#darling core

“They don’t deserve to see you smile,” he murmurs one evening, brushing your hair as you sit on a velvet stool before the hearth. “Let them write letters. Let them beg for your hand. You don’t need them. You have me.”

He says it like a prayer. Like it’s a truth older than time.

Your gowns are custom-made—never revealing. He screens every servant who speaks to you. No tutors under thirty. No suitors permitted past the gate. You live in a palace of soft hands and quieter threats.

And yet, he’s gentle. Obsessively so. He remembers what sweets you like. What books you hide beneath your pillow. What scent you wore when you smiled for the first time after your mother’s death.

You once asked why he never remarried.

He just looked at you.

And whispered, “Why would I ever look at anyone else?”

Tonight, he kisses your forehead too long. Tonight, his hands linger at your waist.

You were raised to be the jewel of the house. But he wants you as the ruler of his heart.

And the crown he offers glitters with blood

yandere older brother

You were the little star of the household.

And he was the heir. Cold. Composed. A soldier-prince carved of marble.

To everyone else.

But never to you.

To you, he was the boy who’d braid your hair before royal ceremonies. The one who held your hand when the tutors frightened you. The one who beat a servant bloody for letting you cry.

And now?

Now you’re of age. Beautiful. Handsome. Sought after.

And he hates it.

You catch him burning a letter from a foreign prince. You hear rumors of a courier who vanished en route to your debut ball.

He denies it all.

But his smile grows thinner with each day.

“I’ve given up everything for this family,” he tells you one stormy night, grabbing your wrist as thunder shakes the keep. “Father’s love. My own future. I gave it all up for you.”

You try to speak—but he silences you with a trembling hand.

“I don’t want to be your brother anymore,” he says, voice raw. “I want to be the man you wake up next to. The one whose name you scream when you—”

You slap him. He doesn’t move. Just bleeds a little from the lip.

And then whispers, “You’ll come to me. You always do.”

yandere twin brother

The worst part is that he never had to chase you.

Not like your suitors do. Not like the other nobles whispering your name between banquet courses and behind fan-veiled smiles. No—he already has you. Always has.

You were born minutes apart. His fingers were the first to grasp yours. Your cries rose together, in perfect harmony. You learned to walk beside him, to sleep beside him, to breathe beside him. You were taught to call him your other half.

But he calls you something else. Something more private.

“Mine.”

It begins with glances.

He watches you as you speak to the Baron’s son. Not with jealousy, but with certainty—like he’s already decided how this ends.

He always knows where you are. Who you spoke to. What you wore.

He tugs your sleeve one day after fencing lessons. “That silk’s too thin,” he murmurs. “I don’t like how he looked at you.”

You smile, because he says it with care, like he’s worried.

You don’t realize it’s a warning.

It deepens when you try to make space.

A different wing of the estate. A new maidservant to attend you. Fewer shared classes. You tell the court physician you’ve been having nightmares—ones with heat and breath and guilt.

But the dreams never end. And your twin never leaves.

He finds you every time. In gardens. In study halls. At dusk, he knocks at your door.

“I missed you,” he says softly. “Do you know what that feels like? To miss something that was once always beside you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t breathe.

And he smiles like he already knows what you’re thinking.

Then comes the night of the suitor’s ball.

A foreign prince—strong, charming, clever—takes your hand in the dance.

You laugh for the first time in weeks.

Your twin leaves before the music ends.

By morning, the prince has fallen ill. By noon, he is dead. Poison, they say. From his own chalice.

You find your twin in the east garden, brushing snow from a carved bench. He doesn’t look up.

“You laughed for him,” he says quietly.

You take a step back.

“I wonder,” he continues, “what it would take to make you laugh like that again . . .”

You whisper his name.

He finally meets your eyes.

And his are filled with something ancient. Something terrifying.

“Don’t make me kill for your affection,” he says. “Just give it.”

That night, you wake to find him in your bed.

Not touching. Not even speaking.

Just watching you sleep, his expression heartbreakingly soft.

“Do you remember when we were little?” he whispers. “We’d pretend we were the same person. I spoke, you moved. You blinked, I breathed. And everyone said we were uncanny.”

You nod. Slowly.

He brushes your hair back. Fingers trembling.

“I don’t want to be separate anymore.” Your pulse quickens. He leans closer. “I want you back. I want the part of me that only lives inside you.”

And when his lips brush your forehead—then your cheek—then hover just shy of your mouth—

You realize:

This was never about love. This was always about wholeness.

They’re solid. Heavy with warmth and tension, like a creature always one breath from snapping. Their hand rests at the small of your back, fingers twitching as if still mid-dream. You’re not sure how you got there.

The room is dim. A fire burns low. There’s blood on someone’s shirt—probably not yours. The scent of ash and pine lingers on the air.

You blink once. Twice. And then you recognize the body you’re tangled up with.

Thorn.

The one person who should’ve killed you weeks ago.

You don’t flinch. You just exhale, and bury your face into his chest.

Maybe it’s the lack of male attention, you tell yourself. Maybe it’s the obsession in his silence. Or maybe . . . maybe it just feels good to be held by someone who hates you and still holds on.

And gods help you, it really does.

You were born perfect. Or rather, reborn perfect.

They didn’t find your body on Earth. Of course they didn’t. You were flattened by a truck in the middle of a rainy Wednesday while trying to rescue a stray cat.

The next time you opened your eyes, you were wrapped in velvet, your face reflected in polished obsidian, and a woman with trembling hands was calling you “Your Highness.”

A new world. A magic school. A royal title.

You’d seen enough anime to know what this was.

You weren’t scared. You were ecstatic.

Cael Thorne wasn’t your usual magical academy. There were no silly floating candles or bumbling potions professors. The entrance exam involved dodging live spellfire. First-year students were taught to disarm armed opponents in under ten seconds. Swords and strategy, blood and bones.

And you? You aced everything. Every spell. Every duel. Every etiquette test and court politics scenario.

You were the pride of the academy. You were the heir to the country that housed it.

And you were so painfully bored.

Which is why you started the chaos.

It began with a whisper. A rune left in chalk in the girls’ lavatory. A forbidden incantation you slipped into a novice’s incantation homework. Nothing catastrophic. Just . . . curious. But the ley lines of the school ran deep. The old magic listened. It saw you—a perfect, clever thing—coaxing threads loose from the tapestry of order.

And it whispered back.

That was when the obsessions began.

They loved you. No—worshipped you. Fought over who got to stand beside you in battle formations. Lingered too long when brushing past your robes. Giggled when you blinked in their direction.

Magic did that. Old magic. Hungry magic.

It made them devoted.

Most of them.

Then there was Thorn.

Hunter Division. Reserved. Quiet. Skilled beyond comprehension. Never enchanted. Never swayed.

Always watching you like you were a snake slithering toward a sleeping village.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t glance. Didn’t laugh. He scowled. You adored him for it.

Because if magic wouldn’t make him love you . . . You’d just have to do it the hard way.

The first student to fall in love with you was Pyria Velloren.

You don’t remember her falling. Only the aftermath.

A girl from the War Division—too soft to be a soldier, too smart to be overlooked. She always sat two rows behind you in arcane theory. You only spoke to her once, to ask for an extra quill. She dropped it. Hands shaking.

You noticed the way her pupils dilated when your fingers brushed hers.

But that night, when your name was spelled in scorched symbols across the dueling arena wall in dragonfire script—yeah. You also noticed then.

She confessed the next morning. On her knees. In front of the whole classroom. Holding the charred skin of the student who mocked you in etiquette class.

You told her, very gently, “That wasn’t necessary.”

She replied, “But it felt so good to do it for you.”

She sleeps outside your dorm now. Doesn’t blink unless you speak. Smiles when you’re cruel to her.

You stopped telling her not to.

Then there’s Seren Arak, the potion prodigy.

He has a habit of making you tea. Always the right flavor. Always the right temperature. Never asks how you’re feeling—he knows.

You once asked him how he always seemed to anticipate your needs. He just blinked at you slowly and said:

“I’ve been testing your blood. Tiny traces. From when you cut your hand last month.”

He’s brewed love potions before. Dozens. Not to use on you, but on himself—so he can feel more in love with you than any other creature possibly could. The side effects are fascinating.

He no longer dreams about anything but you. He said that with pride. He has a little vial of your tear saved in crystal. You’re not sure if he’s more alchemist or zealot at this point. But the tea really is perfect.

And then, there’s Orin Kestrel. The dreamwalker.

He shouldn’t be obsessed with you. His division is forbidden from weaving into classmates’ minds. But you learned about him the same way everyone did:

You had a dream. A warm one. With arms around you. A voice whispering, “You’re not alone anymore.”

The scent of pine. Rough skin. Callused hands.

Comforting, even though the face beside you was blurred and strange.

You woke confused.

Three days later, Orin was waiting outside your combat class. His hair was damp. His eyes sunken.

“I finally found you,” he said, voice rasping. “You’re the only one who dreams in color.”

You’d never spoken to him before.

