#rdr x reader

Instead, the front door creaked open.

Cold air rushed in, carrying the crunch of gravel and the scrape of more boots. The cabin filled with sound again—voices, fewer than before, perhaps only two or three had returned. You heard the wet thwack of someone spitting on your floor.

“She ain’t nowhere in these woods,” a voice grumbled. “Ain’t no fresh boot tracks. Only horses but if they—”

“Shh,” the man standing above the latch rasped, his voice thick and grainy from his nap. “She’s here.”

Your blood turned to ice in your veins.

“What? Where?” another voice scoffed, followed by the heavy scrape of a chair being dragged harshly across the floor. “She invisible or somethin’? This shack’s so damn small I can barely breathe, and you’re tellin’ us she’s hidin’ here?”

“I heard somethin’,” the man insisted. You heard the slow scuff of his boot as he nudged the rug—right over the latch. “I think it was her. Has to be.”

You looked at Arthur.

He lifted a finger to his lips—a silent, deadly command to stay quiet. His other hand reached out with the slow, liquid grace of a gunslinger, fingers closing around the cold steel of the Volcanic on the shelf.

“You ‘think’?” the other Skinner mocked. A knife bit into wood—your kitchen table, you realized dimly. “The boys are out there scourin’ the brush, wolves are nippin’ at our heels, and you’re tellin’ us you dreamed her up while you were nappin’?”

“He’s right. You’re full of shit,” a third voice chimed in. “I wanna go back to camp. I’m tired.”

“No, listen,” the one above you snarled, his voice darkening, sharpening. “I heard a whore moan. I swear.”

Jagged laughter exploded through the cabin. A glass bottle shattered against the hearth, the sound splintering through the floorboards.

“Shut up! I know what I heard!”

“Come on, buddy,” the high-pitched voice chuckled. Spurs jingled as they moved toward the door. “You’re just horny. Let’s hit Thieves Landing, get you a real lady with two big round references up front. This place is a ghost ship.”

“If she ain’t here now, she was just a moment ago,” the man insisted one last time. “Oh, but she’ll be back. And we’ll be here then.” His boot sat heavy on the latch. “We’ll come back tomorrow night. See if the little bird’s flown back to her nest.”

“Fine, fine. Let’s move out before Big Buck thinks we’re keepin’ her for ourselves.”

You listened, your heart hammering against your ribs as the boots finally tromped out of the house. The door slammed shut with a finality that sent dust drifting through the cellar air. Then came the snort of horses and the spray of dirt.

Silence returned to the cabin gradually as the thunder of hooves faded south. Arthur exhaled beside you—a long, unsteady breath—as his thumb eased the hammer of his gun back into place. He turned to you, his eyes searching yours in the gloom, heavy with the shared understanding that they were coming back.

That the nightmare wasn’t over.

But at least for tonight, the cellar still held.

The air remained thick with the scent of ripe peaches, drunk with the ghost of a kiss you already knew you’d spend the rest of the night thinking about, no matter how dangerous it was to want it.

-

Morning came slow and gray. Not with birdsong or needles of gold, but with a thin, bluish light that bled through the floorboards like a reluctant apology.

You had spent the entire night down there. Arthur had insisted, his hand firm on your shoulder when you’d tried to move toward the ladder after the Skinners finally left.

“We wait till the sun is up,” he’d muttered, his voice a welcome comfort in the dark, “then we’ll think of what to do.”

And so you had slept in fits and starts, sitting upright against the cold stone walls. The thick roots that pressed through the foundations pinched your back the whole night and left your neck sore and your limbs stiff. Yet despite it all, you’d remained cocooned in heavy quilts—and in the constant, overwhelming heat of his body sitting just a few inches away.

When you finally climbed back up, the cabin creaked as it always did when the air shifted—familiar sounds, comforting ones, reminders that your safe haven of old timber and homemade curtains still stood.

That you still stood.

But it looked like a crime scene.

Only missing the blood.

There was dried spit on the floor. Shattered glass scattered across the boards. Boot dirt ground deep into the blankets on your bed. Drawers hung open, white underthings and cotton chemises spilling out as if recoiling from the filth below. The air was stale, thick with old sweat and the lingering, coppery tang of fear.

“Pack your things,” Arthur said. His voice still carried that low, honey-thick rasp from the night before, though it was clear he hadn’t slept much—if at all. He stood by the window, the curtain pulled back only a fraction, his silhouette sharp against the pale light outside, jaw set tight. “Just enough for a few days. We’re leavin’.”

The small measure of relief the morning sun had brought vanished, replaced by a cold, leaden weight settling in your chest.

“Leavin’? Where?” You frowned, your heart sinking as you forced yourself straighter. “Mr. Morgan, this is my home.”

“Yes, and it’s also a target,” he countered, turning toward you fully. The movement made his side pull, just slightly, and you saw the flash of pain he refused to acknowledge. When his eyes met yours, they softened, but something resolute remained beneath. “They’re comin’ back tonight, ma’am. You heard ‘em.”

“Mister—”

“They think you’re a prize. A toy they can take and then toss once it breaks,” he interrupted, not sharp, just the right amount of firm to cut through. “Listen to me. They were drunk, tired, sloppy. Our luck held out once. Best not test if it’ll hold twice.”

The words landed heavier than any threat spoken the night before.

From where you stood near the cellar opening, he seemed miles away. You looked around your kitchen, the wounds on the table from their knives, the mud on your rug from their boots. This cabin was every cent you’d saved, every hour of back-breaking labor you’d endured just to own something you could call yours.

“If I leave now, where does it stop?” you asked, quietly. Not defensive, just desperate to understand. “I leave today, I leave tomorrow... when do I stop goin’? Where do I draw the line between leavin’ and livin’?” Your voice wavered just a little. “Eventually, I’m just a woman runnin’ until there’s nowhere left to go.”

