#rdr fluff

The night is young, sky painted with dark oranges blending into navy blues as the camp grows louder. The camp air still holds the usual smell of horses, but this time, there’s the distinct scent of booze. The drinks have been flowing nicely since Sean has been returned to camp, a night of celebration in order to truly celebrate his safe return.

Then the gramophone comes out. Dutch is down a few beers himself too, and everyone knows that the pinnacle of his tipsiness is a dance. The tune fills the camp grounds as he turns it up and immediately finds Molly O’Shea to sweep off her feet into a waltz. Some people do the same, like Arthur and Karen.

And Micah’s got something on his mind too.

He’s lingered around with a drink in his hand, not really joining in on the drunken conversations around him—way too sober for that just yet—but rather hanging on a thought that’s passed his mind. He’s watched Mary-Beth from afar for the last ten minutes, trying to muster up the courage to go over and ask for a dance. He knew that this would be unlike him, knew that asking any woman in camp to dance after his usual, crude talk during the last few weeks would probably not go over well, but it couldn’t hurt to try, right?

He finished his drink and decided to just man up and try. He took slow, calculated steps toward her spot where she’s been reading under her tent on a blanket. She obviously put the book down the moment she felt his shadow crawl over the campfire light making the words readable. He cleared his throat, “On this beautiful night,” He stammered—this was hard—as he extended his hand down toward her, “Will you dance with me, Miss Mary-Beth.?” His voice grew quieter than it ever was, with his usual yelling and calling out. Okay, the hard part was over.

Mary-Beth, albeit usually a pretty nice girl, you could even call her a slight pushover at times, had her limits too. She let out a little exhale, unamused. “No, I will not. You’re…” Words failed her for a second. Maybe she realized she was about to say something rude and wanted to save herself the trouble of Micah being sour, and changed her tone. “I got two left feet.” She excused herself, and her gaze was back on her book that sat open in her lap.

Clearly, that didn’t go well. Micah expected to be turned down, but actually having it happen? Yeah, not pleasant. But he knew why. He straightened up a little. “..I’m not a monster, Miss.” He stated. It was mostly false and even he knew that. He carried himself with pride in his nihilism usually.

Mary-Beth didn’t even glance up from her book. “No, of course you’re not… You’re just not that interesting.” She delivered her original blow, ready to just send him off on his way. He couldn’t change her mind, and that was clear.

It stung more than it should—no. It shouldn’t sting at all. Micah scoffed a little, swallowing dryness. “Very funny.” He replied quietly, before he walked off, hands in his pockets and tail tucked between his legs. Damn asking. Damn the desire to be desired. He kicked a rock on his way to sulk by a tree, taking a cigarette out to light. Fuck dancing. He isn’t soft like that, anyways.

You’d been watching him. The way he nervously came up, with a stutter, and got blown off. You understood where Mary-Beth was coming from, but damn… That seemed to actually affect Micah for once. You’d been sulking yourself by the fire, doing a whole lot of nothing but listening to conversations around you. Honestly, you’ve been ready to go to your tent and call it a night for about ten minutes now. But since Micah’s caught your eye, you can’t really go.

Dancing was your thing. You just never danced here, in camp. For no specific reason other than the men here boring you. But this? This was interesting. A sudden change you couldn’t shake off. You hated that he looked kind of disappointed, that scowl which fought turning into a frown underneath his mustache. And before you knew it, your legs were moving. You moved quietly, toward him, and when he noticed you, you’d already leaned on the tree next to him. He didn’t speak, so you started the talking yourself. “Didn’t know you were into dancing, Bell.” You comment quietly, glancing at him sideways.

Micah puffed on the cigarette between his chapped lips, glancing down at you in the same, sideways manner. He was ready to shoo you off, but his brain didn’t cooperate and he answered differently. “Ain’t about dancin’,” He muttered after deciding to entertain you. “Just… mighta been nice to.” His eyes moved to the others—Karen being dipped by Arthur as she let out a loud giggle, cheeks dusted pink from alcohol, and Molly, resting her head on Dutch’s shoulder as they swayed quietly, in their own little world. In love. His jaw clenched. Yeah, it’d be damn nice.

You made a split-second decision when you saw just how his eyes softened, for the first time in the many weeks you’d known him, and angled your body to face him. “Okay, so then…” You reached up, plucking that cigarette out of his hand and crushing it under your boot before grabbing that now-free hand. “Let’s dance. It’s a good song.” You stated simply. Offered. It short-circuited Micah so much he couldn’t even reply to you. You had to let out a small laugh at that almost shy reaction out of him. So instead of words? He got a preview. You raised his hand over your head and gave one, then two, slow twirls, skirt moving smooth like a waterfall when you spun yourself around, not caring an ounce about the eyes that landed on you doing this stupidly sappy thing. Now that is pretty as a picture. Micah was so glad you were spinning slowly, because he needed time to burn this into memory.

He swallows the air stuck in his throat as his hand squeezes yours a little once the twirls are over. You were an extraordinarily weird person, and God did he like that a lot. He sighs as he pushes off the tree. “…Alright.” He answers, one simple word that holds a ton of weight for him. You excitedly squeeze his hand as the other makes its way to his shoulder. He knows enough about dancing—and it’s not from staring at Arthur and Karen, Molly and Dutch!—to wrap his other arm around your waist, his grip pretty light considering the one on your hand was nearly crushing. You didn’t say anything about it tho. Can’t ruin this now.

You led the dance as Micah managed. He’d watched his dad dance with women in saloons, so he wasn’t a complete idiot, but compared to the easygoing grace you displayed while swaying with him, easily leading? Yeah, he looked like he had two left feet. But you didn’t seem to care. You glanced at him with little smiles of encouragement whenever he slipped up a little and looked at you, either for reassurance or to make sure this wasn’t annoying you. He supposed you dealt with a lot of amateurs considering how well you danced.

Only a minute in, you could already feel his hands getting clammy. You let out a little exhaled chuckle, pointing it out. “You’re a little sweaty.”

Micah glanced down at you with a small scoff. “Shut up…” He mumbled to you, as if saying Don’t say that out loud—I’m embarrassed.

You laughed a little before squeezing his hand for reassurance. No, Micah. Not all banter is there to make fun of you specifically.

The record jumped to another song, slower. The type of song that, for those experienced four over there, immediately signaled a different position. You observed Micah as he watched Molly wrap both arms around Dutch’s neck, head still on his shoulder, while the leader wrapped both around his woman’s torso. Should he do that? God, he didn’t want this ruined by being too much.