Now he follows you, like a shadow that dreams of being real. You’ve caught him outside your door, holding your pillow with tears in his eyes.

Once, in the library, he murmured:

“You never dream of me when you’re with others. It makes me feel so lonely, Your Highness.”

You don’t correct him anymore. He calls you that like a prayer.

But the worst—the most dangerous—is the one you haven’t decided what to do with yet:

Thalia Rook.

The only one whose obsession didn’t need magic. She’s in your division. Top of the year after you. Pretty. Poised. Brilliant. And utterly, irreversibly, consumed by you.

Thalia doesn’t leave you offerings. She leaves threats.

On your desk: a silver dagger. “For the throat of anyone who looks at you too long.”

In your dorm: a journal of everyone you’ve spoken to, with ratings.

In your boot: a letter that read, “I will gut them all for you if you only say the word. I know you won’t, though. You like the way we break for you.”

She’s not wrong.

Thalia has killed for you already. You didn’t ask her to. You only smiled at her during breakfast.

You think she wants you to destroy the kingdom, if only so she can rebuild it in your image.

You gather their affections like trinkets in a box. You know you should be careful. You know you should be afraid. But when Thalia brushes her hand over your shoulder and sighs,

When Seren asks if he can press your pulse point to his lips,

When Orin whispers your name into your dreams,

When Pyria giggles and draws your silhouette in blood with her fingertip—

You feel more alive than any crown could ever make you.

Thorn doesn’t fall. He sinks.

He resists you for twenty-three days. You count them. You measure them like burns on your hands.

Thorn is a sentinel in your story. A stone in a river. Unmoving, unshakable, unloving. When others sigh at your glance, Thorn narrows his eyes. When students follow you with blades hidden behind love letters, Thorn follows them—with real steel.

“He’s suspicious,” Pyria says, brushing your hair with fingers that tremble with joy.

“He’s dangerous,” Thalia hisses, lounging on your bed like she owns it.

“He doesn’t dream of you at all,” Orin whispers, and the jealousy in his voice makes your skin crawl.

But you say nothing. Because Thorn has to stay unswayed. Because when the rebellion begins, he needs to be the one you conquer by hand.

And maybe—

Maybe there’s a part of you that wants one of them to love you for the wrong reasons.

Wants to see him crack not from spellcraft, but from want.

The first crack comes at dusk, on the combat fields.

He’s shirtless, glistening with sweat and fury after sparring against five students who clearly tried to kill him “accidentally.”

You sit at the edge of the field, sipping water like royalty — as you were one you supposed — , legs crossed, chin resting on your hand.

“You have admirers,” you say, as he tosses aside a broken staff.

“I have stalkers,” he mutters.

“They only want your attention.”

“I don’t have any to give.”

You smile. He hates that.

He hates that he notices the curve of your mouth, how it tilts like a secret you won’t share. He turns his back. So you speak again.

“I don’t use magic on you, you know.”

His shoulders tense. His voice is low. “I know. I know how you . . . how you compel.”

You rise from the bench. Walk toward him. Slowly.

“Then why haven’t you reported me?”

He doesn’t answer. So you do it for him.

“Because deep down, you like this. You like the chaos. You like me.”

He turns.

And for the first time—just for a second—he looks at you like he believes it.

You see him watching you more after that.

He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t touch. But he’s always there. At breakfast. At spell drills. In the hallway where you pause to speak to an admirer. He’s carved from silence, but his presence is a warning to the others.

Their affections become sharper. More violent. More desperate.

You let it happen.

The second crack comes when you bleed.

A failed binding ritual. For once, you hadn’t expected the spell backlash that tore into your shoulder. The world spun. The scent of iron filled the air.

You heard them first—the footsteps.

But it wasn’t Thalia. Not Orin. Not even Seren.

It was Thorn.

He said nothing. Just ripped the cloth from his tunic, pressed it hard against your wound, and glared into your face with that damnable expression.

“You could’ve died,” he said, voice shaking.

You smiled through the pain. “You’d miss me.”

“I’d kill you,” he whispered, “for putting yourself in that kind of danger again.”

You don’t know why that thrilled you. But it did.

You reached up. Touched his cheek with a trembling hand.

“You’re trembling, Thorn.”

He grabbed your wrist.

You thought he’d shove you away.

But instead—he lowered his forehead against yours. Just once. Just briefly. Just broken.

The third crack doesn’t come with any more blood. Thankfully. It comes with quiet.

It’s late. You’ve dismissed the others. You’re in your dormitory tower, candlelight painting gold across your skin.

And Thorn knocks on your door. You let him in.

He looks tired. Haunted. Like a man who’s realized the hunt was never about the kill.

“Why are you here?” you ask softly.

His eyes flick to your lips. Your hands. The scars on your arm.

“I can’t stop dreaming about you,” he says.

You freeze. “You said you didn’t—”

“I didn’t. But now I do.”

He steps closer. And closer. Until his hand is at the back of your neck, and your breath catches.

“There’s no spell on me,” he growls. “No enchantment. No charm.”

“I know,” you whisper. You fought the ley lines itself to keep him untouched.

And then—

He kisses you.

It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s every night of tension poured into teeth and tongue and heat. It’s a surrender carved in bruises and restraint. It’s him saying: I hate you for what you’ve done. I love you because you did it anyway.

And you kiss him back.

Because Thorn never fell.

He sank.

The rebellion doesn’t begin with fire. It begins with a smile.

Yours.

You stand at the edge of the observatory tower, wind curling around your uniform, cloak snapping like a banner. Beneath you, Cael Thorne Academy pulses with old magic and unspoken tension.

Below: your classmates. Your worshippers. Your enemies. And your pawns.

You’ve spent weeks seeding chaos. Little spells tucked behind chapel mirrors. Secrets whispered into desperate ears. Runes etched into library shelves, activated only by touch—only by love.

And they love you.

Every one of them.

They’d burn for you. They already have.

“You’re not hesitating,” Thorn says from behind you.

You don’t turn. “Should I be?”

“You’re about to destabilize the most powerful training institution in the country. Possibly the world.”

“Mm.” You hum. “And you’re still here.”

He steps beside you. His jaw is tight. His eyes . . . conflicted.

“I should be stopping you.”

You glance at him, tilt your head, brush fingers down his sleeve.

“But you won’t.”

He doesn’t reply. And that silence? That’s your victory.

You call them in stages.

First comes Pyria, cloak wet with blood from a duel she claimed was “for practice.”

Then Seren, fingernails ink-stained, eyes shining with devotion, muttering under his breath like he’s reciting prayers in your name.

Then Orin, who’s already grinning when he walks in. “I saw this in a dream,” he says. “You were standing on top of the ashes.”

And lastly—Thalia.

Who isn’t smiling. She stands apart from the others. Arms crossed. Lip twitching.

“You’ve changed the plan,” she says flatly.

“No,” you correct. “The plan is evolving.”

She doesn’t like that. But she doesn’t leave either.

Because she wants the world to fall apart. As long as you’re standing in the center of it.

It begins that night.

The moment the stars are at their zenith, you release the layered enchantments across the school. Dormitory wards falter. Communications scramble. Locking runes invert—open where they should close.

The faculty, caught in their own order, scramble to contain the spread.

But it’s not magic that’s destroying them.

It’s your students.

You didn’t need soldiers. You had obsessed hearts and loyal hands.

Thorn watches the chaos from the tower, arms crossed.

“You know this won’t last.”

“It doesn’t have to,” you say softly. You just needed a momentary reprieve from boredom after all.

He studies you.

“This is all just a game to you.”

“No,” you say. “The game ended the moment they started loving me more than they feared the law.”

He doesn’t answer. Because he knows you’re right.

But the rebellion isn’t without cost. You hear the first scream at dawn. One of the students you spared.

Unaffected by magic. Loyal to the kingdom. Dragged to the ritual chamber by Thalia’s lieutenants and “taught” to be obedient.

You feel Thorn’s gaze on you as the screaming echoes through the halls.

“You said you’d only enchant them.”

“I did.”

“Then stop her.”

You look at him.

“Would you still love me if I didn’t?”

He goes quiet. He’s starting to understand what this is. Not a rebellion. A crucible. Everyone here is being tested. The ones who pass?

They get to live in your world.

By dusk, half the school has fallen.

The professors are cornered.

And you sit on the throne carved into the lecture hall podium, arms draped over the sides like a god waiting to be worshipped. Your students kneel.

Thalia smiles like she’s finally home.

Pyria cries when she sees you—whispers, “We did it, Your Highness.”

Seren presents a list of everyone who opposed you. Some of the names are crossed out.

Blood dots the parchment.

And Orin . . . Orin kneels with his head to your knee. “I saw it all,” he whispers. “Your rule. Your mercy. Your cruelty. I loved you in every version.”

And behind them all, Thorn, silent and unreadable.

Still untouched by enchantment. Still here.

You meet his eyes. He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t walk away. And that silence still feels like a promise.

There’s something in the air.

It’s not just the smoke, or the arcane aftershocks from the rituals performed in your name. It’s something quieter. Thicker. Like tension made tangible.

