giving you—greedy to ask for his future when this moment alone already felt like every beautiful thing this life had to offer.

“Arthur…” With a soft sigh of his name, you finally nudged him inside you, using your hand to tuck the glistening tip into your welcoming warmth—just barely at first, just enough for your body to bloom around the stretch. He grunted as you lowered your hips slowly, the sound like gravel over silk. You let yourself sink down inch by patient inch, your hungry walls closing possessively around him.

The soothing brush of his hands on your thighs was a caress meant to encourage, to praise you for how well you were taking him in. Yet as you lowered further, the increasing heat in your sensitive flesh brought a flicker of sharp discomfort, and for a heartbeat you wondered if you would be able to fit him fully at all.

But patience was a virtue these lands had long since taught you.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his as you sank lower, as deep as the pain would allow. Until it numbed. Until the fullness grew so exquisite you could feel nothing but the solid, pulsing weight of him inside you.

“You okay, butterfly?” he whispered, the words breathless. His voice was soft as the breeze stirring the leaves outside, sweet as the press of his lips against the back of your hand.

You nodded, barely hearing anything beyond the rasp of his breath. Barely seeing anything but the gorgeous, moonlit fantasy before you: his mouth parted in silent praise, his brow drawn tight with a vulnerability people never expected from a man like him. But then again, they’d never seen him like you did.

He was such a gentleman, just lying there—hard and generous—letting you take your time, letting you move as you pleased, letting you use him as you pleased—utterly content just to see you happy.

And you were.

Happy to be the one taking him in like a compliment.

Like a lock that had finally found its key.

Your palms pressed against his chest as you lifted your hips a few inches, then sank back down again, a little more confident this time, the feeling of him so deeply a part of you now. A low sound escaped his throat—half-breath, half-praise—as his fingers tightened around the fat of your thigh.

You took it as encouragement.

So you did it again.

And again.

Soon, a comfortable rhythm formed between you, your bodies moving in harmony beneath the wide, starlit night. The clean mountain air brushed cool against your bare skin, raising gooseflesh whenever the wind hit your back, but the warmth between your joined hips burned bright enough to chase away any chill.

The world beyond the small tent of stitched blankets and dancing firelight seemed to fall away, leaving only the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, and the steady cadence of your joined breaths.

“You turn me stupid, woman,” he rasped, his voice deep and rough, as if the words had to fight their way out of the breathless pit of his lungs. “Don’t know what you do to me.”

His gaze remained fixed on you as though you were the only thing in the whole Valley worth seeing. His hands slid along your hips, steadying you, guiding your movements without ever trying to take control.

You smiled down at him, your pace growing a little quicker, a little less careful, as the pleasure built inside you like a gathering midsummer storm.

His name left your lips like a prayer, your voice trembling as the sensation tightened deep in your core, spreading through your limbs until they were too liquid and too useless to serve you in this dance no more.

He felt it before you could say more.

With a sudden, gentle strength, he shifted, rolling you beneath him just as your knees threatened to give out. Your back met the blanket, the grass bristling faintly beneath the thin fabric, still warm from his body. He hovered over you, careful not to press his full weight down. One arm braced beside your head, his fingers lacing tightly through yours, while the other slid beneath your thigh, lifting and angling you just the way he needed you—just the way he knew would make you feel everything he wanted to give you.

“A—Arthur—” His name tore from your chest, loud and helpless, as though life wouldn’t give you another chance to say it after tonight, as though the Valley itself might carry the sound across the hills and keep it alive long after you were gone. The world blurred at the edges as the delightful fullness of him crested inside you, your body arching softly beneath his muscles, your fingers tightening around his knuckles until they went numb.

“You’re alright, darlin’,” he murmured, the low rumble of his voice more soothing than any touch. “I’ve got you.”

He kissed you through it—slow, deep, and steady—his tongue moving against yours with quiet devotion, as the combined depth of his thrusts became too much to bear. Your walls, swollen with sweet juice, finally surrendered—a summer downpour spilling between your thighs, drowning him in your delight.

But being the gentleman he was, he didn’t pull away from the storm he’d created. His lips stayed on yours instead—selfless, patient—holding you close without asking anything of you as you came undone in his arms, as fire embers sparked all over your skin, melting the tension away from your muscles. As your body softened beneath him, he continued to move with a deeper, searching rhythm, chasing his own release.

He found it a few heartbeats later. Your walls fluttered around him as he slipped free at the last possible second, just enough to bury his face in the curve of your neck. A low, broken sound escaped him—a grunt of pure, shattered relief—as his body tensed and shuddered. Sweet warmth painted beautiful shades of white across your belly before he finally stilled, his breath heavy and ragged against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Somewhere in the valley, a night bird called. Then another answered from farther off. The creek joined them, the cold water whispering over stone just a few feet away. Outside, the fire crackled softly—perhaps too small for the mountain cold, but neither of you felt any urge to tend it.

He stayed there, catching his breath against your shoulder, his weight warm and grounding. It was as if he feared that moving even an inch might burst whatever short-lived, beautiful bubble you were trapped in. Not just tonight, but these last few weeks.

And you understood. You stayed still too, only daring to move the hand that now traced slow circles across his freckled back, your fingertips savoring the strength beneath his skin, memorizing the map of his muscles before the trail could claim them back.