Thankfully, you eased his un-ease. You let go of his hand and wrapped your two around his neck. Then that lean into his chest. Oh, God. He was acting like a schoolboy seeing tits for the first time again. For someone that was experienced and shouldn’t even react to this, he sure was burning up. Micah’s hands both moved to wrap around your waist after a moment, his chin on your shoulder, that silent uncertainty in the way he didn’t want to squeeze too tight present. It was almost endearing for a brute such as Micah Bell.

He wished that the night would never end. The sweet, floral scent of your shampoo in his nose when he shifted his head more toward it, the fabric of your dress against his fingers, your hands around him. He hadn’t felt a gentle touch in a long time. Maybe ever. And he didn’t know how much he’d craved that feeling of being touched without an ounce of violence behind it. So he savored it. No words to interrupt the moment as he learned to follow your lead and swayed with you through the stares and assumptions that were probably floating around the fire since the others have noticed the two of you, the definition of yin and yang, dancing together under the moonlight.

Streams of sunlight pour in through the windows and splash onto the tangled up sheets. Golden flecks bounce off the deep crimson of the comforter and find solace on the ceiling. Awoken by the bright glow of morning, Abigail rises slowly from her slumber. There’s no reason for her to rush, not anymore. As she blinks away the last remnants of sleep and stretches out her aching limbs, the world catches up with her.

She turns to look at the man resting beside her. The man who is at peace for a moment in time. Features that are hard and knitted together outside of this room are now softened. An expression that stays locked behind this door and in Abigail’s heart forever. Those scars, the ones that he got so long ago, shimmer in the morning sun and remind her of a different time, a harder time. After many years of trial and tribulation, they’ve made it this far.

It’s a special morning and Abigail isn’t going to let it go to waste.

She is quick to get on her feet and out of her nightgown, humming a little tune while she ties her apron tight around her waist and moves through the house. The tune is familiar, though she can’t quite place it. But it certainly meant something to her once.

The stove is stoked up and ready, a pan is set on the surface, and the first egg is cracked. Sizzling fills the air alongside Abigail’s humming.

The boy she has raised for seventeen years of life steps out of his room and into the kitchen, roused by sleep.

“G’mornin’, Ma.” He greets her politely, and a prideful smile adorns her face.  Slowly but surely he is becoming a man, morphing into a replica of his father. The hair on his head has grown out because he insists on cutting it himself, but refuses to just the same. That little mustache of his is now more prominent than ever, and he even has a small tuft of hair under his bottom lip.

Abigail looks at him every day and knows that life is worth living.

Plates clatter as they are gathered from the cupboard. It’s a special occasion, one that calls for special dishes. That’s why Abigail is slapping sloppy eggs onto the finest china they own. Once each plate has a generous portion of food they are handed to the boy turned man who then sets them gently on the dining table.

“Ma,” He inquires once the table is set. She looks up from the rag that is now gripped firmly in her hands to find her son leaning against the door frame, a position she always found his father in. “I just wanted to ask…”

A question leaves his lips and yet the words don’t come to. Abigail loses herself in thought as she watches him speak with no sound, she loses herself in the memory of her little boy. The one who she found crying outside of his father’s tent because that cruel man abandoned them when they needed him most. The one who spent his freedom reading and writing and dreaming of new lands. Now here he is, growing into his skin just right, body lean and healthy. Her baby is healthy and that’s all she could ask for.

“Ma?” The easiest word he has ever said snaps her out of these thoughts and back to reality.

“Hm?”

“I was wonderin’ if I could go into town. To see a friend.”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” She dismisses him with a wave of her hand, “Just be back before sundown.”

How many times this week has he asked to go into town? Too many to count. The little boy who once cried for his mother, slept by her side when he got too scared, must be in love.

She turns away to finish cleaning the pan she just dirtied, her mind now riddled with fond memories and reminisces.

It takes a few tries before Abigail is successful in waking her husband, but once she notices him stirring, a small but genuine smile appears on her face. John used to be the deepest sleeper, his slumber laced with selfishness, though overtime that habit has died out.

He stretches out like a cat and murmurs a quick, “what’s goin’ on?” as he slowly comes to his senses.

Abigail squints at him, trying to decipher if he’s serious or not.

“John Marston, you best be joking.” She demands while placing a hand on her hip

He shrugs and scratches at his neck carelessly, yawning again like waking up is the only important thing to him right now. Then he meets Abigail’s glare and a hint of a smirk forms on his tired face, one that wouldn’t be discernible if it weren’t so familiar.

Abigail huffs, “Now I know you’re a fool but I didnt take you for this much of one.”

"What?" He asks incredulously, "am I forgettin’ somethin'?"

John has always loved to tease. Sometimes his immaturity bothered Abigail, especially when it meant he ignored his responsibilities but other times, oh almost every other time it charmed her. That is probably what that younger, more naive version of herself fell for all those years ago. That and his annoyingly handsome face.

She can tell he's charming her now, the fool that he is. That goofy smirk and the playful tilt of his head is doing nothing but giving him away.

"Get up, you pig." She says with a laugh, tossing that old rag at him, "I ain't feeding you in this bed."

He raises an eyebrow, "aw, you ain't? Thought maybe that was my gift."

Breakfast passes beautifully, laughter and joyous retellings of what once was filled the house until there was no more room left for anything else. Now Abigail is in the silence of their bedroom, tugging on an old dress that she only wears when it feels right.

Years ago, when they were living that vicious life of theirs, John claimed this dress as his favorite. He said the color suited her, that it accentuated her best features. Since then, she set it aside for moments like this.

The floorboards creak and before Abigail can even register who is sneaking in, rough arms are wrapping around her waist, pulling her back against a lean frame of muscle as stubble scratches at her neck.

"You got on my favorite dress." John murmurs against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

She nods and lets out a breathy laugh , fastening the final button on the dress before smoothing out the wrinkled fabric.

“It still suits you, darling.” He whispers, pressing a lingering kiss right below her ear.

The mirror in front of them captures and frames the moment perfectly. John with his chin resting on Abigail's shoulder, joy oozing from him to her. Abigail cloaked in gorgeous blue lace, a smile that could brighten the darkest of days adorning her beautiful features.

All of that fighting and killing and running is long gone, leaving nothing but them, their growing son and that lazy old man, finding peace in themselves and each other.