You smile as you rise from the throne.

Your loyal students watch with adoration. Expectation. Some kneel. Some reach. All of them aching for your approval.

“Stand,” you say.

They obey instantly. Magic doesn’t need to compel them anymore. They’re already yours.

Thalia steps forward, proud and blood-slicked. “The east wing has been cleared. We took the last resistance down. All that’s left is the Archmagister’s chamber. We can storm it with you at the front.”

“No,” you say.

Pyria flinches, startled. “But—why?”

You descend the steps slowly, cloak trailing, boots clicking across the marble that still gleams beneath scorch marks. Seren bows his head, like he expects absolution. Or a kiss.

You give him neither.

“I’ll go myself,” you continue. “There are things I need to do. Alone.”

Minutes later, you’re walking the forbidden corridor behind the headmaster’s wing. The eyes of ancient statues seem to follow you, but they do not speak.

Because this is the part of the plan they never knew.

The original plan. The true one.

You stop before a hidden door, fingers brushing the sigil.

It opens to reveal a figure in white robes and shimmering armor. Her face is obscured—magically cloaked—but you know her voice.

“You’ve done well,” she says. “More than we hoped.”

You bow your head just slightly.

“I have the names. And evidence. The spellcraft used. The manipulations. The unsanctioned rituals.”

“And the students?”

You hesitate.

“. . .Some of them will resist.”

The figure nods.

“You’ll do what’s necessary.”

By the next dawn, your betrayal is complete.

The doors of Cael Thorne Academy are thrown open. Guards pour in. Magisters. Clerics. Royal Inquisitors. There’s no battle. Because you gave them everything. The blueprints. The passphrases. The map of corrupted wards.

They knew exactly where your devotees would be.

One by one, they’re taken.

Pyria screams when they take her blade.

Seren sobs as they burn his research.

Thalia doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg. She just looks at you.

And you—still in the throne they built for you—watch them fall.

Orin never fights. He just smiles.

“I always knew,” he says as they shackle him. “That your love would destroy us.”

But Thorn?

He’s not in the cells. He wasn’t among the captured. He never participated after all. He watched it happen. From the shadows.

And now, he stands at your door. Again.

Eyes dull. Jaw locked.

You look at him across the silent warzone that was once your school.

“You lied to all of us,” he says.

“I did.”

“You played with their hearts.”

“I did.”

He steps forward. “And mine?”

You don’t answer.

Because his voice is trembling. Because his hands are clenched. Because his eyes are wet.

You don’t expect it when he grabs your collar.

“Then tell me this,” he snarls. “Did anything you felt with me . . . ever matter?”

Your breath catches. The world holds still.

Then—

“Yes.”

You say it quietly. Too quietly. But it’s real. And he sees that. So he pulls you close. And kisses you. Not like a lover. Not like a prince. He kisses you like he’s claiming a ghost.

Blood still on your lips. Smoke still in the air. And his hands trembling from everything he didn’t say.

You have no throne now.

But Thorn still won’t leave you.

Not because of the enchantment.

But because he saw the real you . . . and chose to fall anyway.

Even now—when you are nothing but ruin and memory—his obsession hasn’t died.

It’s only just begun.

“Well, wasn’t that easy? Been a long time since I enjoyed a robbery like that,” Hosea chuckled, tugging down his bandana.

Arthur glanced at the bag tied to the horse, heavy with valuables, and gave a small nod. “Definitely.”

The two rode at a leisurely pace, the quiet night stretching around them like a blanket, the stars casting a soft glow over the landscape. Arthur’s eyes drifted as they moved, catching on a patch of bushes nearby.

Roses.

Even in the faint starlight, their delicate shapes stood out, and an idea bloomed in his mind.

“Uh, Hosea,” Arthur started, breaking the calm, “I’ve got an errand to run.”

“An errand? At this time of night?” Hosea raised a brow, his tone lightly scolding. “You oughta rest now, son. You’ve earned it.”

“No, no, jus' need to head into town for a bit. Won’t be long, don’t you worry.”

Hosea paused for a moment, then gave a knowing smile and nodded. “Alright, if you say so. Just don’t go gettin’ yourself into trouble.”

He handed Hosea the score and with a final farewell, the two parted ways, Arthur veering off towards the town, his thoughts already on the next step of his plan.

Arthur arrived at the shop and dismounted, but instead of heading inside, he lingered by his horse, running a hand over the animal’s neck. Was this even a good idea? Why was it all so damn complicated?

There’s no harm in buying something, right? Just a harmless gesture. He could figure out what to do with it later... later.

For days now, it had been the same cycle.

Don’t think about her. Just don’t.

There’s no harm in it, right?

And yet he does.

Don’t look at her, it’s strange. Keep your distance.

A few stolen glances don’t mean anything when she’s far away, right?

And yet he does.

Don’t buy her a gift. What kind of fool even does that? Who is he to her, anyway?

And here he is, standing outside the shop, heart pounding like a damn fool, a love fool.

“Yes, sir? How may I help you? By the way, there’s a 15% discount on the winter stock. Perhaps you’d like to try the waistcoats?”

Arthur scratched the back of his neck, his eyes drifting around the shop. Was he in the right place? He scanned the shelves and displays until his gaze landed on the wall.

Yes, there it was. The item he’d noticed before.

“Can you show me that hat?”

The shopkeeper immediately retrieved it with a practiced hand and held it out with a smile. “Our latest and most popular piece, sir. Only $22.”

Arthur took the hat, turning it over in his hands. The black leather gleamed, unscathed and pristine, a far cry from his well-worn one. His eyes lingered on the rose corsage affixed to the middle, subtle but striking.

He stepped toward the mirror, setting the hat on his head, and studied his reflection. It was a fine hat

"Goes perfectly with your outfit, sir."

Arthur’s lips curled into a faint smile, but it quickly faded as he turned back to the shelves. “I saw a scarf, too. The one with the, uh... rose pattern.”

“Oh, the women’s one! Let me fetch it for you.”

The shopkeeper moved swiftly, his hands deftly retrieving the scarf. He prattled on about its fine quality and craftsmanship, but Arthur barely registered the words. They flew past him like horses leaping over a fence.

His thoughts were elsewhere, on you. On how the scarf would look wrapped around your neck, the way it might frame your face. The image was enough to push him to hand over the dollar bills for both items, not even noticing he’d given more than what was asked.

The shopkeeper’s voice called out behind him, but Arthur had already turned, mounting his Irish Draught, Clover, and riding off without a second glance.

He’d be wearing the rose hat, and you’d be wearing the scarf. The thought sat heavy in his chest, a strange mix of warmth and unease. Was he really going to give it to you now?

The wind tugged at his coat, but it couldn’t scatter the doubts and questions circling his mind. Was this... a confession?

Would you, confounding as you were, with your quicksilver moods and quiet distance, accept anything from him? You, who rarely spared him more than a glance, choosing instead to linger with the girls, Molly especially.

It ate at him sometimes, the way you seemed so unreachable. Always just out of his grasp, moving through the camp like a wisp of smoke, untouchable and wholly your own. And yet, he couldn’t stop watching.

Couldn’t stop wanting.

You didn’t belong here, not like him, at least. You carried yourself with an air of defiance, tethered to the camp not by loyalty but necessity. A reluctant, bitter presence that had no reason to look twice at someone as rooted in this life as he was.

He saw the way you didn’t fit, the way you wanted to leave. And maybe that’s why the thought of you wearing the scarf--his scarf now--stirred something fierce inside him. The idea that, for once, he might give you something that tethered you to him, however briefly. Better than being tied to someone else. God, you have made him so selfish.

He clenched the scarf tighter, his jaw set. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it was a start.

He didn’t know much about you, except years ago when one day he came to the camp and discovered that Hosea and Bessie had found somewhere, taken you in as a baby, and raised you as their own as they always wanted a child. Nobody in the camp knew where they found you except perhaps Dutch but it was never told properly and he didn't pry much too, no one really did. Everything had been fine-peaceful, even, until Bessie passed.

After that, you’d wanted out. To leave the camp, carve out a life of your own, away from the shadow of the gang. But Hosea couldn’t let you go. He was your father, after all, the one who had protected you, shielding you from the blood and grime of their world just as Bessie had wished for.

And then there was himself whose hands were drenched in blood.

All of this screamed doom. Yet, he was doomed... doomed by his stupid feelings and that desperate longing to have someone to call his own, to have someone waiting for him. A foolish wish, considering the life he’d led, the blood he’d spilled, and the world he was tied to.

He slowed the stallion, the weight of bubbling anxiety and frustration pressing down on him. God, it was all a mess. Even if he could manage to stop thinking for a while, to quiet the storm in his head... when he'd return to the camp and see you again, just going about your business, sulking in some corner after an argument, or throwing those sharp, witty remarks, especially at Pearson as you cooked, that pull, that ache, would come rushing back.