“Let’s go south through Black Bone Forest,” he broke the silence first, the words tickling your skin on their way out. “See that new ranch they built out there. Take it slow. Pick you some of those flowers you like. They grow ‘round there, too, those orchids.” His fingertips drifted along your ribs, slow and absentminded, as though he were sketching the path you’d follow come morning. “We can camp near Owanjila if it gets late. Leave at first light the next day… then we’ll make it south of the Montana before dark.”

You stayed quiet, listening to the low hush of the creek, the brittle crackle of the fire outside, the soft rustle of blankets whenever either of you shifted. You let yourself sink into the simple comfort if it—the grounding weight of his body, the lazy tickle of his fingertips at your side, and the wide, indifferent scatter of stars overhead.

You watched them as though they might hand down some ancient wisdom—something that would mercifully quiet the question your lips were aching to ask.

“And after that…” Your fingers moved slowly across his shoulders, counting freckles one by one, though your heart beat fast and uncertain beneath his body. And you wondered if he could hear it from where his ear rested against your chest. “Are you goin’ to Mexico, then?”

You felt the faint shake of his head.

“I gotta go to Beecher’s Hope,” he said quietly. “Ask John a favor.”

Your heart twisted. Mexico or Blackwater—it didn’t matter. Neither of those plans included you. Still, you liked the way he said that name—John—with a natural, lived-in warmth, as if you were supposed to know who he was. It made you feel, just for a moment, as though you belonged to some small corner of his world. You pictured the drawing you’d once glimpsed in a stolen morning—those men with their quiet smiles. One of them, perhaps. A brother.

“Will you come visit me, Arthur?” you asked, voice faltering just a little, the question barely rising above the hush of the wind. Your eyes stayed fixed on the patch of sky framed by the tent opening. “Sometimes. When you’re in the area.”

“Butterfly…” He drew in a slow, steady breath and lifted himself from the cradle of your arms, propping up on one elbow so he could look at you. The firelight from outside flickered softly across his godlike features, softening the hard lines of him. “You know I don’t much like the idea of you bein’ there alone.”

“Then don’t leave.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. The years you’d imagined together—the four seasons in the cabin—unfolded inside your head like a map you weren't allowed to keep. But what if…

You pushed yourself upright and cupped his face in both hands, as though you could anchor him to your life by sheer will alone. In that moment, you forgot every promise you’d made to respect the man he was—his drifting nature, his wild heart. Because the thought of a life where you didn’t fall asleep against his chest every night felt like the cruelest torture imaginable.

“You can still travel,” you whispered, your voice thick with a desperate, brittle hope. “Still see the world. Camp under the stars. Ride wherever the wind calls you. Just…” Your thumb brushed a slow, loving circle along the bristled warmth of his cheek—longing, wishful. “Just come back to me in between, Arthur. Come back to me every time, before you leave again.”

Please.

He looked at you for a long moment, the starlight caught deep in his eyes, the same pale glow it cast across the Basin on a clear summer night.

“Whether it’s a trip to Saint Denis for cookies,” he said quietly, his hand sliding to the small of your back, drawing you closer, “or just down to Manzanita for groceries…if I leave you alone for a second while ‘em pelt clowns still roam those woods… how am I any different from that imaginary piece of shit you call your husband?”

A smile broke across your face, his features blurring through the warmth gathering in your eyes.

He leaned in first, slow and careful, as if he were giving you time to change your mind. His lips brushed yours in a soft, lingering kiss—sweet and reassuring. An owl hooted in the distance, and somewhere beyond the tent one of the horses shifted, a sleepy huff drifting through the night air along with the faint, comforting scent of woodsmoke and pine.

“Ex-husband,” you smiled against his lips, your hand sliding to the back of his neck, your thumb stroking gently just below his ear.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm and breathy between kisses. “So you’re single now, ma’am? Finally?” He pressed another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your cheek, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop.

“No.”

He pulled back just enough to frown, confusion flickering across his face—then understanding dawned, playful and sure.

“You don’t mind your new husband’s a wanted man in a few counties?” he asked, the weight of his past haunting his voice beneath his playful demeanor.

“And who’s gonna come find him in the middle of the woods?” you teased, though you could still feel the tension behind his question. “You and the pelt clowns are the only men I’ve seen in all the years I’ve lived out there. If the law ever comes, I could always hide you in my cellar.”

You stole another peck from his velvet lips, as if you could kiss his worries quiet.

“And if they see my boots ‘round the house?” he wondered aloud, his voice deepening as he let himself drift into the shape of the life you were offering—the shape of the husband who shared a little cabin in the woods with his butterfly wife. “If they find my shirts in you closet, my guns in a chest under the bed…”

“I’ll just tell ’em they belong to my husband.” You brushed your nose gently against his, smiling, perfectly content to spend the whole night spinning little stories if it meant one of them would convince him to stay. “My sweet husband who sells exotic flowers in Saint Denis.”

He huffed, amused. “You’re one clever lady, ain’t ya?”

You laughed softly as he pressed his lips against yours one more time before drawing you closer, turning you around so your back rested against his chest. His arms circled you in a warm, protective hold. The heat of him seeped into your skin, still slightly damp from your lovemaking, his breath slow and even against the crown of your head.

You stayed like that for a while, your fingers drifting absentmindedly over the soft hair on his forearms, tracing the faint ridges of old scars. Above you, the sky stretched wide and endless, stars scattered like spilled sugar. His chest rose and fell gently against your spine, the rhythm slow enough to lull your thoughts quiet.