They're up and out of the house in no time, bidding farewell to Uncle and Jack, trusting they won't get into too much trouble while they’re gone, though they know that is most definitely a mistake. Abigail makes sure to leave a quick kiss on Jack’s forehead and to remind him that he needs to be safe and smart while in town. Jack just wipes his forehead bashfully while swatting his mother away, muttering something about how he knows the rules.

And then they're off, the wagon clattering down the trail they have come to know so well. Dirt swirls up around them, sun shines through the leaves on the trees and casts them in a golden glow. The morning is as bright as they feel.

It isn't long before they’ve arrived in Blackwater.

The sounds and sights of town come to them differently nowadays. There's no lawman lurking around every corner, no glares making them question their safety. Blackwater is just a place now, even with all the old memories and mixed feelings it holds. The good has come to outweigh the bad, and for once in their life, it is time they relive the good.

John brings the wagon to a stop in front of a group of buildings and jumps down quickly, hurrying around to Abigail's side to help her.

He stretches his hand out, knowing that she is more than capable of helping herself down but he’ll take any excuse he can to touch his lovely wife.

“M'lady." He says through a grin, tipping his head in her direction to be ever the gentleman.

“Thank you, kind sir.” She laughs, that airy sound that has always made John blush, as she laces her fingers through his and gladly uses his help to climb down.

Warmth spreads throughout his body, starting at his fingertips and trailing all the way up to the organ tucked away deep in his chest. He has come to know this feeling – the one he had felt for the first time all those years ago when Uncle brought back that beautiful girl he stumbled upon in the saloon – as love. That's what it has been all along, even through all of that denial and fear. John has been in love.

Love. What a silly feeling. The heat of it can truly melt the ice around a cynic's heart.

Abigail and John are bickering already though it’s not about anything serious. While the couple argues about which background to choose the photographer stands there with his arms crossed firmly over his chest and a scowl on his bearded face. Every few minutes he'll glance briefly at his pocket watch, waiting for the perfect moment to kick these fools out of his store.

"Please, Mr. and Mrs. Marston," He cuts Abigail off before she can insult John's taste one last time, "I do not have all day."

That quickly quiets them down. They straighten themselves out before declaring that this background is the one. It's full of lush trees and sparkling raindrops dripping from the leaves, a forest just after a ferocious storm. The beauty of nature is captured perfectly in just this one backdrop, and the beauty of a tumultuous relationship if one wanted to look at it that way.

Now that they have chosen the photographer lets out a sigh of relief and steps up behind the camera to adjust the settings. He then begins ordering them around, wanting to get the perfect shot for his paying customers.

"Head up, Mr. Marston." "Mrs. Marston, smile wider for me." "Lean in closer, let the world see your love."

"Perfect." He finally declares, followed by a bright flash of light and a loud whoosh. "Absolutely wonderful!"

Without another word he pulls the capture out and rushes to the back room to get it developed.

For a few seconds Abigail and John sit in silence, smoke lingering in the air around them. The last time they did this was five years ago, the photo they got from it still stands proudly on the fireplace mantle. John remembers the way Abigail couldn't hold it together, ending their moment with her in a fit of giggles as she mocked his pose and the suddenness of his romantic gestures. This time though, she turns to look at him with a loving smile on her face,

"You look real nice, John." She says outright, the words lingering in the air between them just like that smoke.

John’s eyebrows raise as he awaits the punchline of the joke, but he is only left in a stunned silence. He turns to face her to decipher if she’s serious or not but the look on her face says it all. Joy is pulling up her skin and wrinkling it just right, her smile is brighter than the flash of the camera.

How did he ever get so lucky? What did a man like him do to deserve this? He’s uncertain if he’ll ever know. But right now, all he truly knows is that it'd be wrong to take her love for granted yet again.

Right then the photographer exits the backroom with the photo in hand, interrupting the rare show of affection from Abigail. He holds it out for one of them to take and then steps away so they can observe it.

John stares at it, unblinking as his eyes mist over. There they are, happiness captured forever in this little portrait. The woman sat beside him in this photograph has seen him at his worst, has had to pull him out of various graves, and yet she still chose to stick by his side every time. And here she is now, complimenting him and smiling at him and just being everything he's ever needed. The version of himself from all those years ago, the cynical sad man who was sure his future held nothing but a gruesome death, couldn’t even begin to comprehend why marriage and love was such a big deal to him now. Hell, even the version of himself from this moment in time can barely understand it. And maybe, just maybe that’s okay.

As the weight of emotion becomes too much to bear he shoves the frame towards Abigail and sniffles, turning away to wipe the tears from his eyes.

She studies him a moment to make sure he's okay. Any other time she would tease him for crying, make a lighthearted joke out of it so he would laugh instead, but she chooses to let him be just this once. Because she too cannot hold back tears at the sight of the photo in her hands, the photo that holds a lifetime of love and joy in just one tiny frame.

Water laps against the shore, a bird flutters out of a nearby tree. The sun has ascended further in the sky bringing the arrival of the afternoon. Light reflects off the surface of the lake, creating a blinding glare for anyone passing by. John and Abigail walk hand in hand to the little cove tucked away next to the rocks, squinting out at the horizon to take in their soundings.

Abigail holds a hand in front of her face to block out the sun, "I don't see no boat." She says, glancing around as if maybe she's missing something.

John hums and scratches at the scars on his cheek, quickly realizing his plan isn't playing out as anticipated. They had gotten lucky with that little rowboat sitting unattended on the shore all those years ago and now it seems luck isn't on their side.

For a moment John stands there contemplating his next move before deciding he might as well just ask.

"Stay here." He tells Abigail, letting go of her hand and hurrying off in the direction of a few men who look like they might know something. As he approaches, the men eye him curiously. One of them, an older gentleman with a scraggly beard and dirty overalls, opens his mouth to say something but seems to decide otherwise. John is so used to the stares and the questions and the "oh, I know you!" declarations every single time someone sees him that he doesn’t question it.

A taller man steps up, crossing his arms over his broad chest, "You want somethin'?" He grunts.

John studies him a moment, narrowing his eyes at his gruff demeanor. It's a familir attitude, given that's how most of the men from his old gang presented themselves. But one man in particular comes to mind, the very man he has to thank for all this.