You gestured vaguely toward the ceiling—toward everything you’d built with soap-worn hands and years of work. The little you had, all had gone into this place. Every penny earned. Every shift worked. Every fabric scrubbed clean in the icy waters of Hawks Eye Creek while the rest of Strawberry slept. You couldn’t afford to start over somewhere else. “I built this, Mr. Morgan. I can’t just leave everythin’ behind every time they come sniffin’ around.”

“You won’t have a life to leave behind if they find you tonight,” he countered, the words harsher than he meant to, and for a heartbeat, his face was the mask of the outlaw—hard, pragmatic, lethal.

They hung in the air between you—true, brutal, sobering. You sighed, more out of hopelessness than exhaustion, your gaze lifting to him in a silent plea for another answer—already knowing there wasn’t one. Not one where you survived the night again.

Something in him fractured at the sight of your defeat.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Then, he stepped toward you. When he spoke again, his voice was different—the granite in his expression crumbling, his shoulders dropping as he closed the distance until he stood as close as he had the night before. When you’d shared that peach.

That stare.

That kiss.

“Look, I know,” he said, his voice turning to honey—warm, sweet and slow, making your skin prickle with memory. “What it’s like to wanna hold onto a place.”

He reached out, his hand hovering near your arm, uncertain, before he settled for a gentle, respectful touch at your elbow. “This place… it ain’t just walls to you.”

His eyes stayed on yours, steady and honest, and something sweet—something dangerous—stirred in your chest at the memory of how close his lips had been only hours ago. How his breath had mingled with your own in the dark. How easy it had been to forget the entire world for the simple touch of his skin against yours.

“This ain’t gotta be forever,” he continued softly. “Just a couple nights. Let things cool off ‘round here.”

You offered a smile—barely there, brittle.

No matter if his name was printed on a wanted poster out there somewhere, to you he was a good man. And you tried not to dwell on how right his touch felt, how comforting the warmth of his hand was against your arm.

Better not get used to it, you reminded yourself. He was healing, and soon, he’d leave.

Back to his life outside.

To the vast world waiting out there, arms and claws outstretched.

“Thank you,” you whispered at last. “Truly. But I’ll be fine. I’ve handled them before.” You hesitated, then added quietly, “You should go to Beecher’s Hope. Finish healin’. It ain’t far.”

For a moment, he only stared at you—his gaze searching, weighing something you couldn’t quite name. Finally, he let out a huff of disbelief, a small, stubborn smile tugging at his lips.

“You really are a mule, ain't ya?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he spoke over you, his tone shifting—careful, like he was setting something fragile in your hands.

“How ‘bout Big Valley?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You said you missed it. Strawberry. The purple fields.” He leaned back against the table, his eyes growing wistful. “Spring’s hittin’ the Valley. Lavender’ll be bloomin’ right now. We take the long way—stop by Strawberry, if you want. Then camp by Little Creek. Get you sacks and sacks of the stuff. Enough to scent this cabin for a decade.”

The imagery hit you all at once. Like a sudden wave of the most beautiful memories.

Purple fields rolling under open skies. Cool water singing through emerald grass. Your hands perfumed for days with the fresh, clean scent of the flowers. The air sweet and no O’Driscolls around to ruin the calm no more.

To go back home. To Strawberry’s streets and familiar faces after years of solitude. A life you’d thought you’d closed the door on—waiting, just on the other side of the Upper Montana.

And not as a lonely girl.

But with him.

Trading stories by the firelight, under the bright Big Valley stars. Falling asleep under the watchful gaze of the distant Ambarino peaks, shining white under the moon. Waking to the birdsong of the Valley. Then sharing a cup of coffee on the misty morning. Existing in the same stretch of time instead of passing one another like ghosts.

He watched your face closely, reading every flicker of doubt and longing.

“It’s either that,” he added, his voice regaining its stubborn edge, “or we both stay here tonight. And I’m tellin’ you now, butterfly... I won’t be hidin’ in a hole again. I’ll be on that porch, waitin’, with every gun I got.”

Your breath caught.

The thought of him—still healing, still scarred—standing alone against seven Skinners settled the matter for you. He would die on that porch just to prove a point, the stubborn fool. And damn him. He knew you wouldn’t let that happen.

“Lavender’s a summer flower, Mr. Morgan,” you breathed, sorrow and guilt tugging at you as your gaze lifted to the worn, reliable ceiling boards. “Doubt we’ll find any this early.” It felt like abandoning the life you’d built, the house that had faithfully sheltered you from the sun, the rain, the snow, and the Skinners all these years…

“Then we’ll get you somethin’ else. It’s spring, ma’am, something’s gotta be bloomin’.”

But when you looked back at him, you understood why he was right.

If you stayed…there might be nothing left to return to.

“Big Valley it is,” you said, as if testing the promise aloud. “But it’s only for a couple days. And you’re helpin’ me pick every last sprig of those flowers you promised, mister.”

He chuckled, a warm, humble sound of victory that filled the kitchen.

“I reckon I can manage that.” He tipped his worn hat onto his head, and just like that he was the outlaw again—a wolf to the world, and somehow still the bravest, sweetest gentleman to you. “I’ll call the horses, saddle ‘em up. See you outside.”

He paused at the back door. “Don’t take too long. If we leave now, we can make it to Strawberry before dinner.”

Then he disappeared into the early morning.

You stood there for a moment longer, heart heavy—but undeniably alive—before reaching for the satchel by the door and beginning to pack.

-

Around you, the world felt deceptively calm. No shouting. No jagged laughter. No violence. Just morning—and the quiet, unhurried rhythm of your horses’ hooves as you followed the trail north.