“I mean it, butterfly,” he said after a moment, his voice low and thoughtful. “What I’ve done… it ain’t pretty.” The words slipped into the night, carried away by the soft murmur of the creek. “Out there… law’s still lookin’ for folk like me. Last thing I want is that kind of life to find y—”

“Where?” you cut in softly. “Where are they lookin’ for you? We could just avoid those places forever.”

He paused, then sighed, as if remembering that the woman in his arms was as stubborn as mountain stone.

“Let’s see…” he murmured. “Annesburg. The whole stretch of Scarlett Meadows. Blackwater still, though I’ve been there a few times lately.” He fell quiet again, listening to the creek as though it might whisper the rest back to him. “Reckon Saint Denis too. Though I’ve passed through without much trouble. City’s too big for the law to care who comes and goes.”

“S’okay,” you said softly, pressing your hands over his where they rested just beneath your breasts. “Never even thought of goin’ to Rhodes or Annesburg anyway. Heard there’s nothin’ to see there but dust and coal. And who even needs Blackwater?”

He chuckled faintly at your optimism—a low, melodic vibration that traveled from his chest straight into your spine.

“What about Ambarino?” you asked. It was the only place you didn’t want to leave this world without seeing at least once—but you’d gladly give up every mountain peak in the country if it meant he stayed by your side.

“Don’t recall ever doin’ anything nasty up there,” he murmured against yours ear.

“Then, I’d like to see the Grizzlies with you. That round house you drew. The Springs…” you let the fantasy take root as you spoke. “I read in the Ledger that the water there’s bluer than the sky. So bright it almost hurts to look at. They say it changes colors, like it can’t make up its mind. Little ponds of boilin’ water.” You smiled faintly at the memory of the tattered article. “Ever been there, Arthur?”

He only nodded against your head, quiet and content to simply hear you speak.

“An old traveler once stopped through Strawberry,” you went on, your fingers tracing the thick, prominent vein along his forearm. “Sat at Mr. Cooper’s counter all evening, talkin’ about the places he’d seen. Said there was a poppy field real high up north. Bright orange ones. Claimed the land for themselves, he said—wild little things.”

Arthur stayed still, save for the hand that drifted along your side, his fingers warm and reassuring against your skin, sketching the blooming shape of a future you both knew was a gamble.

“He told Mr. Cooper you could see the whole country from up there. The Heartlands, Cumberland Forest, O’Creagh’s Run…even Flat Iron Lake if the sky’s clear. Like the land just opens itself up to you. And up there…” you smiled faintly, picturing the two of you as tiny specks in that orange sea. “He said the wind never stops. Just rolls through the flowers and makes the whole hill shimmer orange.”

Above you, the patch of sky framed by the tent flap seemed to fill with that imagined color—the orange sea the traveler had described, the wide world unfolding beneath it. You could almost see it: a quiet picnic in the sun, his head resting in your lap while the wind stirred the poppies and lulled you both into a lazy afternoon nap. Your horses grazing nearby, tails flicking at flies in the tall grass.

And you wondered if, in his silence, he was painting the same picture in his mind.

“He said there’s a lookout tower near the ridge. And a little cabin folk call the Witch’s Hut,” you added after a moment. “Nobody seems to know who lives there. Or if anyone does at all.” You let out a quiet, wistful breath. “Said that field was the prettiest patch of land he’d ever seen, Arthur.”

“I can take you there,” he promised quietly, his voice brushing your ear like a secret. “Late spring, when them flowers are in full bloom. Camp under the stars, just like right now.”

You turned slightly in his arms, searching his face, trying to memorize every detail in the firelight—the tired kindness in his eyes, the way the shadows clung to the stubble along his jaw. The world felt small and gentle around you, no bigger than the blankets beneath your bodies and the slow rustle of the leaves dancing in the night breeze.

“That sounds real nice, Arthur,” you whispered, your lips curving into a smile the moment they shaped his name.

“Butterflies should always be ‘round flowers.” He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. Not hurried, not hungry—it was just warm and it was his. The kind of kiss meant for quiet goodnights, and not for farewells.

He shifted, the blankets rustling softly as he drew you down with him. One arm slipped around your waist as your back met the warm fabric beneath. You turned toward him without thinking, fitting against his chest like that was always where you were meant to rest. His hand settled at the small of your back, careful, protective—like you were something too precious he didn’t want the night to steal while he slept.

You listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, to the faint thump of his heart beating life into his body beneath your ear. He caught your fingers in his and brought them to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that felt like a seal on a contract.

“I’ll take you everywhere you want,” he murmured again, as if he wanted the stars to be the guardians of this life you were planning to start together. “The Springs, the house on the hill, the poppy field.”

You smiled at the thought, watching the faint, pulsing glow of embers through the tent opening, basking in the fresh scent of the wildflowers crushed beneath your tangled bodies.

“There’s a place up north near the Reservation,” he went on, his voice drifting. “Where the Dakota’s born. Water’s emerald like this valley grass, but deep blue as the midday sky too… if that makes sense.”

You nodded against his chest, not quite able to picture a color so vibrant, but content to know that his plans—his future—included you now.

“You’ll love it up there, butterfly.”

Your fingers curled gently into his as a reply, wishing you could bottle this starlit night forever. Wishing you could fold it up like a letter and tuck it somewhere safe in the event that, despite your best efforts to build a fairytale together, the years eventually decided to take him away some day.