Arthur had always been rough around the edges, keeping things to himself until he couldn't any longer. John and him used to sit under the moon and the stars uttering secrets they could never tell another soul, locking them away forever so just the two of them and the moon understood. That was probably one of the only times John truly opened up to another man, he always assumed that it was the same for Arthur.

He stands there staring at the taller man in a reminiscent haze before the glare boring into his skull snaps him out of it.

"Huh?" Is all he can muster, forgetting the question entirely.

"Listen, buddy, if you ain't here for anythin' then leave us the hell alone."

John raises an eyebrow before letting out an amused huff, this guy is a real piece of work. He crosses his arms just like the man in front of him, standing his ground, "oh yeah, I need to borrow a boat."

There's a heated bout of silence, a glare passed from John to the man before laughter rings out. Someone slaps John on the back and shouts, "why didn't ya just start with that?" and their laughter grows in volume.

The boat is quite rickety, a few terribly patched holes and unidentifiable scratches are prominent on the hull. John blinks at it and Abigail looks as if she's about to explode with laughter.

"John," she squeaks out shakily, a smirk pulling up her lips as barely suppressed laughter rumbles in her chest, "you sure it's seaworthy?"

He just huffs, stepping up to it and patting the side, like that will somehow prove something, eliciting nothing but a creaky groan from the old wood.

"Yep, real seaworthy." He declares.

Calling this thing seaworthy is like calling John Marston a genius but maybe in another universe both him and this boat could live up to those titles.

He climbs in, steadying himself as it rocks back and forth against the ripples of the water before holding his hand out to help Abigail in. She still has a smirk on her face but she bites her tongue, settling onto the harsh wood of what once could’ve been a mighty bench.

The oars are rough, digging into John's palms the second he grabs them. Those men are lucky they didn't charge him for this shitty boat or else their blood would be dripping from his knuckles right about now.

He takes a deep breath to regulate, trying to collect his frustrations and toss them into the lake to never be brought up again. Today is about him and Abigail, nothing else. They're lucky they even got a boat.

So instead of thinking about beating up those annoying bastards he begins to row, the simmer of his body dissipating with each slow tug of the oars. Abigail glances around happily, taking in her surroundings with a curiosity that's bordering on childish. It’s sweet, watching the way her face lights up with each thing they pass or the way her eyebrows knit together as memories come back to her.

"This is the spot!” She blurts out excitedly and John brings the boat to a halt. The sheer force of the stop causes the oar in his right hand to slide from his grasp and sink into the water with an unceremonious splash.

Both of them are slow to react, both of them don't comprehend it as quickly as they should. Maybe John could've lunged for it before it sunk beneath the surface or maybe Abigail could've reached out to catch it, but neither of them did anything and now they're fucked.

What follows is a sniffle from Abigail, slow blinking from John and then they're both shouting at the same time.

"Why didn't you grab it?!" "You could’ve grabbed it!" "No, no! You could have!"

The words bounce back and forth until they realize just how silly they sound. They both could’ve done something and they know it, but neither of them reacted that fast.

John leans back with a huff, Abigail giggles under her breath.

"You know, it is a nice day for a swim." She suggests, with a smile and wiggle of her brows. John's eyes widen.

Never once has he stepped foot in a body of water and he wants to keep it that way. Arthur used to tease him about it but Arthur didn't understand. What if something dragged him down and drowned him? Or worse. Hosea used to tell stories like that around the fire when John was just a boy.

There's no way he's swimming back. He'd rather capsize.

Ignoring his protests Abigail stands up in the boat. The movement rocks the rickety old thing enough to scare him.

"Abigail!" He squeals and grips the sides of the boat tight. As if that'll keep them steady.

Abigail laughs, "Calm down, tough guy."

John is left on the boat watching helplessly as his wife plunges into what he can only imagine is uncomfortably cold water that holds creatures beyond their imagination. Seconds pass and soon bubbles float up to the surface but Abigail is nowhere in sight. There's an eerie silence, the world seems to hold its breath. John scrambles over to the edge of the boat to peer over and catch a glimpse of Abigail, to find anything that proves she's alive, while also trying to hash out what he would do if she was truly drowning. He can't swim but he'd do anything to save her life. Oh god, maybe he should -–

Something cold and slimy grips his wrist and then he's tumbling forward off the boat, submerging into bone chilling water.

The fall is fast but his panic is faster. He flails and flaps around, screaming without any sound as water swiftly fills his lungs. His throat is burning, as is every bone in his body. The more he moves, the harder it gets. Soon he'll be sinking all the way to the bottom to become fish food.

This is how the once cynical, frightening outlaw dies. Drowning in some pathetic lake.

Something snakes around his waist. Maybe it's one of those creatures, suffocating him to death quickly so it can feast on his flesh. All the fight that once soared through his veins has disappeared as he gives in, allowing the creature to drag him to whatever evil lair it resides in.

As he's dragged backwards by the slimy monster he’s coughing and gasping, spitting up spurts of water. His weak attempts to stay alive even though he knows it’s useless. This monster will be feasting on his organs in no time…

It isn't long before he emerges onto the shore, dripping wet and freezing as cool air bites at his skin. His clothes cling to his lean frame, the once greasy strands of hair are now plastered to his face. Whatever is behind him collapses with a loud sigh, the sound more human than beast. It is strange that the monster would drag him to shore to feast on his bones… But he doesn't have time to question any of it because his chest sputters with gurgling breaths and now he's hacking up water and phlegm.

He chokes and gags but then panic sweeps over him the second he realizes that Abigail isn't anywhere in sight. She drowned as he got attacked by that evil slimy monster that Hosea used to warn him about, the one Arthur said would come and eat him if he didn't do his chores. How pathetic. This day was supposed to be beautiful. Finally they made it this far and it all ends like this, in the middle of Blackwater.

He scrambles to sit up, drawing a gasp from the thing beneath him. That's when he peeks over his shoulder to see what it is, to come face to face with the ugly beast.

Abigail stares up at him, blinking away droplets of water that are caught in her eyelashes. Her wet hair is splayed out against the dirt beneath her, her skin shimmering in the afternoon sun.

Oh.

He is quick to climb off and help her up, whispering apology after apology as she tilts her head to the side to get water out of her ears.

Then she does something unexpected, she turns and smiles at John like this was all some big joke. She even has the audacity to start laughing.

“oh gosh, you should really see your face right now!” She shouts, a bubbling laugh escaping her.