You kept glancing over your shoulder all the same. Though you had rarely seen the Skinners this far out, every deer that bounded through the brush and every rabbit that darted across the path sent your heart leaping into your throat. Perhaps it was only the residue of fear clinging to you from the night before, but you half-expected the hiss of an arrow to slice through the trees at any moment.

That unease kept you company until the woods finally began to thin.

Tall Trees seemed to bid you farewell as the world opened wide below, revealing the rolling yellow plains of West Elizabeth to your right. And beyond them, Flat Iron Lake stretched endlessly in the far distance, glittering alive under the late morning sun, a vast mirror of liquid sky.

You had never been to the other side. You had never even ridden on a train. Never crossed the imposing heights of Bard’s Crossing into New Hanover. Never seen the Lake’s shores from the Lemoyne side, where it became one with the Lannahechee that curled around Saint Denis. You’d heard the East was an entirely different world—red dirt, thick wetlands, crowded streets…

Perhaps someday, you would see it.

The thought felt like a small indulgence, a quiet sign that the leaden weight you’d been carrying since leaving the Basin was finally starting to lift.

“You’re awful quiet, ma’am,” Arthur said as the trail began its slow descent toward the Upper Montana.

“Why?” you fluttered your lashes at him with practiced mischief. “You miss the sound of my voice, Mr. Morgan?”

He chuckled, sunlight melting into the caramel of his stubble. Your gaze traced the line of his jaw, and your skin remembered—far too vividly—exactly how that bristle had felt against your lips. Just the right amount of rough to linger for days.

“I’m just sayin’,” he drawled, “for someone who talks to the laundry and was sayin’ goodbye to furniture a couple hours ago, I find the silence a bit suspicious.”

A genuine laugh escaped you—light, unburdened, the first you’d managed that morning.

“I reckon you’re just as attached to that journal or those twin pistols of yours as I am to my reliable chairs,” you countered, your eyes flicking to the way the golden engravings of his right Volcanic flashed in its holster.

He only smiled. A secret, knowing thing.

“Tell me, mister,” you said after a beat. “What’s it like to travel by train?”

“A train?” He repeated, almost to himself, as if the notion surprised him. “Don’t use ‘em much. I prefer this boy right here.” He gave the Shire’s neck a solid pat. “And truth be told, I remember more about robbin’ ‘em than actually sittin’ in the seats.”

You laughed, and he shot you a grin in return.

“But it’s calm, I guess. Shakes just like a horse. Why? You wanna see the world, butterfly? Riggs Station ain’t far.” He tipped his chin toward the eastern treeline. “I could buy you a ticket. Take you clear to Saint Denis. Find that husband of yours,” he had the nerve to wink, “and leave him for good.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you knew damn well it wasn’t the sun’s fault.

There was a lilt in his voice, in his lips—too light, too curved at the edges. That wink. Or maybe it was your own liar’s remorse. You wondered, sharp and sudden, whether he still believed the lie…or if he was simply waiting for it to crumble.

“Very funny, as usual,” you replied, fixing your eyes firmly on the trail ahead.

But your lips tingled all the same. Humming with the memory of the night before.

Between the Skinners, the frantic packing, and the constant vigilance, you hadn’t allowed yourself the space to reminisce.

The kiss.

The moan that had nearly gotten you killed.

The way your heat had flared alive and desperate against the hard, undeniable proof of his want. It had been an accidental contact, brief as a heartbeat, yet the ache between your legs lingered, insistent, demanding the same kind of touch again.

His touch.

Yet beneath the clean light of a new day, it was as if none of it had happened at all. He hadn’t spoken of it. Neither had you. And for a fleeting moment, you wondered if you had dreamt it all in the cold of the cellar.

But no.

That playful spark that lit deep between your thighs at the memory, it was a quiet signal that the fire was still there, merely sleeping.

Waiting for the right kind of touch to wake it.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. He was humming softly, some carefree melody, looking wholly at ease—as if riding through open wilderness was his natural state of being. And you couldn’t help but wonder if he even remembered.

If his lips still tingled with the ghost of your touch.

Like yours did.

By the time you reached the river, the sun had already passed its highest point.

You’d left your clock where it always sat atop your vanity, but if you had to guess, you’d say it was a little past two in the afternoon. You’d grown good at telling time by the slant of sunlight across your porch.

Your porch.

If you were still in the Basin, you would’ve retreated inside long ago. In that corner of West Elizabeth, afternoons had become forbidden hours—when sadistic freaks haunted the woods like it was their personal graveyard.

If you were there—

You shook your head lightly, chasing the thought away.

It was foolish to mourn the cabin now. The day around you was far too beautiful to ignore.

The river ran high and fresh with spring melt, its waters clear and alive. Cool droplets splashed up as your horses waded through, misting your skin in their wake. You glanced upstream, toward the far bend where the water foamed white over clusters of mossy stones, and imagined Owanjila beyond—still and blue, a flock of loons washing themselves along the shore.

The weather had been kind all morning. The pure mountain air danced with your hair just as it always had back at the Basin, but without the faint metallic edge of danger. Instead, it carried something softer.

Maybe it was only your imagination, but the air seemed to grow sweeter the farther north you rode—as if Strawberry itself were welcoming you back. The road curved in ways that felt old and familiar, remembered rather than learned.

And then, there was him.

You looked at Arthur, riding easily at your side. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy overhead, breaking into pools of gold that scattered across his skin. His massive Shire threaded through the rushing water with surprising grace, each step deliberate and calm despite the animal’s sheer size.

You realized, with a sting of gloom, that this could very well be the first and only time you ever rode together.

He turned, sensing your gaze.

And smiled.