His arm tightened around you just a little more, soft and quiet as the valley itself. It was a wordless reminder that, though the future curled in uncertain, shifting ways beyond the canvas of the tent, the present moment was all you truly had.

And it was enough.

-

Rain hammered the roof in a steady, heavy rhythm, like a thousand angry fingers drumming on the planks overhead. It was the kind of summer storm that came down all at once, wild and unruly, carrying thunder and lightning in its wake. The scent of damp earth and crushed pine needles slipped through every crack in the timber, the forest air feeling softer for it—richer somehow—the oppressive heat of the day washed away and replaced by the cool, clean breath of the storm.

You stirred beneath the blankets, drifting in the hazy space between dreams and reality. Across the room, the fire in the hearth burned low, reduced to a blurry nest of glowing embers beyond your heavy eyelids, casting wavering shadows along the walls. The cabin was steeped in the soft scent of warmed sap and old smoke that had burned all night, while the world outside was reduced to flashes of pale light and the endless, roaring curtain of rain.

For a moment, you didn’t know if it was still night or if morning had come and simply forgotten to bring the sun with it. The sky beyond the small window by your bed was black as pitch, and the downpour made time feel slow and thick, as if the hours had melted into one another and settled quietly in the dark corners of the room.

You shifted, your body instinctively seeking a warmth that was no longer there.

Your hand brushed over the blanket beside you, searching for solid muscle, but found only the faint dip in the mattress where he’d been. The spot still held a trace of his heat—a ghost of warmth beneath your palm—and the sheets still carried the lingering smell of his skin. But the steady rise and fall of the chest you’d fallen asleep against was gone.

You blinked your eyes open, lashes heavy with sleep, and turned your head toward the corner where he liked to drink his morning coffee.

He stood near the kitchen window, his back to you, outlined by the dim, dying glow of the fire. The soft light traced the broad expanse of his shoulders and the strong line of his spine. It caught the firm, familiar curve of his ass before it artistically melted into the muscle of his thighs. There was something about the way he stood, the easy, unguarded posture of a man who hadn’t bothered with clothes after the night you’d shared.

He didn’t seem to notice you stirring. Just stood there, one arm bent at the elbow, a cigarette resting between his fingers—the ember at its tip pulsing faintly, a tiny orange star in the darkness.

He looked out at the black window where rain streamed down in silver lines, the storm turning the glass into a shifting, watery mirror that reflected nothing but the quiet life he had spent years searching for.

For a long moment, you simply watched him, listening to the distant thunder and the protest of the trees as they bent under the tempest. Every now and then, lightning flashed, outlining his powerful silhouette against the glass before plunging the room back into firelit shadows. The blankets were soft around you legs, silk against your skin, and in the cradle of their warmth you found yourself wishing—just a little—that this god of the wilderness you just so happened to call your husband would come back and lie down beside you again.

You rose from the bed, your bare feet meeting the cool floorboards with a quiet thud. You were only wearing the shirt you’d fallen asleep in—the same cotton shirt you’d brought him from Manzanita one distant spring afternoon. The fabric was faded now, worn thin by years of honest use and the countless mornings it had spent swaying on the clothesline beneath the bright sun.

“You have a beautiful ass, Arthur Morgan,” you smiled, giving the firm, plump muscle a playful squeeze before wrapping your arms around his waist. Your pressed your cheek snugly against the freckles on his back, skin warm and slightly damp from the heat of the room.

He huffed a laugh—easy, unguarded and entirely his. “Well, good mornin’ to you, too.” His voice came out a deep rasp, husky like the first words of the day always were—a quiet contrast to the storm raging outside. “Sleep well?”

You hummed your answer against his skin, breathing him in—salt, moist pine, premium tobacco, and the faint, lingering trace of lavender from last night’s bath.

“Mornin’?” You glanced toward the dark window where the Basin caught the lightning like a turbulent mirror, doubtful the clock ticked anywhere past three or four. “We can still sleep a little more. Come back to bed.”

“Was about to.” His hand came to rest atop yours, warm and heavy. “Thunder must’ve scared the horses, woke me up, too.” His fingertips brushed your forearm in an absent, affectionate stroke—the touch of a man who no longer had to keep his hands near a holster. A man who only cleaned his guns out of habit and fondness for the steel, and not necessity. “And then I felt like drawin’ somethin’.”

Your gaze drifted toward the scarred wooden table, where his journal lay open. A stick of charcoal rested across the center crease like a worker sleeping after a long day, proud of the finished lines it left behind on the page.

The firelight turned the paper a soft amber, making the woman in the drawing look even warmer, even more peaceful. She slept curled in thick, soft blankets, the folds of fabric shaded so carefully you could almost feel their weight. Behind her, a small window shimmered with rain, the glass streaked in thin, slanted lines as though the storm lived inside the page itself. You could almost hear the thunder roar, feel the hush of the dark room, the softness beneath her cheek, the deep, earned rest in her sleep.

And perched lightly in her hair was a butterfly, its delicate wings folded like a quiet ornament among the wild tangle of bed-mussed strands. He’d somehow made that unruly morning mess look soft, almost flattering—as if it belonged in a storybook instead of a real, ordinary routine.

And even after all these years, after all the lazy afternoons he’d spent trying to teach you the way of the charcoal in numerous, failed attempts, you still didn’t know how he did it—how he could turn something so simple into a fairytale.