John’s expression goes from confused to unamused immediately, a deep frown dampening his features. He almost died, she almost died! And she's laughing. She's laughing at all of this. My god, he will never understand this woman.

Abigail wheezes, clutching her stomach as it becomes harder for her to breathe, "oh my god!" She cries, tears streaming down her face faster than the water.

He glares at her, wanting an explanation.

"I'm sorry,” She blurts out, an annoying smirk still on her face, "there was another oar, John. We didn't have to swim!"

They climb back into the wagon half-naked and still dripping with water. John doesn't even spare a glance in Abigail’s direction, his bottom lip jutted out like some pouty toddler as he takes the reins in his hands and flicks them to get the horses moving.

He went through that traumitc experience just to be laughed at and made a total fool. At least they still have their photograph, at least the memory of what came before John's near death experience still remains.

The ride back is silent, besides Abigail chuckling to herself. John bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes metal to stop himself from yelling.

She is the most annoying, bothersome–

He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath, his chest still shuddering from almost drowning. It isn't right for him to think these things about his lovely wife because what? She tricked him? Pfft, big deal. He's been through worse. Way worse.

The wagon rattles up the trail to Beecher's Hope and comes to a stop beside the house. Abigail turns to hop out the second they arrive but John reaches for her before she can.

"I'm sorry,” He whispers, "I overreacted."

And when she glances over her shoulder with genuine affection in her gaze, directed towards him, he can tell she was never mad at him. Not in the way he was mad at her.

He leans forward and captures her lips, slides a hand up to cup her jaw. Apologizing the easiest way he knows how. He just hopes it's enough, hopes she doesn't pull away.

Abigail lets out a shocked sound before melting into it, turning to wrap her arms around his neck and tilting her face down to deepen the kiss. He draws her into his lap, the wagon groaning under their shared weight.

"I love you, Mrs. Marston." He whispers as he pulls away, caught up in the intimate bliss.

She grins and mutters a quick, “Prove it."

And then his eyes widen, his mouth twitches up into a grin that matches her own. Oh, he loves this game.

His lips are back on hers in an instant…

Dividers

second a/n: This one has been done for a while I just didn’t exactly know when I should post it but considering I’ve been on a real johnigail kick lately it felt like the perfect moment!

(all photos were taken and edited by me, also didn’t know if I should tag everyone who asked to be tagged in these since it’s about two or three months later so if you were on that taglist just let me know if you still want to be tagged in the last few I have to finish from the list)

Kieran had been in love before. Once, when he was a kid, nothing more than a childhood crush on a girl he never saw again. And another time when he was in the army, with a lovely woman who used to sell flowers on the street near the barracks. But this time... this time was different.

Mary-Beth is so gentle and intelligent, and, on top of that, so beautiful. He was almost convinced that a woman like her would never give someone like him a chance, but yet, he couldn't help but admire her from afar.

Mary-Beth loved to read, probably the thing she loved the most. Almost all the time Kieran tried to start a conversation with her, caught her lost in a book, so he decided to not interrupt her.

Talking to women had always been a challenge for Kieran, given his shy nature, and with Mary-Beth it wasn’t so different. He was afraid she will treat him badly, like most people in the camp.

He wanted to get near her, he wanted to know her better... he just wanted that his feelings were reciprocal. Kieran certainly would be the luckiest man alive if she accepted his love, but he was so unexperienced with women.

Kieran had never been with anyone before. Actually the closer he'd ever come to a kiss was when he was eleven, with that girl he had a crush on. Both of them were too timid and too young to really kiss, so they used to link their pinkies together. that was their "kiss", sweet, pure and delicate.

He didn't know what to do. The idea of ruining everything by saying something stupid to Mary terrified him. Maybe he could ask someone for advice, but he couldn't decide who. Arthur was too serious for this kind of nonsense, Sean would just laugh and make fun of him and Bill would just make it worse.

But then, someone came to his mind: Javier Escuella. He's so charming and confident, successful with women. Surely he's the best one to ask.

Kieran started looking for Javier, until he found him sit tuning the guitar.

"Uh... Javier?" he approached nervously.

"Yes?" Javier replied, not taking his eyes off his guitar, clearly not interested to talk to Kieran.

"Can you help me with something?"

"Can't you see I'm tuning my guitar right now?"

Kieran's face turned red. "I-I'm sorry... It's just... I have anyone else to ask..."

Javier felt a slight pang of guilt. He sighed turning to him. "Alright, what do you want?"

"well... it's a little embarrassing, but... it's about... a woman."

"Ah, now we're talking." He smirked, putting the guitar between his legs.

Kieran cheeks turned crimson. "please, don't make fun of me... I just don't know what to do. She's kind, smart and... so beautiful, and I can't even talk to her without feeling like an idiot."

Javier chuckled softly, setting the guitar aside. "So that's what this is about? You want my advice on love?"

He nodded. "Yes... I guess so."

Javier stayed in silence for a moment, his eyes softening. "Y'know... love isn't something you can force," he began, his voice calm. "you can't plan it, and you sure as hell can't control it. It just... happens."

Kieran listened attentively, fingering with his hands.

"If she's really someone special," Javier continued "then don't try to impress her with words or tricks. Just be kind, be honest. Women can feel when a man's being real — that's something fancy word can't fake.

Javier smiled fantly. "And if she doesn't feel the same... that's alright too. Love is not about getting something back. It's about what it makes you feel, the way it changes you."

Kieran look at him, eyes wide, surprised by the sincerety in his tone. "I... I've never thought about it this way." He said softly.

Javier chuckled soflty, reaching for his guitar again. "Most men don't, buddy."

Kieran doesn't even knew what to say, he was really grateful for the words. His chest felt tight, but in a different way this time, not from nerves, but from something warm, something almost comforting.

"Thank you, Javier, thank you so much," He said quietly. "I don't think anyone's ever said something like that to me before..."

Javier smiled. "Anytime."

────୨ৎ────

The next morning, Kieran woke up earlier than usual. The camp was still quiet, only the faint sound of the wind brushing through the trees. He sat by his tent for a while, thinking about what Javier had said.

"Just be kind. Be honest."

The words replayed in his mind over and over, but when he thought about actually talking to Mary-Beth, his stomach twisted itself in knots again.

He spotted her a little later, sitting near the wagon with a book in her hands, as always. The morning sun caught in her hair, turning it golden, and for a moment, he just stood there, frozen.

"You can do this," he told himself. "Just… be honest."

He took a slow, shaky breath and walked toward her.