Not the crooked grin. Not the teasing smirk. But something quieter. Honest. Something his.

You didn’t try to stop your lips from answering it. There was no reason to.

“You hungry?” he asked, his voice soft and easy, drifting like the breeze skimming the river’s surface. The water had grown shallow beneath the horses’ hooves as you reached the northern bank. “Let’s stop for a bit. Let the horses rest. We can eat them biscuits I been savin’ in my satchel—waitin’ on the right moment.”

You chuckled softly, the sound bright against the rush of the river.

“And where did you happen to come across those?”

He huffed, looking thoughtful as he adjusted his hat, which the wind had been intending to steal for the better part of the day.

“Don’t rightly remember. Few weeks back, I reckon.” He paused, his eyes alive with mischief. “Probably some butterfly lady’s cabin in Tall Trees.”

You shook your head, smiling as you pulled your horse to a stop next to his, under the inviting shade of an ancient oak.

-

Nestled under the watchful guard of Mount Shann, Strawberry finally came into view as the skies dipped into melancholic shades of mauve and pink. The town looked as though it had been artistically colored into the Big Valley highlands—like a familiar illustration from a childhood fairytale you used to trace with your finger before bed. You hadn’t been back in years, and yet there it was, unchanged in all the ways that mattered. There was an odd, grounding comfort in knowing that the world hadn’t moved on without you.

The watermill still turned tirelessly at the heart of town, it’s steady rhythm the heartbeat of the Valley. The coach driver still tipped his hat and offered to take you anywhere your heart desired, despite the perfectly good horses beneath you. The rooms for rent at the entrance of town still sat vacant, patiently waiting for guests who seemed to never quite make it to their destination. On the bridge, the carpenters still lounged at the day’s end, boots hooked on the rail, smoke curling lazily from their cigarettes as they talked about nothing and everything at the same time.

And most importantly of all, the flower baskets beneath the Welcome Center’s windows still glistened, heavy and alive with highland dew.

Just as you remembered.

You smiled, the expression reaching the very corners of your eyes.

Strawberry was still the most beautiful town in the country.

“Let’s see if they’ve got rooms at the Center,” you told Arthur, glancing at him as you slowed your pace. “Beds at the Trackers Hotel ain’t half as soft.”

“Lead the way, ma’am,” he replied easily, his voice folding seamlessly into the roar of the nearby falls.

You had a feeling he’d much rather sleep beneath the open sky, but that could wait until tomorrow night in the Valley. After a full day of riding—and the scant few hours of rest you’d managed beneath the Skinners’ threat the previous night—a soft bed felt like a hard-earned mercy, a luxury you didn’t feel like forfeiting. Still, your gaze lifted briefly to the towering heights of Mount Shann, knowing Big Valley awaited just behind its snowy peaks. A shiver of excitement raced across your skin, raising gooseflesh along your arms. You could almost hear the creek singing in your ear. You could almost smell the lavender under your fingernails.

As you crossed the bridge, the sheriff’s office came into view.

Your eyes couldn’t help but drift toward the side wall of the jailhouse. You nearly laughed. So, they’d finally fixed the hole.

“You wanna know somethin’ terrible that happened here back in ’99, Mr. Morgan?” you whispered, keeping your voice low so the lawman smoking near the gallows wouldn’t hear. “The jailhouse—there was some gang, the Van der Lindes, I think they called ‘em. One of ‘em—real rough, real tough-looking they say—blew the wall clean open to—”

“Eh—ma’am,” he cut in quietly, just a touch too fast. “Maybe we ain’t gotta talk ‘bout things like that next to the sher—”

You gasped.

The way his expression stilled—just for a heartbeat—betrayed him more than any confession ever could.

“Christ. Mr. Morgan, you—” Your hand flew to your mouth. “You didn’t—”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, ma’am,” he replied calmly. “I’m clean now. Sheriff,” Arthur greeted, tipping his hat as he dismounted at the hitching post in front of the Welcome Center. The man returned the nod from the gallows.

Your heart thudded wildly in your chest. Was he one of ‘em Van der Linde—

“I’ll feed the horses, make sure they’re settled for the night,” Arthur said, hands already reaching for your waist to help you down.

You barely had time to register his touch before your cheeks flared alive, boots landing on the cold ground with a soft thud, your breath caught sharp in your throat as he leaned in again, close enough that only you could hear him.

“We can talk ‘bout whatever you want later,” he whispered, his voice indulgent and coarse as brown sugar. “But now I need you to go inside, butterfly. Check the rooms. Pick the one you like.” His fingertips seemed to burn your skin right through the fabric of your skirt, his broad frame effectively shielding the heat blooming in your face from the Sheriff’s wandering eye. “I’ll take whatever’s left.”

You only managed a dumb, helpless nod. The way his eyes flicked down to your lips for a fleeting second was enough to turn you stupid.

“Go on,” he nudged you gently, his thumbs tracing a slow, agonizing arc along the waistband of your skirt before he let go.

You climbed the front steps of the building, suddenly very aware of your own walk, of the sway of your hips, of the rustle of your skirts, of the way his presence seemed to follow you like the setting sun even after you turned toward the door. You pushed the sturdy wood open, the familiar creak greeting you like an old friend. You tried to focus on that sound instead of the phantom thumbprints still lingering at your waist.

The clerk emerged promptly from behind the counter. His eyes—now framed by more lines than you remembered—widened a little behind his spectacles, before he smoothed his surprise into a polite smile. Mr. Fowler had always been a man of proper forms. Still, you knew he remembered you. You had washed the bedsheets for this place and the hotel across the road for years. That was how you’d learned which rooms held the softest mattresses in town.

“Miss,” he greeted warmly. “Welcome back. I thought you—” He paused, clearing his throat. “Never mind. May I offer you a room for the night?”