“Oh, Arthur—” your brows drew together in fondness, a tender little frown and an even bigger smile taking over your face, letting him know how much you liked it. “It’s beautiful.”

“Good, ‘cause...” He reached for the journal, carefully tearing the page free so it wouldn’t crease. “It was for you anyway.”

You took the paper in your hands. Up close, the details felt even more alive. You couldn’t understand how he managed to capture something so vivid in the dim, smoky light of the hearth.

“I love it.” You rose onto your toes to plant a kiss against his caramel stubble, where a few lines of silver had begun to show, glowing faintly in the firelight.

He caught your chin softly, tilting your face up so he could kiss you a little longer, his lips still as sweet after all these years.

Just like that first time in your cellar, all those summers ago, with the Skinners’ threat hanging over your head and everything still waiting to begin.

The room beneath your feet was still your cellar—the cedar box still held quilts that smelled faintly of soap and dust, and the walls were still lined with jars of preserved plums and candied tomatoes. But now, an entire shelf was devoted to the journals he’d finished through the years. They sat tucked against the far wall, next to the corny romance novels you usually read for him under the mellow afternoon sun—after the chores were done, resting on a patch of grass by the shore, with his head in your lap and your fingers threading through his caramel strands…

No, the cellar was no longer a place meant for hiding. There were no more nights spent listening for footsteps above the floorboards, no more strangers with cruel intentions wandering through these woods.

Arthur had made sure of that.

On the distant sunset when you’d come back from Big Valley, he hadn’t taken you home to the Basin like you’d expected. Instead, you’d found yourself hitching your horse to the front porch of a sturdy farmhouse, the railings smooth and well-cared for, the timber still smelling faintly new beneath the crisp evening air. The sun sank low on the horizon, painting the tall yellow grass of the Great Plains a honeyed gold, just like the fur of the friendly Labrador licking your hands.

He’d bounded up to you the moment you stepped down from your horse, his tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled. You’d laughed as the fur tickled your skin, kneeling to scratch behind his ears while his tongue slobbered happily over your fingers, the scent of hay and sun-baked earth rising from the yard.

The woman from Arthur’s drawing—Abigail, you’d learned—came through the front door at the sound of the dog’s excited barking. Her hair was gathered neatly into a bun, and the soft sway of her skirts made her look as though she’d simply stepped straight out of the journal page.

“John! Come here! Arthur’s back!” she called into the cooling air, hurrying down the steps to throw her arms around him. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Thought you were halfway to Mexico by now.”

“Oh, I’d probably be happily drowning my regrets in tequila at some bar in Chuparosa if it wasn’t for ‘em damn Skinners.” He joked, his arm light and familiar around her shoulder. “Two arrows and several knife cuts later, turns out I’m still standing.” He signaled briefly to his side and his thigh, his tone light despite the gravity of the scars you both remembered too well. “Long story. The important thing is I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for the gentle hands and the incessant scolding of this sweet lady. Butterfly, this is Abigail.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” you said, smiling back at her.

“Oh, just call me Abigail,” she insisted, moving without hesitation to pull you into a hug, her shirt warm against the evening breeze. “Thank you for savin’ this man. He’s one big stubborn fool.” She glanced at him, her brow furrowed in disappointment. “I don’t even want to know what he got himself into this time, but I’m glad you were there.” She turned back to Arthur, though her hand still rested kindly on your elbow. “How many times will I have to tell you? Someday you’re gonna get yourself killed, Arthur Morg—”

“What happened, brother?”

A man emerged from a nearby barn, short black hair under a sun-worn hat and long, deep scars carved into his right cheek. The marks were harsh—a jagged reminder of the same violent past Arthur had crawled out from—but his expression was anything but. His rough features were softened by the playful grin he wore as he approached.

“Finally decided to move in and help me run this mess?” he half-shouted, boots thudding tiredly across the yard. His voice sounded worn by years of trail dust and campfire smoke.

“John here was never much of a farmer, butterfly,” Arthur murmured to you, leaning close enough that you felt the brush of his breath at your ear. “Plays tough, but as you can see, he’ll always need me to save his ass. Ain’t that right, Johnny?”

“From where I stand, that could very well be yourself you’re talkin’ about,” John shot back, his lips curving in a grin. His gaze flicked toward you, tipping his hat in greeting. “Miss.”

“Good evenin’, mister—”

“What would any decent lady be doin’ anywhere within ten feet of a bastard like Arthur goddamn Morgan?” Laughter burst from the house, a voice too loud, too cheerful to belong to the body that followed it out the door. It was none other than the old man from Arthur’s drawing—long, untamed white beard and hair to match, face weathered like sun-bleached wood. He looked like he ought to be carrying a banjo, just to match the picture in the journal. “Have some self-respect, sweetheart,” he chuckled, giving your shoulder a friendly, yet heavy, pat that stung even through your shirt.

“Jesus, you still alive, old man?” Arthur greeted him, already stepping toward the doorway as Abigail ushered everyone inside. “Was hopin’ to come back to better news.”

“Ain’t that a fine way to greet your elders?” the old man scoffed, shuffling after Abigail. “Don’t go actin’ all tough just to impress a lady. I pictured you rottin’ in some ditch down in Casa Madrugada by now.”

“Just pretend he ain’t here,” Arthur murmured to you as you crossed the threshold. “He’s so ancient he might as well be a ghost and we don’t know it.”