"H-Hey, Mary-Beth," he managed to say, voice barely above a whisper.

She looked up from her book, her smile gentle and warm. "Oh, hi, Kieran. You're up early."

Kieran rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah… couldn't really sleep." He hesitated. "What are you reading today?"

Mary-Beth's eyes lit up immediately. "It's Pride and Prejudice." She closed the book "I've read it before, but I still love it! the book is so romantic and the characters are so dreamy and intelligent..."

He smiled awkwardly. "I-I ain't much of a reader myself, but… you always look so happy when you're reading... It's cute."

She blinked, a little surprised, then smiled again — shily this time. "That's sweet of you to say, Kieran."

And just like that, the tightness in his chest loosened a little.

"But, uh…" Mary looked at him attentively. "I'd really like for you to teach me to read someday."

She was taken aback, but she was happy. They had this conversation before — about reading and that she could teach him to read someday. She would absolutely love it.

"S-Sure, of course! we can start tomorrow if you'd like."

Kieran's eyes widened, and he couldn't help but smile, wide and genuine.

"sweet!"

For the first time in a long while, the tightness in his chest was gone. He was genuinely happy.

────୨ৎ────

The next day seemed like it would never arrive, given Kieran's immense excitement, but the first rays of the morning sun finally appeared as Kieran emerged from his small, makeshift tent to wash his hands and face. He wanted to be at least presentable for Mary-Beth on that special day.

After taking care of his personal hygiene, he thought it would be a good idea to give her flowers as a gift.

Dew still clung to the grass as Kieran walked through the field beyond camp, a small tin cup in his hand.

He crouched near a patch of wildflowers: daisies. Small and white, with bright yellow hearts. He smiled to himself.

"Mary-Beth will like these."

He picked them carefully, one by one, humming quietly under his breath. It wasn't much, but to him, it meant everything, a small gift for someone who had treated him like he mattered.

"today," he murmured to himself. "she'll teach me to read today."

He hummed a song as he delicately picked flowers, choosing the prettiest ones, until a sound broke the silence. Hooves, faint at first, then closer. He turned his head toward the trees.

"Hello...?" he called, uncertain.

No answer. Just the rustle of branches and the soft snort of horses.

He frowned, taking a few hesitant steps forward. The flowers shifted slightly inside his jacket, their scent faint and sweet.

And then, the snap of a branch followed by a hard blow to the head with a rifle butt.

Before he could react, the world went black with panic and noise, the thud of boots, the sharp pull of rough hands, the sound of someone shouting his name that he never managed to answer.

The daisies fell abruptly to the ground.

The field was silent again, the wind brushing softly over the petals as if nothing had happened.

────୨ৎ────

The later that morning, Mary-Beth sat by the wagon, a book resting on her lap. Every few minutes, she glanced toward the trees, waiting for a shy smile that never came.

"He's late..." she sighed.

By noon, she finally closed the book, pressing it to her chest with her heart broken.

"Kieran...?" she called softly. "Oh gosh, where is he?"

Mary even asked people of the camp about Kieran, but no one seemed to know where he was.

Later that day, Arthur saw her sitting in the same spot, the open book beside her and her eyes fixed on the horizon. He even thought about saying something to her, but he decided against it.

The next morning, Tilly found a small bunch of daisies lying near the field. The stems were crushed, the petals browned by the sun.

No one said anything. No one seemed to care.

Life as an outlaw could be especially boring for a young boy such as himself, with no one of his size to cancel out each other’s boredom by becoming playmates. His momma and various aunts and uncles did their best to entertain him when they had the spare time, and he too found amusement in the beauty and wonder of the outdoors.  

Fortunately, the worst of winter's wrath was over with, and beside the occasional snowfall, the weather was tame enough to settle down in a new camp and lounge about.

Because he cannot leave the camp very often, Jack settles for sitting by its outskirts. And it’s one of these even days that become odd when he spots his Uncle Arthur return from a trip into town accompanied by a stranger on the back of his horse.

Jack was closely acquainted with every member of his misfit family; he could recognize every worn face within it. Who wore which scar and where, which voices were more often fussy or brimming with glee, and even the ones that one day disappear and never return. This face that his Uncle Arthur brought back with him was a face he didn’t recognize, kind and curious as he observed it to be.

The small boy had been taught from a very early age not to trust strangers. There are few people in this cold and cruel world that wholeheartedly care for him; the vagabonds in this makeshift home of his were a couple.

But Uncle Arthur had brought her to them with reassurances that she would fit in just fine within their family, to them and seemingly the timid woman herself, who looked onward on at him for guidance. And Jack trusted what the older man deemed safe to accept this new member with hardly any worry in the back of his mind.

It didn’t take long for all of camp to learn that she had been a saloon girl from the town over where Arthur had been frequenting on business. It explained why she had arrived with nothing but a dagger in a holster sewed to her boot and a guitar on her back. 

The strange woman, however, adored Jack from the moment she had introduced herself to him, sitting in the tallgrass and braiding its strands. Jack observed, outside of her initial nervous demeanour, that she had kind eyes and a wit about her that he observed in many members of the gang, including those he loves and cares for the most. A mouth that his mother found often laughing as a result of and along with, and one that spun tall tales in the form of song and dance with various camp members. 

However, everyone was expected to contribute to bringing about funds and resources for the gang. It meant Arthur, the primary enforcer, spent most of his time out of camp running errands. 

You often asked to tag along in the shotgun seat of his wagon, whether to satisfy your own intrigue of the terrain or on Miss Grimshaw’s orders, but the extension of his hand gently escorting you on board was confirmation that Arthur didn’t have very many qualms with his company. 

Between light-hearted conversation, the two of you admire the thick blankets of shiny snow that had built up over various days of steady snowfall through squinted gazes as the light reflected back into your eyes. It glimmered and gleamed under arrays of sunlight, and crunched satisfyingly beneath each turn of the wheel. Your boots are thick and comfortable enough that you’re also able to enjoy the crunch beneath your feet when you arrive into the nearby town and hop off the wagon, with Arthur assisting in steadying you on your way down. 

You scout the town for work while Arthur does his shopping, and it isn’t all that long until you find it in nearby saloons. A couple of standalone gigs for a fair sum of money is perfect for your circumstances. Arthur offers to drive you into town nearly every day, the exception being when he’s already out of camp prior. It’s your primary contributor to the gang’s stability, besides helping around camp when you could. 