You caught the exact moment his curiosity was outweighed by years of practiced customer service.

“Make it two, please, Mr. Fowler.”

He nodded, turning to retrieve the keys.

“Traveling with a companion, miss?” he asked casually, fumbling with the rack longer than necessary. You knew him well enough to recognize the pretense.

“Yes, we rode all day from—”

“Truly a shame what happened to your old place,” he interrupted, still searching in a drawer despite there being only two rooms to choose from. “Mayor Timmins debated for some time, not knowing if you’d return. Chip Cooper told him we wouldn’t be seeing you again.” He finally surfaced with a single key, clicking it against the counter. “And lo and behold. Here you are. That man’s always been trouble. Never trusted him. And the years have only proven me right. To run a moonshine business right beneath the Mayor’s feet… Christ!”

Your old place? A shine business? What had even—

“Are you married, miss?”

The question snapped you back to the present.

You opened your mouth only to realize you didn’t know why he was asking or what you were supposed to answer.

“Forgive the question,” he added quickly, “but I only ask because I have just the one room available. Room three.”

Of course he did.

“Room One was booked with weeks in advance. Mayor Timmins expects an extremely important guest from New York,” he added, scribbling notes on a ledger. “I could give you the room, but the guest could arrive at any moment, and it would be a shame to disturb you in the middle of a restful night to make you clear the room.”

“Oh—never mind. We’ll check the Trackers—”

“Booked. Every bed. Sorry, miss.” He offered a hasty, tight-lipped smile. “It’s either Room Three or camping under the stars.” He let out a small giggle.

And you forced one of your own—not out of amusement, but to buy yourself a moment to think.

If you took the room, Arthur would almost certainly follow Mr. Fowler’s advice to camp under the stars. You knew he didn’t need much encouragement to avoid a roof. And if you turned it down, then you’d both be sleeping on the cold ground. You didn’t usually mind, but tonight you could really do with clean water, a soft bed, a door that locked. You hadn’t washed since yesterday morning. And his wounds craved rest and care to heal, even if he always seemed to think otherwise. The image of him sleeping alone on the hard earth in the cold of the night…No. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t been sharing a cabin in the middle of the woods for weeks, anyway.

“We’ll take the room,” you said, just as the front door creaked open behind you.

Once upstairs, you’d find a way to convince him to stay. A warm hearth, fresh sheets, a soft mattress... how hard could it be to tempt a tired man?

“Excellent,” Mr. Fowler said, sliding the key toward you. His eyes flicked to Arthur, then back to you—assessing the pair of you, imagining a married life, fitting the pieces together into a story of his own making. Apparently satisfied, he beamed. “Welcome back, sir. I can also arrange a bath, if you like. A couple’s bath costs a little extra, but for just a bit more, we’ll include rose petals, champagne from—”

“A bath for the lady,” Arthur cut in smoothly, setting coins on the counter. “And one for me. Separate.”

“But of course,” Mr. Fowler stammered, visibly flustered. Then, scrambling for his lost propriety, he added, “I can have dinner sent up afterward. On the house.”

Arthur glanced at you, his mouth curving into a surprised, amused line. “Ain’t this gentleman generous?”

“That’s very kind of you, mister,” you smiled at Cecil Fowler, already turning as Arthur headed for the stairs.

A couple’s bath.

The thought lingered far longer than it had any right to, curling low and playful in your belly as you followed him up the creaking wooden steps. Absurd, really—but it still coaxed a quiet smile from your lips.

Upstairs, the little salon was hushed and mellow, the air steeped in aged cedar and the faint, clean perfume of soap. The late afternoon light bled through the windows, laying long, golden streaks across the polished floorboards.

Even as your hand found the door to Room Three and slid the key into the lock, your eyes betrayed you—darting to the washroom door beside it. You didn’t stop them. You didn’t stop your imagination, either.

Bare skin glistening under the amber glow of candlelight.

Playful bubbles pearling over broad, sun-kissed shoulders.

Water tracing over the expanse of a lavishly freckled back.

Perfumed steam softening the jagged lines of old scars until they blurred into nothing but gentle memories.

Strong, calloused hands working away the road’s dust and the day’s grit from the iron meat of his thighs, lavender oil clinging stubbornly to skin and hair alike.

Would he mind if you offered to do all that for him? If your hands helped? If your lips—

“There you go.”

His voice cut through the soapy fantasy like a splash of cold, sobering water. He held out your satchel and saddlebag, his knuckles brushing yours as you took them.

You blinked, heat rushing to your face as you turned the key on its lock.

“Thank you…” You stepped inside, the room an island of domestic peace amid the wild sprawl of West Elizabeth. It was modest in size but still larger than your cabin, honey-colored walls glowing wistfully in the pink streaks of the dying day.

“Mr. Morgan—actually…” your eyes darted to the bed—a heavy quilt of deep evergreen draped over a wide, inviting mattress, already welcoming you to the restful night ahead.

You sighed, releasing the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “Just…come here.”

Before he could question it, you caught his hand—his palm rough, warm and somehow familiar against yours, despite this being the first time you’d properly held it. You tugged him inside and closed the door behind him with a soft but decisive click.

The light thud of your bags hitting the floor echoed louder than it should have in the quiet space. Somehow, it felt easier to convince him to stay once he was already past the threshold, caught in the rosy glow of the room with you.

“There aren’t any more rooms,” you began, turning to face him. “They’re all booked. And no, before you start getting too excited about camping out on the outskirts by yourself…once again, the answer is no. We’re sharing this bed.” You held his gaze, your look firm as if daring him to defy you.

He turned his head slightly, glancing at the evergreen quilt waiting behind him. Then, his attention returned to you, standing with your back pressed against the hard door, waiting for the argument.