You let out a small huff of amusement at Arthur’s comment, then quickly pressed your lips together, worried the old man might take offense. But he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He wore a smile that looked permanently carved into his cheeks as he settled himself at the table, an empty bowl waiting in front of him.

Once inside, the comforting scent of simmering stew, fresh bread, and clean wood wrapped around you like a blanket. The floors were smooth, well-swept planks that glowed honey-gold in the firelight. A braided rug lay beneath the table, its faded reds and blues soft under your boots. Decorative plates hung neatly along one wall, catching the flicker of the hearth in the salon. There, a piano stood silent but ready, and a large portrait of the master and lady of the house stood proudly above the mantel.

Just beneath it, sat a small statue of a squirrel wearing a hat and carrying a tiny gun. It immediately reminded you of Mrs. Hobbs’ work back in Strawberry—she used to make odd, charming things just like it. There was a word for that, she’d told you once, you just didn’t remember. You wondered briefly if she was still around.

Everything in the room felt cared for. Not fancy, not rich—but warm, lived-in, and honest. It was the kind of place where mornings began with coffee on the stove and evenings ended with tired laughter around the table.

“He’s been old his entire life,” John explained, dropping into the chair across from the old man. “You remember him young, Arthur?”

Arthur shook his head, placing his hat on a nearby peg. “He refuses to tell his age. Reckon he’s forgotten it.”

“That’s ’cause nobody ever asks nicely,” the old man said, folding his hands over his belly as if waiting for a miracle. Or, more likely, the stew.

“How old are you, good sir?” you asked with a polite smile as you took the seat beside him.

“You can just call me Uncle, miss,” he said, leaning closer and whispering the answer like a state secret.

“Oh my, really? You don’t look a day over sixty!” you said, perfectly mirroring the mischievous smile he was giving you.

“I know, sweetheart. My second wife always used to describe me as ageless,” he murmured, looking immensely pleased with himself. “See? That was easy.” He glanced at the younger men around the table. “Like I said, kindness costs you nothin’.”

“Yeah, yeah—like I said,” Arthur muttered, rolling his eyes as he pulled out the chair next to you. “Where’s Jack?”

“Jack! Come out! Your Uncle Arthur is here!” Abigail called, setting a heavy iron pot onto a thick wool pad at the center of the table. Steam curled from beneath the lid, carrying the rich scent of beef, onions, and herbs that made your stomach tighten with a sudden hunger you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying.

“Where’d he abduct you from, sweetheart?” Uncle asked, already dipping a ladle into the pot. “Blink twice if you need help.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, and Uncle joined in with a wheezy chuckle of his own. He poured a generous helping into his bowl, thick, velvet drops of gravy sliding back into the pot. The sight made your mouth water, reminding you just how ravenous a long day of picking flowers in Black Bone Forest could leave a body.

“I wasn’t abducted,” you said, amusement still dancing behind your words. “Quite the opposite. I’d have lost my home and my horse, perhaps more, if it weren’t for Arthur.”

“Aww, well look at you, Mister Morgan,” Uncle teased. “Finally doin’ somethin’ gentlemanly for a lady.”

“Reckon Hosea would be proud,” John added with a playful grin.

“Oh, you two be quiet,” Abigail scolded, placing clean bowls in front of you and Arthur. The pottery was simple but sturdy, still warm from the wash water. “Arthur’s always been a gentleman. You two were just too busy with a bottle of bourbon or a damn Cattleman to even notice.” She turned to you, her expression softening. “Ain’t he a good man, miss?”

You nodded, smiling at her before turning your gaze to Arthur. He looked faintly uncomfortable with the sudden praise, shifting slightly in his chair as if he weren’t quite sure where to put himself when the spotlight wasn’t a threat.

“Finest gentleman I’ve ever met,” you said softly, your hand finding his knee beneath the table. “The sweetest, too.”

“Yeah, a regular dandy and a charmer,” he muttered, self-deprecating as everyone at the dinner table knew him. But despite the gruff words, his hand slid warm over yours beneath the wood, his thumb brushing your knuckles while the fire crackled in the little salon and the stew steamed between you all.

“Then you ain’t been around much, sweetheart!” Uncle burst out, a wheezy laughter that rattled in his chest, the sound so natural on him it felt as if he’d been born chuckling at the world’s expense. Abigail only shook her head, disappointed but used to it, as she took the seat beside her husband.

“Uncle Arthur.”

The young boy who’d always let you pick out the biggest eggs on a the busy mornings you visited Beecher’s Hope, stepped out of a room behind you. The lamplight caught in his light hair as he paused next to Arthur. He stood at once to greet his nephew, his rough hands turning remarkably gentle as he pulled the boy into a quick hug—the quiet, careful affection a sharp contrast to Uncle’s rowdy teasing.

You lifted your palm in greeting when he noticed you, a shy smile curving his lips as if he were surprised to find an unexpected face around the dinner table.

“Hello again, miss,” the boy said. His eyes were soft and thoughtful—the kind that made a person feel welcome without a single extra word.

“My lady here tells me you are one generous salesman, Jack.” Arthur said as the boy took the seat across from him.

“Is that so?” Abigail asked, smiling fondly at her son while she reached for the bread loaf and began slicing it, the crust crackling satisfyingly under the knife.