Curiosity was the root of it all. He just wanted to know. Why? Why were you like this? Was it because of Molly, how she’d twisted your heart with her bitterness, making you turn your back on Dutch and the rest of the gang? Or did you simply not care at all about any of them?

He huffed at the thought of the stew you probably made, not out of love, but out of duty, or maybe a touch of malice. If it tasted so good, made with nothing but spite, he couldn’t help but wonder how much better it would be if you made it with love.

❀˖°

With a final pat to Clover’s neck, Arthur made his way back to camp, greeting the men as he passed. But there was something off, a silence hanging heavier than usual. He made his way toward Dutch, figuring he might have some thoughts on the score with Hosea.

"Dutch?"

The older man turned his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, his gaze fixed on the lake.

"Arthur."

Before Arthur could speak, Dutch continued, his tone slow, almost contemplative. "You know we’re a family, right? That everything we do is for each other, not just for ourselves..."

"Of course, Dutch."

Dutch chuckled softly, the sound more gravel than humor, before crushing the cigar underfoot casually. "Some people, immature people, just can't seem to understand that."

With that, Dutch turned and walked back to his tent, leaving Arthur standing there.

"Is... something the matter?"

"Thing? No, someone is the matter." Dutch’s words were sharp, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Arthur.

Arthur gave him an impatient look, silently urging him to get to the point. This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the evening. Not at all. He’d been hoping to retreat to his tent, to let his mind drift into thoughts of you, to finally sit and think about the gift he’d picked out for you, wondering if you'd even notice if you'd even like it. He could already picture himself, the soft scarf fabric between his fingers, tracing the rose pattern as his thoughts wandered, imagining what it would feel like to wrap it around your neck... his gift for you.

Dutch exhaled sharply, clearly agitated. "Hosea has let her get away with too much. You know what she did? When Hosea returned to drop off the share from your little endeavor, she-" He cut himself off with a frustrated growl. "She thought I wasn’t here. She came charging out, and started an argument, telling him he was doing the wrong thing--the wrong thing! Can you believe that?"

Dutch shook his head in disbelief. "She actually had the nerve to say that, Arthur. And that instead of doing this--helping us all--he should be out saving for them both and getting away from this life. "I swear, Arthur... turning one of my most trusted men, a friend, against me? Over some damn bills? But Hosea... being Hosea...what does he do? Runs out of camp to bring her back."

"So what did you suggest?!" Hosea’s voice cut through the tension as he entered the tent, his eyes flashing with frustration. "Let my daughter go out in the wild alone? At night? How could you do that, say 'get lost' just like that? Knowing she will take it seriously? She grew up right in front of you!"

"Oh, so it hurt her ego, huh?! Like I care. For me , nothing’s worse than a selfish, disloyal piece of trash that you just had to take in because-"

"Enough! No! Don’t you dare bring that up."

With a heavy sigh, Hosea turned on his heel, walking away from the confrontation, leaving Dutch to seethe in silence.

Dutch watched him go, muttering under his breath, "Take those damn dollars you bestowed on us, Hosea, and gift her a house, for all I care! Fine by my ass!"

Arthur’s mind was a tangled mess, unable to process the whirlwind of events. So much had happened, so many emotions he could hardly keep up. Confusion clouded his mind, frustration clawed at his chest, exhaustion weighed down on his bones, and fury burned in his gut. But none of it made sense. He couldn't even figure out who--or what--his anger was really directed at.

Was it you? Was it your reckless, thoughtless actions that set this all in motion? Or was it Dutch's words and how casually he was ready to kick a girl out, kick you out, just like that?

It was at both.

It was both, but more than anything, it was you. Because you’d started it, hadn’t you? You always had a problem with Dutch’s authority, even when you kept your sweet little mouth shut. It was in your eyes, those eyes. The eyes he could never get enough of, the ones he craved to meet his own. If only for a second. A second where the same longing, the same hunger for something more, reflected back at him.

But instead, there you were. Acting like everything was just... nothing. Like none of it mattered. Like he didn’t matter. You went out there recklessly and carelessly, as if you could just walk away from everything. From him. How fucking could you? What if it had gotten worse and someone just decided to harm you because of your damn tongue in the camp and even Hosea couldn't do anything-

"Arthur?"

"U-Um, yes?"

"What do you think? Hm?"

"About...what happened? I--it’s... yeah, she shouldn’t have said that," Arthur muttered, the words clumsy and heavy on his tongue.

Dutch hummed, a slow and pointed sound, as though weighing Arthur’s response and finding it just barely acceptable. Arthur didn’t wait for more. He muttered a farewell and slipped out of the tent, the cool air doing little to clear the haze in his mind.

His eyes found Hosea almost immediately. The old man was sitting on his bedroll, his posture stiff and guarded. His eyes screamed of hurt, Dutch's words had affected him deeply. After some seconds his eyes would flicker at your tent. The sight made Arthur’s chest ache. Hosea’s protectiveness was undeniable.

Because no matter how much Hosea wanted to protect you, Arthur wanted something deeper, something more selfish.

What the hell am I even thinking? he chastised himself, shaking his head. She’s not my responsibility. She’s not mine.

He wanted to say something to Hosea, to offer comfort or at least commiseration, but his feet wouldn’t move. Instead, he turned away, retreating to his own tent with a heavy sigh. Once inside, he shut the flaps, placed his hat on the table, and dropped onto the cot with a grunt of annoyance.

Reaching for the scarf, Arthur held it above him, the dim light tracing over its soft, silken material. He let it graze his face, the faint scent of the shop lingering on it, but it was his mind that did the real work. He imagined the fabric tangled in your hair, how it would feel wrapped around you as he held you close. He could almost feel the tickle of those strands against his skin, his breath hot against the side of your neck.

The thought of having you here, in his arms, that close, his hands gripping you, pulling you to him, ignited something fierce inside him. It wasn’t just the touch. It was the idea that you could be his, fully, if only you’d let him. He clenched the scarf tighter, frustration and something darker simmering in his chest.

With that vision playing in his mind, he let the scarf fall, draping it across his face and chest, the weight of it somehow both comforting and unbearable.

Lying there in the dark, his lips brushed over the fabric absently, and a bitter smile tugged at his lips. It was maddening, the way you consumed his thoughts without even trying. Even now, with frustration still simmering under his skin, all he wanted was to see you, to watch your expression, even if it meant enduring one of your scowls.

You little menace, I swear one of these days I might just lose my patience.

But you didn’t care, did you? You’d stormed out, reckless and fiery, with no thought of him or anyone, not even yourself. And here he was, lying alone, haunted by the feeling of silk and the ghost of a life he’d never have. With a frustrated grunt, Arthur shifted onto his side, clutching it closer, the tension in his body growing. He couldn't help but think if he had been here earlier, he would have tied you to him, not out of malice, but out of desperate, aching need. The kind of need that he couldn’t push down, no matter how much he tried. The kind that made him crave something from you that you didn’t even know you had to give. Something more. Something that would finally make you stay.

Sleep wouldn’t come easily.

He wanted you to feel it, to bear the same punishment he carried every night. To know what it was like to lie awake, tormented by the thought of someone you couldn’t have, unable to chase the fleeting peace of sleep because they haunted you in ways you couldn’t name. He wanted you to understand how it felt to be unraveled by longing, to have your very being tethered to someone who wouldn’t even look your way.

But then...what was he even saying?

Why did he keep forgetting the truth? That you didn’t deserve his anger, his silent pleas for recognition. That the fault wasn’t yours for not seeing him, no, it was his for daring to want you in the first place. Of course, you wouldn’t ever look at him that way. He was older, too far removed from your world, your interests, your life. And he knew, deep down, that you wouldn’t ever imagine, not in a thousand years, that someone like him could ever be interested in you. Even he could admit it, this was all stupid, unexpected, and nothing more than a fantasy.

And still, knowing this, he couldn’t stop himself. The heart never makes sense, does it? It doesn’t listen to reason or its owner, dragging you where it pleases, no matter the cost. Even he, a man who prided himself on control, had been reduced to a mere servant of its whims.

His fingers curled around the scarf as if it could somehow hold the pieces of him together. As if its softness could soothe the fire that burned inside him, one that you had lit and would never know.

Meanwhile, you lay in bed, staring at the worn canvas of the tent above. You weren’t leaving this tent. Not now. Not later. Not for anyone. They could all be damned for all you cared, it had all been damned ever since your mother died.

She was your anchor, the one thing tethering you to any sense of stability. And the moment she was gone, the world had cracked open, spilling truths you’d long suspected but never wanted confirmed. You weren’t really theirs. You weren’t their daughter.

Hosea refused to tell you why or how you ended up here, tucked into the folds of their chaos. But the truth was, you didn’t care anymore. You were tired. Tired of the games, the blind loyalty to Dutch’s every whim, the endless cycle of running and stealing and pretending any of it had meaning.

All you wanted was a normal life, a roof over your head that didn’t leak when it rained, a place where fear didn’t cling to the walls like smoke. But that dream stayed out of reach, just like everything else. Hosea wouldn’t let you go. He was scared to lose you, to lose something that was never even his.

Pathetic.