Uncle Arthur and the saloon girl often accompanied one another in their errands, by the shore of a river, or on a log beside the campfire. Jack could often find the two of you exchanging everything from anecdotes to laughs to something more shy and intimate. There are a set of unspoken social customs and courtesies when it came to confronting such curiosity, but Jack was too young to understand such customs; and far too curious.

So curious as to go so far as to one day innocently ask his Uncle Arthur if he was sweet on the girl—in front of her. His bluntness had the poor man choking on the rum from his flask as his cheeks flushed from either the suffocation or the embarrassment he felt over the situation--or perhaps both.

“Wha…N...No, you can’t just—“ he attempts to recollect himself, letting out a couple of coughs into the crook of his elbow before inhaling a strangled breath in. His eyes dart nervously between you and the boy. “You can’t just ask things like that, Jack. It ain’t polite. Where'd you even learn that...?"

But your warm eyes only crinkle in amusement as you laugh.

“I don’t mind. Besides, what does your lot know about polite?” 

Jack liked her songs, and found his feet eagerly carrying themselves over when he hears her by the campfire with Javier, guitars out and voices in sweet harmony. Sometimes she’ll get up and dance, and Jack will join her on her feet. One evening, there's already someone else swaying with you to a melody, and your gleeful laughter is paired with Arthur's bashful chuckles.

Oh, curse his northern attitude for leaving him so stiff, burning under the intensity of your warm gaze. The ambers from the campfire leave a little twinkle in your eye that makes his stomach stir uncomfortably, his muscles seize up the slightest bit. But your appreciative smile and courtesy as he bows playfully tells him there was nothing to forgive in the first place. 

Spring eventually sprouts up from the ground, and with it, more opportunities for leisure activity. Abigail kindly asks if you would take little Jack with you and Arthur to bask in the serene nature trails by the meadows, to which you happily oblige her request. 

Arthur leaves camp with you on the back of his horse or on the shotgun seat of the wagon more often than not. Sometimes--Jack overhears--it's on Miss Grimshaw’s orders. Other times, one or the other is in need of some company to assist with a personal chore. And very occasionally, the reason lies solely in wanting to be around one another (though this is more speculation on the gang's part, who by now have also taken note of that lingering something, and coming to this conclusion from the longing gazes as if it were obvious). 

In the back of the wagon, you observe the thawing of the snow with Jack through the harmony of your guitar, each firm, yet soft, strum ringing through the warm spring air. The smiles in your voices coupled with the gentle hum of your singing soothes something hard and tense in Arthur’s soul as he too basks in the sweetness of your melody while he drives at the front, melting it to the equivalent of the sludge of the snow. 

When Mr South Wind sighs in the pines

Old Mr Winter whimpers and whines

Down in the meadow, under the snow

April is teaching green things to grow

From prairies to creeks to small forests, your journeys take you in all sorts of places. The grass only grows greener, the sun only shines brighter, and the day is perfect when the wind is cool, too. More and more often are you and Arthur out of camp, and every time you return, Jack observes, you’re both in quite high and satisfied spirits. 

Arthur sits cross legged in a meadow just along one of the trails he takes to and from town filled with wildflowers. His journal sits in his lap, and he carefully sketches a scene not too far down from him. Just a few meters away do you sit with Jack by the wagon with your guitar on your leg as you sing affectionately, with grins plastered on both of your faces as you sway with the rhythm. 

When Mr West Wind howls in a glade

Old Mr Summer nods in the shade

Down in the meadow, deep in the brook

Catfish are waiting for the hook!

You participate in crafting jewelry out of the yellow flowers alongside the boy, using the back of your guitar as a makeshift table as you carefully pluck the dandelions and daisies surrounding you, watching one another as you weave the stems and excitedly present the final products to one another. Later, you’d teach him how he can store all kinds of leaves and flowers and herbs between the heavy pages of his storybooks. That was just the sort of thing you did; bring about this an innocent wonder and awe into peoples lives like no strange character Arthur has ever met; and he’s had quite his share of encounters with strange folk. 

He doesn’t remember the last time the world has brimmed with so much color, full of a kind of special magic. He finds it impossible to replicate the scene to perfection in his journal, but each additional detail--your tooth peeking out from your smile, the crescent shape of your eyes, the gentle dexterity in your hands-- reduces him to some sort of breathlessness.

And each time he picks up his book and flips back to his illustration, he returns to that beautiful day, the same feeling of sheer admiration returning with it, so maybe he didn’t do too terrible of a job.

Arthur's journal holds a dirty secret: that perhaps he was in love with you.

A fair portion of the pages were filled with sketches of you, whole portraits and mini doodles, of passages detailing your endeavours together, transcribed song lyrics of yours, and worst of all, the ever changing feelings of his toward you. They aren't very becoming from a man such as himself, but perhaps nothing good really was. A sort of guilt and hefty embarrassment weighed on his heart the more he reflected on it, too depressingly for a man who should be only elevated by the realisation. But what other than sorrow did love ever promise Arthur?

Old Lady Blackbird flirts with the scarecrow

Scarecrow is waving at the moon

Old Mr Moon makes hearts everywhere go bump, bump

With the magic of June

It’s Jack’s favorite part of the song because of a little smack! you give the body of the guitar over halfway through the verse, and he either claps or slaps his own knees along to the rhythm with a giggle. 

As dusk approaches the horizon, Jack finds the two of you sitting on the shore of the river just beside camp, and through the gaps between tall pine trees and tents with their equipment alike, Jack can see your legs thrown over Uncle Arthur’s lap. A gentle hand of his rests on your clothed thigh, smoothing down the fabric of your skirt as the other is placed behind him, keeping him upright. You play around with the placement of Arthur’s hat on his head. For whatever reason, it amuses you to no end, and the unimpressed look on Arthur’s face only fuels your laughter. Still, he’s only able to maintain the expression for a moment before it morphs into one of endearment. 

The water from the river sparkles behind the two of you as the scene unfolds before the boy’s eyes, and he’s forced to look away when he feels a tug at his arm.

“Oh, Jack, aren't you nosey? Let’s not bother Uncle Arthur right now,” his mother quickly ushers him away toward the opposite side of the camp, glancing between her son and the pair of you. “He’s busy.” 

Jack is able to spare one final glance over his shoulder in your direction, catch a glimpse of your foreheads resting against each other as your laughter subdues, before he turns away and allows his momma to lead him to help his pa with some of his chores. 