His brow furrowed slightly, blue eyes searching your face with careful, measured intensity—like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, debating whether the fall would be worth it.

Like he was deciding exactly how close he was allowed to stand.

How close you wanted him to be.

“Okay,” he said easily—surprisingly so—setting his own bags down. “Ain’t even said a thing, butterfly.” He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “No need to scold me,” he whispered.

Your lungs stalled, forgetting their purpose the moment they caught the scent of that premium tobacco he liked to smoke—rich, familiar, intoxicating.

“Good,” you breathed, victory tugging at the corners of your mouth, holding his gaze as he closed the remaining distance.

“Ain’t like we haven’t been sharin’ space already,” he added. His hands returned to your waist as if to prove his point—not gripping, just resting there, his thumbs hovering as if asking for a permission he already knew he had.

As if giving you the chance to stop him.

As if you’d ever want to.

“Bed’s big enough for two,” he whispered, voice deeper now—testing—as the space between you collapsed.

“Exactly.” You tipped your chin up, a smirk playing on your lips. Your hands rose of their own accord, settling against his biceps—hard, unyielding, and impossibly real. Iron beneath sun-warmed skin. You felt his breath shift at the contact.

In the honest amber of the sunset, every detail stood bare, every little thing the cellar’s darkness had withheld from you the night before. The freckles dusting his nose, the scar at his chin where stubble refused to grow, the rosy cheeks the long day’s ride had artistically painted on his features, and the fine lines carved into his skin by years of living under the sun.

“Even that husband of yours would agree,” he murmured, leaning close just enough that his words brushed your mouth. They melted against your lips like warm honey, lighting a delightful spark under your skirt— a puzzling combination of wrong and right— making you feel foolish for ever thinking he’d forgotten a single second of the night before.

“I don’t know about that,” you replied, your fingertips gliding up the powerful, tense muscle of his arms.

“No?” He shifted, bracing his knee against the hard wood of the door, right in the cradle between your legs.

The audacity of the movement stole your breath, his thigh between your own a temptation so cruel it felt like a taunt. Every nerve screamed for you to lean into that solid muscle of him, to chase the delicious friction you knew his denim could provide. The one he was denying you on purpose.

“Well,” he murmured, “there’s always the floor. Reckon I can—”

“Absolutely not,” your voice came out breathless, your folds slick with delight, aching for his touch. “Reckon my husband would want you to stay and take care of his lady.”

“His lady?”

A sudden, sharp moan escaped your lips when his fingers tightened abruptly in the fabric of your skirt, a grip so firm, so possessive it felt like a reminder that he could tear the wool away whenever he chose to. And Lord, you wished he would.

“Yes,” you dared to reply, the word barely more than a whisper. Your grip on his biceps tightened for support, your legs turning liquid as they threatened to surrender, to press your aching heat against the iron of his thigh, solid and determined between your legs.

“I see.” The intense blue of his stare burned your skin, drawing you in even as it scorched. “Bastard’s lucky I want nothin’ but takin’ care of her.”

He leaned in.

So slowly it felt cruel.

Your lips hovered a breath apart, warmth mingling, shared air trembling between you. Your body surrendered to the magnetic pull of him, tipping forward even as your mind screamed for restraint.

“Bath’s ready!”

The knock shattered the moment like falling glass.

You both pulled back at once, hearts hammering against ribs. His knee left the cradle of your legs, and his hands fell away from your waist, leaving only a ghostly warmth behind.

“Yes—thank you,” Arthur called, voice rougher than before.

He glanced at you once more, something raw and unresolved burning behind his eyes. “You can go first.”

You hesitated, just a beat too long, your gaze drawn to the inviting pulse throbbing in his neck.

Then, with a nod, you turned and left, the door closing softly behind you.

You stepped into the little salon, the cool mountain air from the open window rushing in to kiss your flushed skin. You pressed your back to the door, breathing deep to the rhythm of the waterfall beside you, trying to steady yourself—

—and knowing, with aching certainty, that the evening was far from over.

-

The first lights had begun to bloom, scattered across town like fallen stars. One by one, they flickered back to life—from the hotel windows across the road, from Mr. Cooper’s store below, from the doctor’s house and his neighbors on the far side of town, and from the lampposts lining the bridge, glowing like fireflies caught in iron.

You watched them all from your private balcony, elbows resting on the railing, the scent of flowers spilling from the hanging baskets and mingling with the dark coffee warming your hands.

The soft click of a door behind you painted a smile on your lips.

“Enjoyed your bath, Mr. Morgan?” You lifted the cup for a sip as the quiet thud of bare feet approached. “Come here and I’ll show you why that so-called Jewel of Lemoyne don’t hold a candle to my hometown.”

You heard his chuckle before you felt his presence.

When you turned, he stood inside the doorway—proper enough in his jeans and shirt, but only just. The fabric clung where it was still damp, barely buttoned, untucked. Pearls of water glistened in the golden hair dusting his chest, and the cotton was spotted where water dripped from his hair.

You took another slow sip and turned back toward the street despite yourself. You didn’t trust your hands—or your lips—if you looked at him too long. And you certainly didn’t need to give the Sheriff smoking next door a show.

Still, the clean scent of soap clung to him, fresh and inviting, and your skin prickled in response.

“You never told me why you left town,” He toweled his hair as he came to stand beside you. His voice was deep, steady, carried easily over the distant murmur of evening life below. “You seem…fond of it here.”

You let your gaze wander over Strawberry—the storybook charm, the pine-thick air of the highlands, the way the Valley cradled the town like a secret. Who in their right mind would leave a place like this?

But you knew why you had.