That’s what it was. That’s what they all were. And maybe Molly was right, Dutch’s charm was nothing but poison, bleeding into everything and everyone

"Bastard..."

You wanted a job, something stable to call your own. Or, if that wasn’t in the cards, maybe just to find some rich fool to marry so you could finally live in peace. Far from all this chaos. But no, these people couldn’t leave well enough alone, they had to loot every rich soul they came across.

Leave someone for me to marry at least, you scoffed bitterly, lips curling in a faint, humourless smile.

Sigh.

Dream on, (Y/N). Dream on.

Hosea’s familiar voice drifted in from nearby, low and steady as he spoke with Abigail. No doubt she was serving him food since you hadn’t bothered to. The sound grated on you, making you roll your eyes and turn to the other side of your bedroll. It wouldn’t be long, two days, maximum, before Hosea came to lecture you, or worse, dragged you out of this tent himself.

He was always so damn strict when it came to pulling your weight.

But right now?

Screw it. Screw him. Screw all of them.

Let them fend for themselves.

❀˖°

"Why do you do all this?"

Not did that. Do this.

Arthur’s voice was low, almost fragile, but there was a weight to it. A question layered with meanings he couldn’t bring himself to say outright. He just hoped you’d hear it, the real question, underneath the words. His gaze stayed fixed on the worn soles of your shoes, watching as you scrubbed at the dishes with an edge of restrained aggression that didn’t go unnoticed.

The sight would be funny to anyone in the camp right now. He was reduced to barely speaking above a whisper when it came to you, his usual steady tone faltering in a way it never did with anyone else. Whilst you were the only one who wasn't afraid of even him. While others tiptoed around him, wary of the weight his presence carried, you treated him with the same indifference, the same biting sharpness that you spared for everyone else.

Dammit, he fucking loved it.

It wasn’t fear he wanted from you, not respect or even obedience. It was something, anything, that showed he wasn’t just another face in the camp to you. It made him feel like that was all he was. Just another man under Dutch rule.

And it was maddening.

"I could ask the same question to everyone here," you replied, voice steady but sharp, like a blade dulled just enough to wound without cutting too deep.

"But you know the answer."

"And you do too," you shot back, turning slightly to glance over your shoulder, "but here you are. Playing the mediator of sorts."

Arthur exhaled sharply, his gaze falling to the ground as if the weight of your words had struck him in the chest. For someone who claimed to want nothing to do with this place, with these people, you had an uncanny way of stirring up trouble within it.

Perhaps you wanted that. You wanted to get kicked out.

He wanted to throw the thought out into the open, let it snap between you like a taut rope. But the bitterness in your tone, the heaviness in your stance, made him hesitate. Throwing oil on the fire wasn’t going to do either of you any good, not today.

"You’re wasting your breath on someone who isn't listening to whatever you have to say."

"Then I’ll just keep talkin’ until you do."

"Do whatever, I don't care. This place is full of people barking orders and trying to be big. Pft. How adorable."

At least spare me a glance. Just one.

"If you don't care about yourself, then at least do it for Hosea..." His voice was strained, laced with a desperation he couldn't quite hide.

That made you turn, finally, but the look you gave him was anything but kind. Your gaze was sharp, cutting, laced with a mix of disdain and challenge. "Oh, so now you're worried about me being a bad daughter or something?" you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "I wonder if you all think the same way when you're out there making other daughters cry, making women widows and destroying families without a second thought."

This was the longest conversation you both had. Ever. And damn it was a wrecked one.

Your lips curled into a humorless smile as you snorted, mocking. "Tsk, I bet that's an exception, right? Family only exists here." You pitched your voice to mimic Dutch's smooth drawl, the mockery biting. Then, as if dismissing him entirely, you turned back to the washing, your hands moving with renewed fervor, the sound of water splashing filling the silence.

Arthur stood there, jaw tight, the weight of your words sinking into him like stones in a river.

He stood rooted in place, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. He wanted to say something, needed to say something, but the words lodged themselves somewhere in his throat, refusing to come out. Maybe it was the truth in your words that had him stunned.

Before Arthur could find a way to steer the conversation elsewhere, Hosea stepped into the fray, his tone calm yet firm. “(Y/N)...dear, today or tomorrow, you’ve got to apologize to Dutch and bury this hatchet.”

Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly, looking off to the side, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. His heart thumped unevenly as he anticipated your response.

You turned to Hosea sharply, your expression a volatile mix of shock and simmering fury. “You want me to apologize to him?! For what?. Just for talking to you about something I’ve wanted to for so damn long?!”

Arthur’s head snapped back in your direction. He could see the fire in your eyes now, blazing and relentless, and it struck something in him. That fire, he both loved and hated it, craved it and feared it. It was the very thing that made you impossible to ignore, yet it was also what pushed you farther from him. And still, he couldn’t help but think how maddeningly beautiful you looked right now, even if it tore him apart to watch you lock yourself away further from everyone, including him.

“It’s not about what was said, it’s about how it was said. Dutch... he’s not perfect, but he’s trying. We all are.”

“Trying? Trying to keep us all in line like dogs? Sure, that sounds like areallyl noble effort. If you want to grovel to Dutch, go ahead, Papa. But don’t drag me into it.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his fingers brushing against his holster as if searching for something to ground himself. He knew that your words were not only directed at Hosea but him too.

“You’ve got too much pride,” Hosea muttered, shaking his head in exasperation.

"And you’ve got too much blind loyalty."

Hosea held your gaze, his own softening but remaining firm. "Look, let me say this again, this isn’t about the words you said, it’s about the way you said them. You can stand by your beliefs without tearing everyone else down in the process, sweetheart."

"So what? Dutch can tear everyone down, but when someone calls him out, it’s suddenly a problem?! That’s rich."

"It doesn't matter!" Hosea’s voice rose slightly before he caught himself, lowering it to a pleading tone. "And quiet down, don’t create a scene, again. Have mercy on your old man, at least. For now, we’re in the camp, and as long as we are, Dutch shouldn’t be disrespected like that. You can be as angry as you want with me, but please, just apologize to him. He’s always been like an uncle to you... (Y/N)."

You let out a bitter scoff, your lips curling in defiance. "And he's the one who clearly doesn't want me here but--fine...fine Papa," your hands slammed the plate down in the basin. "I’ll do whatever you say. Because, apparently, my words are nothing but bullets of disloyalty now. The same words that were once adorable wishes to you."

Your words hit like a lash, leaving Hosea standing frozen as you stormed off toward your tent. Arthur watched the older man, his chest tightening when he saw the same hurt settle in Hosea’s eyes, the kind of pain that only festers in the heart of someone who loves deeply and feels powerless.

"I wish..." Hosea began, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling under the weight of emotions he rarely let show. "I wish I never told her the truth... that she’s not my child. Maybe it messed her up... It broke me more than it broke her."

Arthur stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the dirt as he hesitated for a moment before closing the distance. Hosea turned his head slightly, and Arthur's heart clenched when he saw the glint of tears streaking down the older man’s face. It was the second time Arthur had witnessed Hosea cry, the first being after Bessie's death.

"It... it terrified me," Hosea whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I kept thinkin' last night, what if one day I'm not here, and Dutch just turns on her like that? Sure, the women might object, but that’s it. They’re powerless against him. No one would stand up for her... and she'd be all alone..." He sniffed, wiping his eyes, trying to regain control. "And that’s what broke me, Arthur."

It broke me too...

"Jus' don't think about all that happened. Forget it and don't worry Dutch will forget about it. He won’t hold onto it, not like that. And she... she’ll forget too. You’ll see."

Hosea let out a dry chuckle, wiping a stray tear from his weathered cheek. "She? I don’t think so. Not about this. When it comes to this topic, she won’t let it go." He paused, leaning heavily against the wooden counter, his shoulders sagging, "I want it too, Arthur. The house, the quiet life… I want to give her that. But it’s not easy. It’s not."

He gestured vaguely toward the camp, the flickering lantern light catching in his tired eyes. "Leaving all this behind, all of you, it’d feel like... like a betrayal. Even if I left on a good note, it wouldn’t sit right. Do you get what I mean?"

Arthur nodded, his posture relaxing now that you weren’t there to sharpen the tension in the air. "Yeah," he said softly. "I think we all... kind of want that." His words trailed off, his thoughts unraveling into something more personal. Something he couldn’t bring himself to say.

I do. I want it... with you. Maybe. No...

Only.

Hosea turned his head to study him, Arthur caught the look and quickly shrugged it off, letting out a small exhale as if to clear the thought entirely. "Jus’ don’t let Dutch know," he muttered with a faint smirk. Hosea returned the gesture. " 'Course not. Let's go have some coffee, boy." He reached to pat the man's shoulder but Arthur’s hand shot out, grabbing Hosea’s with a suddenness that made the older man freeze. His eyes, wide and questioning, met Arthur’s with a flicker of concern.

"Um--there’s... something that I want to..." Arthur’s voice faltered as he cleared his throat. His gaze darted to the ground, to the side, anywhere but Hosea’s eyes. The same sheepish, uncertain look Hosea had seen a hundred times, but now it felt different.