“The lady is one of our best customers,” Jack explained quietly, focusing on his bowl as he dipped his ladle into the pot. “She always buys more than anybody else.”

It was true. You always stocked up on eggs whenever you rode back from Blackwater. Trips into town were rare, and you liked having plenty set aside for the long weeks of mountain solitude ahead.

“And Rufus likes her,” Jack added, glancing toward his mother. “Because she’s kind. Doesn’t shoo him off like most customers.”

“Well, guess she’s a dog whisperer, ‘cause Arthur here clearly likes her too,” Uncle chimed in, craning his neck like a nosy crow to see if his jab had elicited the reaction he wanted from Arthur. “All that starin’ and holdin’ her hand under the table like a goddamn schoolboy’s got you lookin’ like a bigger fool than usual.”

John huffed a laugh, almost spitting out his stew, and even Jack let out a quiet snicker. You noticed John stealing a quick, contemplative glance between you and Arthur, as if trying to piece together a story no one had spoken aloud yet.

“Just let him be,” Abigail said, her tone a blend of warmth and authority. She set a slice of bread beside your bowl, her smile gentle, and knowing. “He’s happy.”

Arthur didn’t answer.

But his hand returned to yours beneath the table, despite Uncle’s teasing. His thumb resumed its slow, quiet circles against your skin—telling you, without a single word, that Abigail was right.

Later, as laughter rolled easy around the table—as John recalled the time he and Arthur had nearly blown themselves to pieces by lighting a cigarette beside a wagon full of dynamite, as Jack eagerly explained to Arthur a new kind of arrow his Uncle Charles had shown him how to make in his most recent visit—you found yourself sitting back, quietly taking it all in.

It was nice.

Nights like this.

For so long, your evenings had been made of quiet routines and dinners for one, the only sounds the crackle of the hearth and the wind brushing the eaves of your cabin. You’d forgotten how warm a house could feel when it held more than one heartbeat. How a fire seemed to burn brighter when it lit several faces at once. How a meal could stretch well into the night simply because there was always another story to tell, another memory to laugh over.

Yes, it was really nice.

To hold his hand beneath the table, hidden from the lamplight and teasing eyes.

To fall sleep to the distant grunt of bison somewhere out on the Plains, curled warm next to him in a clean, moonlit room. It was the same room he always stayed in when he visited, Abigail told you the next morning while you and Jack helped her wash the dishes from last night. The warm water had turned your fingers pink, the smell of soap and stew lingering in the air while plates clinked softly in the basin.

Jack was a good kid—quiet, polite—but there was something pensive about his eyes, something deep and restless beneath the calm surface. His mother mentioned he had a head full of ideas, maybe too many for someone so young. When she teased him about being so well-spoken he might grow up to be a writer, he’d flushed red as a beet, ducking his head as though the compliment blinded his eyes like the bright morning sun.

Watching him then, you understood why Arthur spoke of the boy with such quiet pride. Why his parents did.

And in the days that followed, you began to understand even more.

Because your stay at Beecher’s Hope lasted longer than you’d first expected.

As it turned out, Arthur hadn’t brought you there just for the pleasure of the visit. He’d wanted you as far as possible from Tall Trees while he, John, and their friend Sadie—whom you’d learned was the fearless bounty hunter he’d told you about—rode out to purge the woods of the rot and filth of the Skinners. They were gone several days. Long enough for you to notice how Abigail’s jaw tightened whenever the wind carried hoofbeats from the distance, only to relax in disappointment when it turned out to be nothing.

She hadn’t been happy about the plan. That much was clear. But she never took it out on you.

Instead, she let you help her around the farm—shelling peas on the porch while Jack played with Rufus in the front yard, washing shirts together by the river in the blue light of early morning, stirring pots over the stove while the kettle hissed softly beside you. And as you worked, she told stories.

Stories of 1899 and the years before that could have very easily filled a dozen novels. She spoke of muddy camps and long rides against snowstorms; of laughter around fires and silly arguments that lasted well into the night; of a man of the clergy who drank more than he ever prayed; of how Sadie had lost everything to the O’Driscolls before finding the steel she yielded now. She spoke of Hosea—an honest conman with a rattling cough and the kindest eyes—who was responsible for teaching both Arthur and Jack how to read, and a whole lot about life in the process. She told you how she’d almost lost John twice, first to wolves and then to lawmen. Of how he was mostly a family man now, but still remained wild and untamed, for the moments his friends needed him to ride with them.

She spoke of loyalty, heartbreak, and the strange, tangled family they’d all once been. Of how both Arthur and John still carried the invisible wounds of being left to rot by a man they’d once considered a father.

And by the end of your stay, between Abigail’s honest recollections and Uncle’s… more imaginative ones—as Arthur later called them—you felt like you understood better. The cold steel. The gunpowder. The endless, winding roads that seemingly always led to danger.

And it was because of those years—because of Arthur and the people who’d shaped him—that you now got to live this quiet, gentle fairytale in a remote—but never lonely—cabin in the forest. You had been his butterfly for years now. Perching on the edges of his journal pages while he drew, fluttering around him with little stories of things you’d seen while foraging in the woods, sharing memories from your youth in Strawberry that surfaced without warning—though there weren’t many left he hadn’t heard by now.

You pinned the drawing he’d just given you to the board in the kitchen. It hung across from the table, positioned perfectly to catch your gaze whenever it drifted—when you drank your morning coffee, when you scrubbed the lunch dishes in the sink, when you sat knitting across from him in the fading afternoon light.