“One morning,” you began softly, “just like any other, I was washin’ bedsheets down by the creek.” You tipped your chin lightly toward the southern entrance of town. Under the shade of an old cedar. That was your favorite spot. “There was a stain that wouldn’t come out. Wine, most likely.” You smiled faintly at the memory. “I don’t remember how long I knelt there. Just scrubbing. Waiting for the red to surrender.” Your fingers tightened briefly around the warm mug. “At some point, I caught my reflection in the water—crooked, all broken up by the current.”

The evening breeze teased your still-damp hair, cool against your neck, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the bath still humming in your skin.

“And I knew,” you reminisced quietly, “that I didn’t want that to be all there was. I didn’t want to be the laundry girl forever.”

You lifted the mug to your lips, letting the steam kiss the evening chill away.

“Strawberry will always be the only place that truly feels like home, Mr. Morgan,” you admitted. “But I wanted to see more. Of the world. Of myself. To know who I was without this town telling me.”

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fidget or rush you along. He simply leaned beside you, forearms resting on the railing, listening like your words mattered.

Below, Mayor Timmins emerged from the general store—still sharply dressed, puffed sleeves intact, though the hair beneath his top hat had gone noticeably whiter.

“I always liked the solitude of the Valley,” you added after a moment. “I’d camp out there for days. Never felt lonely. Never felt like I needed civilization to remind me I existed.” You turned to him then, studying the lines of his face softened by the setting sun. “Though… this is nice too,” you lifted your cup towards town, “in its own jumbled way.”

He smiled, small and understanding, nodding once.

“What about you?” you asked gently—the words more an invitation than a question. “Why’d you leave the gang? If you don’t mind me askin’.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Long enough for another lamp to flicker to life below, its glow spilling warm and gold against the flowing river.

“I didn’t,” he said at last. “The gang left me.”

His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, on the cherry-colored sky bleeding slowly into night.

“I got…real sick, toward the end,” he went on, voice barely more than a rasp, his words measured with care. “Breathin’ alone felt like work. Every morning felt…borrowed.” He let out a quiet breath that almost passed for a laugh, though there was no humor to be found in it. “Kinda thing that changes the way you look at the world. At people…at yourself.”

You didn’t miss the way his grip on the railing tightened—just slightly.

“Most of the folk I cared about,” he continued, “they made it out. And somehow, despite my best efforts to the contrary—I did too.” The corners of his mouth curved, faint and fleeting, and something in his tone told you this was an old wound—scarred over, but not forgotten, just lived with. “Even after all that, I’d still wake up some mornings, saddle my horse, tell myself I’d ride back to camp. Or whatever was left of it.”

He shifted, his grip on the wood loosening.

“But there weren’t nothin’ there no more.” He shook his head once. “Only memories. Buried cold under campfire ash. Shattered like bottles broken back in ‘99.” He smiled at the horizon—small, wistful, and heartbreakingly lonely. “After more than twenty years of ridin’ together, it was just…gone. Like it’d all been a dream I took two damn decades to wake up from.”

Silence settled between you, gentle and heavy all at once.

You looked at him then—really looked at him. And for a fleeting moment, you didn’t see the outlaw you’d found bleeding in your kitchen, nor the gentleman you’d been sharing a roof with for the last couple weeks. But the son who’d carried loyalty even when it crushed him. The big brother who’d nearly paid for it with his life. The ghost that had come back from the dead not because he wanted to, but because fate hadn’t finished with him yet.

Your chest ached—a phantom pain—like an old, half-healed bruise still tender to the touch.

All that loss. All that hurt. And still, here he was—standing beside you, breathing the clean mountain air, watching the lights come on one by one like quiet promises.

“Some days,” he added quietly, “I still wake up and saddle my horse. Reckon now I’m just lookin’ for a little bit of quiet.” His eyes searched the sky, as if the life he wanted was hidden somewhere behind the pink clouds. “Though I seem to bring a whole lotta noise wherever I go.”

A faint sound escaped you—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

You felt a strange, fierce gratitude that he had made it out of that long dream alive.

And an unbearable sadness for everything it had cost him to do so.

Suddenly, you understood why the Skinners didn’t frighten him. Why a morning plunge into icy water made him feel so alive. After all that—after walking out the valley of death itself—what were a few pelt-wearing clowns in the woods, really?

You reached out, allowing your hand to rest over his on the railing—a simple, caring touch. “The noise hasn't reached us tonight, Mr. Morgan.”

He turned his head and smiled then—soft and genuine—the last of the setting sun sparkling in his eyes, painting the blue of them a brief, brilliant pink.

A light knock at the door drew your attention.

Dinner.

You smoothed your thumb once over the back of his hand—a tender, reassuring pressure—before turning away and stepping back into the room to answer.

You took the tray from Mr. Fowler’s courteous hands, offering a polite smile as you noticed him crane his neck, trying to peer past you into the amber glow of the room.

“Enjoy! Oh—and ma’am.” His gaze flicked past you toward the balcony, toward Arthur. “The guest we’re expecting is very sensitive to noise.”

You nodded easily. “Rest assured, mister. We’re both so tired we’ll likely fall asleep before your guest even arrives,” you promised before closing the door on his inquisitive face.

The warm glow of the lamps cast a honeyed light across the small room as you carried the tray to the table by the window, setting it down with care. Arthur followed you inside soon after, lured in by the comforting scent of herbs and roasted meat.

And you understood the pull immediately.

After a long day of riding under the sun with little more than dry biscuits to sustain you, the contents of the tray felt almost sacred.

At its heart lay thick slices of roast venison, dark and glistening, the meat still steaming faintly, its surface lacquered with rendered fat and crushed herbs. Besides it sat a generous mound of mashed potatoes, whipped smooth and pale, the faintest hint of garlic warming the air. Biscuits, steaming and split, waited patiently at the edge of the plate near a small crock of butter already melting at the edges. Coffee had been freshly refilled, dark and fragrant.