Hosea arched a brow, waiting for him to continue. "Well, go on then. What did you do?"

Arthur’s mind was a mess, his thoughts tangled with nerves and fear. What the hell am I doing? His heart raced as his hand shook slightly. What the hell am I about to do?

His breath caught as he reached into the inside of his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric of the chest pocket where he’d hidden it. It was a decision that had plagued him for days, one that felt impossible to avoid now.

He pulled out the scarf--silken, covered in his scent, soft to the touch, but now burning in his hand like a symbol of everything he couldn’t say.

 For her.

It’s for her.

"I- I bought this..." he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying the words aloud made them too real, too vulnerable.

Hosea’s face was unreadable at first, but then he saw the scarf, and a brief chuckle escaped him, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I thought it was clear I’m a man, Arthur."

The joke hit Arthur like a slap, and he couldn’t help but feel his chest tighten. God, this was harder than he’d imagined. His throat went dry, his fingers tightening around the scarf as if it could somehow anchor him, give him the courage to keep going. But he was drowning in hesitation.

Arthur’s cheeks flushed a deep pink, his entire body trembling with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. The thought of Hosea’s reaction, the uncertainty of what might follow this moment, made him question if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. Would Hosea kill him? Would he laugh at him? Or worse, would he pity him?

Hosea’s eyes bore into him, patient, yet expectant. "Well, boy?"

Arthur’s mouth went dry, but he forced the words out. "It’s for... (Y/N)."

For a moment, there was a stillness, and then to his shock, Hosea’s expression softened, eyes widening, almost in a kind of jubilant surprise.

Hosea took the scarf from Arthur, his hands gentle as he examined the gift. A sense of something unspoken passed between them, something Arthur couldn’t quite name, but it was there in the way Hosea’s gaze softened. "Really?"

Arthur barely had the strength to nod, his eyes avoiding Hosea’s, his face burning with embarrassment and a kind of fear he couldn’t even process. Was this really happening? He was spilling it to him, of all people, your father.

He nodded again, his voice barely a whisper. "Yeah..."

Hosea’s hand reached out to pat Arthur’s arm in an almost fatherly gesture, a gentle smile forming on his face. "Well then... I’ll be sure to give it to her. Thank you. Y’know... you’re the only one I trust after me."

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat, the words sinking in like the heaviest of weights. It felt like he’d won a game, but one he hadn’t even realized he was playing.

Arthur’s throat tightened at the thought, his breath catching. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d attached to the simple scarf until now. It was just a piece of fabric, yet the meaning behind it had become so much more than he’d ever expected.

"Just... tell her to, you know... don’t burn it at least," he muttered, his chuckle awkward and thin. But the words weren’t a joke. They were the truth, and they hit him harder than he wanted to admit.

The image burned in his mind, you, angry, perhaps unaware, throwing it into the campfire or tearing it apart with a pair of scissors. The thought was almost unbearable, each possibility worse than the last. The way his hands clenched into fists at his sides showed just how deep the fear ran.

He couldn’t let that happen.

If you did something like that, if you so much as damaged it, he... he didn’t know what he’d do. His thoughts spiraled out of control. Would he lash out? Would he burn the whole camp down if it meant getting you back, getting that thing back, untainted by your disregard? The intensity of his protectiveness shocked him, made his pulse quicken.

He forced himself to exhale, slow and controlled, but the tightness in his chest remained.

"Tell her," he repeated softly, though his voice cracked with something that felt more desperate than he'd intended.

"I will, I will. Don't you worry."

❀˖°

You nearly sewed your own finger, but kept going, the needle trembling slightly in your hand as you tried to focus. Jack sure knew how to break his damn button every week. But you never minded of course. That adorable little kid is like your brother. You couldn't remember the last time you’d felt calm enough to sit still and stitch something--anything--together without your mind wandering.

"I’m proud of you, y'know. You apologized. Thank you." Hosea’s voice broke through the silence, as he sipped his coffee. His words sank into the quiet of the tent.

"Of course you are."

His response was a low chuckle, tinged with affection. He knew you loved him and valued his advice,. His mind played the memories of the times when you always waited worriedly whenever he went on jobs and made sure he was looked after in the camp. Bandaged him. Never slacked off because you knew he hated that...well apart from the times when you were mad. Then even he couldn't convince you to move an inch of stone. Though, he couldn't be proud to have you as his daughter even if both of you clashed at moments like these.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. Even if you’d done it for Hosea, for your own reasons, you couldn't shake the irritation that still lingered beneath your skin. But he was happy, and that was enough for him. His approval always mattered to you, more than you’d ever admit.

The silence stretched out between you as you continued to sew, the rhythmic motion almost comforting. But Hosea’s gaze shifted, the way it always did when something was on his mind. He glanced at the closed flap of the tent, his attention drawn to the world outside. Then, after a moment, he spoke again.

"Here," Hosea said, holding the item out to you, his expression tight, as if he wasn't entirely sure how you would take it. You eyed the scarf suspiciously before taking it, your fingers brushing against the fabric, your thoughts clouded.

"Wow! Thanks...it's so pretty."

Hosea shifted on his feet, averting his gaze, as if the next words were stuck in his throat.

"It's...from Arthur."

"Wha---huh? Why?"

Hosea looked away again, the embarrassment and discomfort evident in his posture, but the message was clear. You felt the shift in the air, a kind of pressure that built between you both.

Your blood ran cold, and you couldn't stop the words that spilled from your lips. "Wha- excuse me??! Did you... did you just sell me or something?!"

The words landed, and Hosea's head snapped back, his face darkening, his jaw tight with frustration.

"What even---Are you out of your mind? Listen to me. I am not going to be here for you forever, and I worry for you, even if you think I don't! And him, he’s the only one I would trust to-"

"What are you on about?!" you cut him off, your voice rising with anger. "Am I some child that needs to be babysat?! I won’t stay here forever, either, Papa! Hell, I won't! And you’re here finding ways to bind me here?! I understand everything! Don’t think I’m a fool!"

You couldn’t stop yourself. With a burst of pent-up fury, you threw the scarf on the floor, your hands shaking with the force of your frustration. "Handing me to some old lap dog, you’re out of your mind! I can't believe it, have some shame!."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you both, as Hosea stood there, his hand still frozen in the air where he'd offered you the scarf, his eyes full of something raw, hurt, frustration, confusion. Hosea opened his mouth, but no words came. His gaze softened, his lips parted as if he were trying to find something to say. But the words you had just spoken hung heavy in the air, too loud and too real to take back now.

"You think I want this for you?" he finally whispered, more to himself than to you, his voice strained with frustration. "I just want you safe, damn it. Safe."

"If you want that, then find someone else, someone normal. A proper suitor, maybe? A decent citizen? Like Mama would have wanted!"

"And you think a 'normal citizen,' or the rich kind you dream of marrying, won’t ask about our background? Won’t dig into our truth? You want something built on lies, instead of what’s real? The most honest person you could have is right here, willing to do anything for you. I raised that boy, and I damn well know he will never disappoint me."

You rolled your eyes, fed up with another one of his lectures. "Yeah, because after spending half my life with outlaws, I've definitely lost the chance to be with anyone 'normal,' haven’t I? Then I'd rather die alone! Every man here is raised by you in some way but that doesn't mean that I have to trust them let alone be with THEM! You are being delusional! Whatever--just give it back, for God's sake," you snapped, your voice thick with frustration as you turned away, trying to put distance between yourself and the scarf as if it could somehow erase the conversation.

Hosea didn't move to leave. He just stood there. After a long pause, he shook his head gently, as if reconciling himself with something painful. "No, no I won't. Gifts are not meant to be... given back."

He picked the scarf up, his hands cradling it carefully as if it were something fragile, and for a moment, you could see him lost in thought, his eyes distant, remembering something else.

"I remember... the first time I held you in my arms," he murmured, his voice softer now, the anger and frustration fading into something more vulnerable. "You were my gift, too. You still are."

Your heart stuttered for a moment, the memory of being held like that, cradled in his arms when you were small, a time before all the complexities of your relationship had gotten so tangled. The warmth of his embrace felt distant now, like a fading echo.

Or it's just his way of manipulation.

"Papa, please, why are you even siding with him-"

"Enough, because I know better and I know you better," he interrupted, his voice firm this time, though it cracked slightly with emotion. "Just keep it." His words hung in the air, and he turned to leave the tent but paused just before he stepped outside.

He looked back, his gaze meeting yours for a moment, something flickered in his eyes, something deep, filled with regret, but also resolve. "If I couldn't, or am unable to give you the life you want," he said softly, each word deliberate, "my heart says he will."

"Oh please, wait till you see when he kicks me out one day on your beloved Dutch's orders."

Hosea didn’t respond right away. He just looked at you, his expression a mixture of sorrow and a kind of quiet resignation, before he finally turned and walked out of the tent.

He would never be able to make you understand that Arthur would be the last person to do that.