When Mr East Wind shouts over head

Then all the leaves turn yellow and red

Down in the meadow corn stocks are high

Pumpkins are ripe and ready for pie

Autumn, specifically, is an interesting time to be out and about. Arthur chaperones you and Jack on your scavenger hunt of various fall plants and beauties. The two of you point out the various colors in the trees and on the ground, the mushrooms growing between blades of grass, and the various herbs and flowers and crops that grow in the fields. Arthur doubles as a delightful treasure trove of knowledge, with some of the items already having a portion of his page in his journal dedicated to its likeness, and some he adds in as you go along. 

You entertain his insight as you walk arm in arm, and something about it is just so delightfully domestic, Arthur recognises, that it makes him feel like mush again.

For a moment, he nearly forgets what his life really is, what sort of gruesome deeds he’s responsible for, the consequences of this lifestyle, and he’s desperate to hold onto the moment. Innocent and peaceful, a life he's been unrightfully yearning after for a while now. The foraging all in all reaps well, yet Arthur can’t help but find the real reward in the way you lean your head against his arm as if he were a pillar of security, not an anchor that weighs you down.

Old Lady Blackbird flirts with the scarecrow

Scarecrow's waving at the Moon

Old Mr Moon makes hearts everywhere go bump-bump

With the magic of June

Unfortunately, the magic of the warm weather does not last forever. Yet not even the encroaching winter chill could freeze up the warmth in your chest. But it did nip at your fingertips--at your’s and Arthur’s and Jack’s. 

The groups joint efforts are relied upon a hundredfold when the snow starts to fall and the chill breezes through the flaps of the tents in the camps. Like a clock tower bell, it indicates that it’s time to up and move and find more secure shelter, with stronger walls and better furnaces. Somehow the bitter cold doesn’t leave a quiver in your heart, and it's proven when you sit on the edge of Arthur’s wagon with Jack and Abigail and your guitar in your lap as you strum through a melody for Jack’s entertainment. 

When Mr North Wind rolls on the breeze

Old father Christmas trims over trees

Down in the meadow snow shoftly gleams…

The lengthy trip wears everyone down eventually, and after an indefinite amount of time consolidating the various paths, the gang happens along an abandoned town in which to take refuge from Demeter’s grief. 

By the time you arrive at the safe destination to set up camp, the stars have made themselves visible in the sky. Arrangements are quickly made to set up camp and settle everyone into a room with a place to sleep, wagons being unloaded and horses tied to posts. Thankfully, the snow has ceased attempting to bury the gang in a thick blanket, and the winds howl has lulled to a short whistle. Arthur’s sleeping arrangement differs for the first time in years; Miss Grimshaw tells him he now shares a room with you. 

As it is your first time relocating, the move takes a harsh toll on both your physical and mental exhaustion. Along with young Jack at the back of Arthur’s wagon you both lie dead to the world with uncomfortable expressions. Abigail raises the boy into her arms when she comes around with a huff, cradling him close to her jacket. 

“Alright little man,” she tells him with an affectionate, exasperated tone as she turns to trudge to her cabin, “let’s get you to bed now.” 

Arthur turns to stare at you, hugging your body in an unconscious effort to keep even the slightest bit warm and relaxed, and for some reason cannot find the heart to wake you from your uneasy slumber. So he huffs, strides over, and situates an arm under your legs and another behind your back.

“C’mere, sleeping beauty…” he grunts as he lifts you in a similar fashion close to his chest, slowly making his way toward your shared cabin. “Didn’t realize you were so adverse to traveling.” 

Then again, it wasn’t anybody’s particularly favorite part of the lifestyle. 

Yet an endearing smile plays on his lips when you unconsciously snuggle closer to him, and he knows that the love in your touch and the song in your heart would keep him warm even after the thaw. 

…earth goes to sleep and smiles in her dreams...♡

you saw how he was getting less and less sleep, staying up thinking about what happened on that boat with the pinkertons. how he was clinging onto you whenever he could, acting like you were gonna leave him or die if he wasn’t there with you. you wanted to treat him to something nice, get rid of his worries or atleast make him feel slightly better, even if it lasts only an hour.

so the second you hear that javier is going on another stressful mission to try kill colm o’driscoll with dutch and a few others, you decide to go looking for something to surprise him with. yes, it was a dumb idea. you probably shouldn’t have done it in the winter alone, especially after what happened with john and the wolves. but you honestly couldn’t care less, javier deserved something nice.

while you were waving them goodbye, javier gave you one big hug, and a little kiss on the cheek. most people were okay with you and javier being two men inlove, but it was still the 1800s and you weren’t going to get murdered for your love. you caught micah scoffing in disgust at the sight of you two and you roll your eyes, before drifting your attention back to javier.

“stay safe, love” you say, as javier wraps his arms around your waist and you put your arm around his neck, the rest of the gang was still preparing themselves for the mission. he smiles softly, “i will, amor.” you exchange one last kiss, before he gets on his horse and rides out with the rest of the gang.

once you make sure they’re out of seeing distance, you hop on your horse and ride into the snowy forest, looking for things to get for him. you end up finding an old pocket watch and a piece of wood. perfect! you could try carve him something, like a mini guitar or a horse. you rode back to camp, thinking of what you could do.

you go into your tent and begin carving a mini guitar for him, after a few hours he gets home and you quickly put it under your pillow and run over to him, pulling him in for a hug and a kiss, he laughs as you practically jump up on him, wrapping his arms around you and hugging you back. “someone’s excited to see me” he smiles, and you smile back at him.

“i have a surprise for you” you whisper in his ear, before leading him back to the tent. he was clearly thinking of some other surprise with the way he was shamelessly looking at your ass while smirking. when you get inside the tent, you reach under your pillow, getting nervous that he might not like it. when you pull out the mini hand-carved guitar sculpture, he gasps, eyes wide.

he stares at it in shock “you did this for me?” he says, as he sits down next to you and admires the mini sculpture. “i just thought that you’ve been stressed lately, i wanted to do something nice.” he looks at you, he places the sculpture in his lap before resting his hand on your cheek, bringing you in for a deep kiss. his lips were soft, and you felt his facial hair tickle your face, making you giggle a bit. he deepened the kiss, grabbing your waist as you straddled his lap, you finally break the kiss and rest your forehead against his. “i love you, javier.” “i love you more, my sweet thing”