The board had grown crowded over the years. Paper edges overlapped, older memories hiding behind newer ones, some curling faintly with age, others still crisp. Each one held a small, quiet piece of the life you’d built together.

There you were, sitting in the middle of an endless sea of poppies, your dress swallowed by the swaying petals, and though the charcoal was monochrome, your mind insisted on seeing the vibrant, fire-bright orange that had burned across the field that day.

There, bent over a patch of violet snowdrops near the so-called Witch’s Hut, a place you’d visited almost every summer now and which, as it turned out, held no trace of magic other than the quiet peace of the mountain.

Next to it hung a sketch of you perched on a sun-warmed rock at the edge of Cattail Pond—a fishing trip born on a crisp autumn whim, the water drawn so clear it looked ready to ripple at the slightest touch.

Another caught your horses grazing beside the round house near Bacchus Station, their manes lifted by the late spring breeze, your reliable horse looking delicate and small next to the midnight mountain of his Raven Shire. You could still feel the warmth of the sun as it washed the mossy roof in a liquid gold that afternoon.

And then there was your favorite, a masterpiece of perspective he’d simply titled: Sunset at The Loft.

It showed the world breaking open beneath that high Ambarino ridge. You could see it all—the rolling Heartlands, O’Creagh’s Run reduced to a shimmering pond in the distance, the deep shadows of Cumberland Forest, and the sliver of Flat Iron Lake on the horizon.

It had taken him three full days, perched at the high balcony of the tower, studying the light until his fingers were more charcoal than skin. You remembered those days with a longing, sweet fondness: the rhythmic scratch of his charcoal blending with the cries of birds flying level with the lookout; the focused lines of his face glowing pink under the cherry-colored skies, the way your legs had ached for a week from climbing that dizzying ladder just to keep him company. And when the daylight finally died and he latched his journal shut for the night, that same endless world would shrink down to just the two of you, the crisp highland air, and the low murmur of your voices as you traded stories beneath the cold, bright diamonds of the Ambarino sky.

Quiet moments.

Little fragments of peace.

Sometimes you thought the cabin was growing too small to hold all the bliss that had grown inside it over the years, ever since that day you’d met him in your kitchen with his mangled leg and your peaches in his satchel.

“C’mere,” he called softly from the bed.

He was already lying beneath the covers, one arm crooked behind his head, the other lifting the blanket in a silent, familiar invitation. You crossed the room and slipped in beside him, the sheets already cool from the brief absence of your bodies. He pulled the blanket over and wrapped his arms around you the way he had every night since that starlit evening in Big Valley, all those laps around the sun ago.

Outside, the rain kept pouring—hard and steady against the roof. Inside, you were warm and safe, tucked against his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear.

“You think they’ll make it?” you whispered into the night, watching a flash of lightning leak through the thin curtains, illuminating the room for a heartbeat before fading back to ember-glow.

“Butterfly,” he murmured against the crown of your head, his breath stirring your hair, “in the years I’ve known John, bullets ain’t stopped him, snow ain’t stopped him, the law hasn’t stopped him…hell, not even a pack of wolves could.” His chest rumbled rhythmically under your cheek as he spoke. “What’s a little mid-summer shower gonna do but get his hat wet? If the man wants to fish, he’ll be here.”

You chuckled softly against the heat of his skin. John, Abigail, and Jack were meant to come fish in the Basin today. Some fisherman from the east near Rhodes had spun John a tall tale about a rare bass that supposedly inhabited these high-altitude waters—a "king of the mountain" that had eluded every hook.

But despite all the long, stubborn afternoons he and Arthur had spent trying to lure the beast out of the depths of the Basin, you’d never seen them pull up anything but good ’ol tiny Rock Bass. You and Abigail didn’t share their competitive disappointment, though. You were more than content with the "failure," enjoying countless afternoons picnicking along the shore, watching the water shimmer like shattered glass while Jack skipped stones and Arthur tried—with a persistence that bordered on cruelty—to convince John it was finally time to learn how to swim.

You loved every second of it. The laughter, the bickering, the simple peace of a family that had finally stopped running. You silently hoped the clouds would break by dawn, if only to see the look on John's face when he inevitably caught another finger-sized fish.

But for now, you’d rest. Cradled in the arm he tightened around you, his hand resting warm at your waist. For now, the world was just the size of your room. You let the song of the rain lull you back to sleep, drifting off in the absolute certainty that come morning—rain or no rain—the day would begin with the scent of strong coffee and the sweet, familiar brush of his lips.

—

It seems like we’ve made it to the end of this journey💜 When I started writing this fic last December, I never expected readers to connect with the story in all the ways you guys did. What an amazing time I’ve had with you in the comments every week! I hope the ending did the journey justice! Dying to know what you think about it! Also, you guys are amazing for putting up with my insane word counts, especially the last chapters which were absolutely deranged (what was even that?! lol) As always, thank you so much for your support.🦋💐

I’ll go ahead and link my Kofi here in case you’d like to support my work this way too☕️😊 ko-fi.com/missbubblesoda

Lastly, it goes without saying that I’ll be back with more stories soon! I’m currently working in two low-honor fics (for John and Arthur). If you’d like to be notified when I post the first chapters, don’t hesitate to reach out and let me know which one you’d like to be tagged in🌸 Until the next one!🫧💜