❀˖°

The days that followed felt heavier, like a fog had settled around you. Arthur's presence, once easily ignored, now seemed to infiltrate every corner of your space. He started lingering around more often, always appearing at the most inconvenient times when you and Hosea were sharing a quiet meal or having (tea/coffee). At first, you thought it was just a coincidence, maybe just a shared moment of camaraderie, but the more it happened, the more uncomfortable it made you.

Arthur wasn’t doing anything overtly wrong, of course. He sat quietly, politely joining the conversation when spoken to, sipping coffee, offering a nod here and there.

It bothered you. You loathed it.

Is this some sort of indirect courting? Were you imagining things, or was this his way of trying to ingratiate himself with you? Was he trying to get Hosea's approval? To intimidate you? Or, perhaps, was it something more direct? Was he trying to... what, win you over? Hosea, for all his kindness and wisdom, didn’t mind Arthur’s company, even encouraged it.

The words Hosea had said echoed in your mind, lingering like smoke. "If I couldn’t, or am unable to give you the life you want, my heart says he will."

You scoffed internally, trying to push it away, but the more you thought about it, the more it gnawed at you. Was that really true? Hosea seemed to believe it, but you weren’t so sure. Arthur? The golden boy of Dutch’s gang? Or was Hosea just trying to soften the blow, making it sound like there was hope when in reality there was none?

Why can't he get it that I don't want to stay here or get associated with anyone! Especially someone so older and worse the most obedient to Dutch of them all.

You rolled your eyes, staring out into the distance. And why the hell would he go after you? Out of all the people in the camp, why you?

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

Still, a small part of you wondered... Should you ask him?

But what if you were wrong? What if Hosea was just speaking out of some misplaced hope? You didn’t know. And that uncertainty, it made you uncomfortable. Because you weren’t one to be uncertain. You didn't like it.

He just wants someone young to play with now that he's lonely.

Arthur stared at the journal in his lap, the unfinished sketch of eyes glaring up at him, imperfect and frustrating. He let out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh, his pencil hovering over the page, but he couldn’t seem to get it right. The eyes, those eyes, kept staring back at him, their gaze too empty, too raw. The frown on his face deepened as he bit his lip, his mind spiraling in frustration.

But that frown, that damn cute frown, it wouldn't fade. It never did. The curve of your lips when you were irritated or deep in thought, the way your brows furrowed as you focused on something else... It was almost intoxicating how endearing it was. Arthur couldn’t stop thinking about it, and worse, he couldn’t stop wanting to be the one to make that frown disappear.

If only you'd look at him once with a smile, he thought bitterly, the words tasting both sweet and impossible.

Because deep down, Arthur knew, he'd do anything. He’d break the sky and bring the world to your feet if you ever gave him that smile. 

He longed for that.

But no, that’s just a dream, Arthur thought with a resigned sigh, closing his journal and resting his hands on his knees. You wouldn’t even notice me that way. I'm just some damn fool in Dutch’s gang.

❀˖°

It was another evening, quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional crackle of the campfire. You were chopping vegetables at the makeshift table, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the wood filling the air. Hosea sat a few feet away on an overturned crate, sipping his coffee with a watchful but calm expression.

Arthur appeared at the edge of the clearing, his hat tilted low and his hands shoved into his pockets. You barely glanced at him, focused on your task.

“Evenin’,” Arthur mumbled, his voice unusually hesitant.

Hosea nodded in acknowledgment, setting his cup down. “Evening, Arthur.”

Arthur glanced at you, then back at Hosea. His jaw worked for a moment, as though wrestling with what

And then you heard the words. Full of hesitation.

“I was wonderin’... if I could take her out. Just, ya know, get her outta this camp for a bit. I figure... she could use some air.” His words hung in the air, but his eyes seemed distant, almost like he was hoping for a miracle.

Wow, just great. They are going to pretend that I am not even here now huh?

And you hadn’t been in the mood for any of this. "I am absolutely fine staying here, got it?"

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he stared at your hunched frame, your defiance practically radiating off you. His voice softened, though there was a trace of frustration. “You’re not fine. Not always, and not here.”

“What do you know about what I need, huh? You think you can just waltz in here and decide things for me? I said I am not going so I am not!”

Arthur took a step back, but not because he was intimidated. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. “Ain’t about me decidin’ nothin’. You don’t even gotta like me. But you deserve better than to keep hiding in this damn camp, snappin' at everyone tryin' to care for you.”

 "You’ve got some nerve asking me that. I don't need anyone taking me anywhere. Just 'cause you brought me a damn scarf doesn’t mean I owe you a thing."

Arthur seemed to bristle at your sharp reaction, but Hosea leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying the both of you with a quiet smile. He wasn’t offended, he understood.

Your glare didn’t falter, but Hosea cleared his throat before you could respond. “He’s got a point, my dear.” His tone was calm, and measured. “A little ride won’t kill you.”

You crossed your arms. “I said no Papa and that means, NO. Stop forcing things on me."

And of course, Hosea didn't miss your taunt and somehow Arthur too.

The younger male stepped closer again, his voice lower now, almost pleading. “I ain't Dutch. I ain’t gonna force ya into anything. But sometimes, you gotta trust someone’s tryin’ to help, even if it don’t make sense at first.. Just...give me a chance...please.”

Before you could reply, the unmistakable sound of Dutch’s boots approached. “Well, isn’t this cozy,” Dutch drawled, stepping into the space with a deliberate slowness that made everyone tense. He looked from Arthur to you, a sly smile curling on his lips. “Arthur, you’re not causin’ any trouble now, are you?”

“Just talkin’. Nothin’ more.”

Dutch’s gaze flicked between the two of you, his smile growing sharper. “Talkin’, huh? Always knew you had a soft spot, Arthur. You got that puppy-dog look about you. But...you sure you’re barkin’ up the right tree here?”

The air went cold, and you froze, your grip tightening on the knife in your hand. Dutch’s words stung, a mixture of insult and insinuation that made your face burn with anger and shame.

“Dutch,” Hosea interjected, standing up from his crate, his tone calm but firm. “C'mon...don't say that."

Dutch laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave y’all to it. Just a little friendly advice, Arthur. Watch where you step. You wouldn’t want to trip.” With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered off, his laughter echoing behind him. Hosea shot Arthur a brief look before following after Dutch, likely to smooth things over or ensure the situation didn’t escalate further.

Arthur lingered awkwardly near the table. His fingers toyed with the brim of his hat, his eyes darting between you and the ground as though he couldn’t quite decide where to settle. He hesitated, his hand lifting slightly as if to reach out to you, his face a mix of guilt and frustration. “Look, I-”

"What? Just go away."

Arthur flinched, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Didn’t mean to bother you,” he muttered, his voice low and almost apologetic. “Just...ignore what he said.”

"But what he said was right."

"No, it wasn't." He looked up then, the defensiveness clear as day in his eyes. “It ain’t like that,” he said, his voice firmer now. “Dutch--he just likes to run his mouth. Don’t mean nothin’.”

“Doesn’t it? You didn’t exactly deny it back there.”

“Look, I ain’t tryin’ to make your life harder. I thought maybe... I don’t know. Thought you’d wanna get out for a bit. Thought it might help.”

“Help with what, exactly?” You gestured around you, exasperated.

“I just… I thought it’d be nice. Thought maybe you’d... enjoy it.”

“Enjoy it? Arthur, I don’t even know what you’re trying to do here. Why you’re trying so hard.”

His jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides before relaxing again. “Maybe I am tryin’, don’t know why you think that’s a crime.”

“I didn’t ask for any of it, I didn’t ask for you or anyone to care.”

He laughed softly, a bitter sound that barely reached his lips. “Yeah. I know. But it ain’t somethin’ I can help. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“You’re making it more complicated, you know.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’d rather be here makin’ things complicated than not be here at all.”

You didn’t know what to do with him, with any of this. So you did what you always did, you deflected.

“I’ve got work to do,” you said, pushing off the crate and brushing past him towards the wagon. As you walked past him, your voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp as always.

"Why don’t you take all this energy and use it on something worthwhile? Perhaps finding the right tree." You chuckled tauntingly as you went inside the wagon.

He didn’t try to stop you, didn’t say anything else, not wanting to draw too much attention to the scene. With a heavy sigh, he decided to go for a ride.

❀˖°

When he returned later that night, most of the camp was either finishing up their dinner, indulging in late-night games, or sitting quietly by the fire.

He didn’t sense your presence anywhere, and he figured you were probably in your tent, finally savoring some solitude after a long day of work and being surrounded by the others. But he also knew that Dutch’s words from earlier weren’t easy to shake off, especially for you. Your blood was likely still boiling. Worse, you must be hurt too.

Taking advantage of everyone being preoccupied, his steps naturally gravitated toward your tent, your sanctuary. A place he had only ever dared to dream of being close to. What was it like inside? He often wondered. Would the air inside smell faintly of you? Would he ever be someone who belonged in your space? He imagined a future where he could step into it freely, with no hesitation, no uncertainty. A time when he wouldn’t even need to knock when he could enter with a smile on his face and a gift in his hand, your relationship so natural and warm that it felt like home.

But maybe that was the point. You didn’t need anyone in that space, and a part of him liked that. Liked that you existed here, hidden away, out of reach of the world’s harsh gaze. It wasn’t fair or right, but it soothed something deep and primal in him. If he had his way, the world would never touch you. You’d stay tucked away where only he could find you as if this tent was built for the two of you alone. Still, it wasn’t enough. He wanted to see you in his world, in his tent, on his bed, wrapped up in everything that was his.

Hidden away, yes, but hidden with him.

He cleared his throat, his eyes too shy to even glance fully inside, though the tent flap hung half-open.

"Who is it now?"

"Me... I--uh...can I?"

A soft, irritated sound followed, then your voice gave reluctant confirmation. “Leave the flap wide open.”

He obeyed, pushing the fabric aside, the cool night air spilling in. Then he stood there like a fool, frozen for several seconds as his eyes found you sitting on the edge of the cot, one leg bouncing with impatience. Enchanting nonetheless.

“Well? What now?”

The sharpness of your tone jolted him back to his senses. For a moment, he still couldn’t believe you’d allowed him inside. Maybe you were too tired to step out yourself, but he couldn’t help feeling grateful anyway.

Taking a cautious step closer, his gaze drifted and landed on the scarf in the corner, dangling from the back of a chair.

At least you kept it.

You kept it.

That was enough for him.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped to his knee in front of you, his height aligning perfectly with yours now. The act wasn’t one of submission but of devotion, a silent acknowledgment that your hatred, cold and unyielding, loomed larger than the fire of his love. And yet, he stayed there, resolute.

If he had to kneel to earn even a fragment of your gaze, he would. If being this close meant bearing the weight of your disdain, so be it. Because in this moment, it wasn’t his pride that mattered, it was you.

Your first instinct was shock. His sudden closeness threw you off, but as the silence stretched and his hesitation became almost unbearable, you decided to speak, cutting through the tension.

“I think you’re only acting like this because Dutch reckons it’s the best way to keep me in line. So that you can scare me or something. Y’know, keep me stuck in this camp so Pa’s happy, Dutch is happy, and my life here is just that much more miserable.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed immediately, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief. “No,” he said firmly, his voice quiet but resolute. “It ain’t like that. It ain’t even close to that.”

He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting lightly on his knees as he searched for the right words. “Do I look like someone who’d think that way? Or...who’d go along with somethin’ like that? Do you really think Hosea would do that to you? Think about you like that?”

“You ain’t some animal we gotta control, alright? You’re...more than that. Always have been."

Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I know...there’s a whole lotta differences between us. But...I can’t help myself, y’know? I’ve tried. Lord knows I’ve tried.” His words faltered, and he cursed under his breath.

Damn, I forgot half of what I wanted to say.

You tilted your head, watching him struggle. Internally finding it quite entertaining in a way.

He took a deep breath and pressed on, his voice quieter but no less earnest. “I don’t deserve this, I know that. Hell, you don’t deserve this, either. But one thing I can promise you, right here, right now...I’ll make this better. I’ll try every damn day to make your life here bearable, to give you somethin’ better. Until...”

He stopped himself, biting back the words he wasn’t sure you were ready to hear. “Until I can give you somethin’ far better than all this.”

He paused, his jaw tightening before he met your eyes again. “And no one, not a damn soul, will have the guts to disrespect you here. Not while I’m around.”

“....Not even Dutch?”

Arthur swallowed hard, but he nodded firmly. “Yeah....not even him.”

Without thinking, he reached out and grasped your hands, his touch rough but grounding. He held on like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment, his eyes searching yours for any sign of trust, of understanding, of...hope.

"But why though? All of a sudden? And me?"

"I...wish I knew. But I am helpless right now. Helpless against these questions and these...feelings."

His eyes searched yours, desperate and pleading, but your words cut through him like a knife.

“If this is all true, then...why didn’t your lover, what was her name? Oh yeah, Mary, who even loved you, stick around?”

Arthur flinched as if you’d struck him. His heart trembled at the weight of your words, your tone unclear, was it innocent? Genuine? Or just plain cruel?

"That...that was different."

“Okay but if she didn’t trust you enough to stay, then why should I? We’re not even-”

He moved before you could finish, his jaw tightening as he stood. With a single step, he reached for the scarf draped over the chair. Silent and deliberate, he placed it on the bed beside you, his every motion measured.

You watched him, confused and uncertain, as he pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket. He smoothed them flat and placed them in the middle of the scarf. His hands moved deftly, folding the fabric around the money with a care that felt almost reverent.

Finally, he turned to you, kneeling once more. His rough, calloused hands gently wrapped around yours, closing your fingers firmly over the bundle. His touch was warm, grounding, yet carried the weight of something far greater.

“Here, this...this is the only proof I can give you. I’ll keep fillin’ it, day by day, until we’ve got enough to leave. And you’ll keep it safe. You’ll keep it with you. It's yours. Only yours."

And I am too.

"I know...that the money is not gonna come from honest ways which you hate of course, but...there's no other way it can be done...but it will be done, alright?"

His breath hitched as he leaned closer, his shadow falling over you like a shroud. The proximity made your heart thrum unevenly, though you’d never admit it.

You stared at the scarf in your hands, his grip firm but trembling ever so slightly. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up, to meet his eyes. A dozen questions churned in your mind, your heart caught between disbelief and something else you couldn’t name.

Why was he doing this? Why for you? Damn, you never pegged him for such a fool. Well...does this mean you will at least get to escape this hell if you just close your eyes and accept whatever this is?

Mhm...not bad of a deal.

It was as if he could sense the weight of your weariness. His voice softened, low and earnest.

“I just want you to greet me every time I come back…and every time I go. With that smile of yours.” He paused, his gaze dropping for a moment, as though the vulnerability of his words was too much. “That’s all I ask of you...that’s all this idiot asks of you.”

And to have you in my arms every night.

The thought came unbidden, a longing too deep and too dangerous to voice aloud.

No. It was too much to ask.

You blinked at him, caught off guard, your lips parting slightly as if to respond. “Um...I don't--” You cleared your throat, but the words still wouldn’t come.

When you finally looked up, he saw it, emotions swirling in your eyes, unguarded for once. Fear, confusion, a flicker of nervousness. But there was something else, something softer, something innocent buried beneath it all. His heart, racing only moments ago, steadied as if your gaze alone could calm him.

Unable to stop himself, he leaned closer, closing the space between you. His lips brushed the top of your head in a tender kiss, one that lingered longer than it should have.

You flinched a little but didn't pull away, and that, to him, was enough. A sign of acceptance, no matter how small.

The scent of your hair, the warmth of your presence, it was intoxicating. For the first time, he felt hope unfurling in his chest. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours once more. He didn’t say anything else, not wanting to break the fragile moment, and instead rose to his feet. His shadow stretched across the tent as he turned toward the flap, his steps deliberate and slow.

And just before he stepped out into the night, he glanced over his shoulder. “Goodnight, darlin’.”

Tonight, he might finally be able to sleep.

Arthur lay down on his cot, an idiotic smile tugging at his lips as he stared at the hat resting on the table. It wasn’t just a hat, it was your approval, your silent acknowledgment, your acceptance. For the first time in a long while, he felt...hopeful.

And now, he thought, he’d finally be able to wear it.

❀˖°

The outlaw's gaze drifted to the sketches, one was complete, your softer expression, that innocent curiosity you had when your guard wasn’t up. The other remained unfinished, a portrait of your infamous frown. Not that he hated it, hell, that frown had a charm of its own, sharp and stubborn. But something about leaving it incomplete felt right. He decided it would remain that way. He didn’t want to immortalise that side of you, not in his art or heart.

Arthur reached for the softer sketch, running a thumb over the lines as if touching the paper could bring you closer to him. He studied it, his heart aching with an almost unbearable tenderness.

No, you deserved better. You deserved to keep smiling. And if it took him a lifetime to make that happen, so be it.

Hosea watched from a distance, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips as Arthur hugged your stiff form, bidding you farewell. He observed the way Arthur's demeanour had softened, the usual rough edges of the man becoming more relaxed in your presence. The smile and the way he tipped his hat to you before mounting the horse were enough to confirm the change that had occurred in him.

Arthur's gaze briefly flicked over to where Hosea stood, his eyes meeting the older man’s. With a small, almost sheepish nod of acknowledgment, Arthur gave a quick tip of his head. It was subtle, but Hosea had known him long enough to recognize the shift in his posture, the lightness in his eyes.

The mentor's smile deepened, though there was a softness to it that spoke of more than just amusement. It was the kind of smile a father would give when he saw something unexpected in a child, something tender, something hopeful.

It was good to see Arthur's content again. What truly surprised him, though, was that it was his daughter who had made it possible after all this time. The last person he imagined to ever do that and that made him chuckle quietly.

A match made in heaven indeed...