And nestled at the center—

Sitting atop of a shallow porcelain dish like a trophy—

Perfectly ripe. Skins blushing soft pink and gold, split clean down the middle, the tender flesh glossy and swollen with juice. Golden syrup pooled lazily at the bottom of the dish, catching the lamplight like amber. One careless touch and they’d fall apart.

Peaches.

You swallowed hard.

Wet.

Tempted.

Your gaze lingered on the fruit—on the way the flesh curved, yielding and full, on the way the juice clung thick and sweet to the knife marks. They smelled like summer. Like warmth. Like a sin you weren’t meant to indulge in again.

The sin of lips.

His lips.

You remembered the shape of them when they curved into that knowing smile of experience. The softness you hadn’t expected when they’d brushed yours in the dark. They way their warmth still lingered long after, just enough to keep the spark between your thighs alive all day, humming quietly beneath every ordinary movement.

He shifted beside you. You felt it without even looking—the tension pulling tight in him, coiled and patient like a drawn bow, waiting for the perfect shot. You heard it in the way air left his lungs, slow and weighted, heavy with the same memory that was currently looping endlessly in your mind.

When you finally turned to him, he was already watching you.

Not teasing now. No guard held in place. No deflective smirk. Just open. Waiting. And looking every bit as starved as you were.

“So…” you whispered, your eyes flicking—traitorously—to his lips, “sweet.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, voice husky and low.

Still, neither of you reached for the peaches.

Instead, the space between you closed without either of you deciding to move. One breath. Then another. Your hand came up, slow—hesitant only for a heartbeat—before settling against his cheek, your thumb brushing over the rough, sun-warmed bristle.

That was all it took.

He leaned in, lips finding yours with quiet need, a thirst he’d been silently carrying since the first light of morning. A soft, desperate sound slipped from you into his mouth—one you didn’t bother to swallow. This kiss was nothing like the first; there was no fear to temper it, no restraint to hold it back. Just heat. Just want. The long, unbearable patience you’d endured all day snapping clean in half.

He groaned softly against your lips, his hands sliding to your waist as though he’d been waiting for permission all along. You kissed him harder, opening wider for him, tasting coffee and smoke, and sun and danger, and sugar and sin…

Your fingers threaded into his still-damp hair just as his curled into the thin fabric of your chemise.

The world tipped.

You nudged him back, the backs of his knees catching the edge of the bed. He went willingly, without protest, bringing you down with him as the soft mattress dipped beneath his weight.

And then you were straddling him.

Again.

Just like the night before.

Only this time, there were no Skinners pacing upstairs. No looming threat. No stolen urgency. No cold cellar floor.

Just a locked door. A safe room. A warm bed.

And the two of you—finally alone.

You hovered there, breathless and flushed, staring down at him like you’d just realized something both dangerous and beautiful all at once.

Arthur’s chest rose sharply beneath you, his heart a frantic rhythm against your own.

The evergreen quilt bunched under your knees, soft and thick.

His lips were swollen from your kiss, glistening with the traces of you, his eyes hooded and heavy with a burning, shimmering delight. The sight of him like that—undone, wanting, utterly yours to kiss—made a smile touch your mouth before you leaned down again. Savoring him slower this time. Deliberate. Claiming. Pressing butterfly kisses against his mouth, lingering just long enough to make every pull-away ache. Letting the wet, soft sounds of your lips releasing his tell him exactly how badly you’d wanted this.

His hand slid along your thigh, the warmth of his palm burning through the fabric as it traveled up to your hips, only to retreat again—as though he feared the moment might shatter if he dared too much. Your skirt gathered higher under his touch, the heat suffocating you with every restrained caress.

“Your room is right here, mister.”

You pulled back just slightly as Mr. Fowler’s polite chatter carried in from the salon, boots thudding elegantly against the boards outside.

“So glad you could make it, sir. Your room has been waiting for you since the very same day your letter arrived. What is it, sir?”

You shifted on Arthur’s lap, bringing your focus back to him. You searched for the solid proof of his desire—the one you’d been craving since you’d first felt it pressing against you in the dark of the cellar. The conversation outside didn’t concern you. The world beyond that door mattered very little when you had him under you.

His hands tightened at your hips when you finally found it. Hard. Impatient. A giant barely restrained under dark denim, begging you to free him.

“…No need to worry, sir,” Mr. Fowler continued, his voice cheerfully oblivious. “The couple in Room Three is decent folk. Known the lady since the last century. And the gentleman—well, he’s stayed here plenty. Never had trouble with him. Since ’99, at least.”

You straightened slightly, palms flattening against the iron planes of his chest. You met his gaze and rolled your hips just once—slow, deliberate—creating a sinful friction that was enough to draw a sharp breath from him, his jaw tightening as he fought himself. You whimpered softly—testing him—your brow furrowed in delight as your eyes swam in the blue of his gaze. His mouth parted slightly in silent pleasure, fingernails buried so deep into the fat of your hips you knew the marks would linger for days.

You angled deeper, letting the tender bud between your folds enjoy the friction too, and the contact tore a moan from you before you could stop it—your whole body shuddering, giving way, crumbling against him at the exquisite, sharp pleasure of it.

A small, reckless part of you wondered if the sounds of your delight carried through the open balcony door. And you were sorry—to Strawberry, to the neighbors, to anyone passing below—but the gentleman beneath you was making it impossible to care—

A hard, impatient knock struck the door, making your shoulders jolt.

You scrambled off his lap, smoothing your chemise as you leaned back against the headboard, your breath coming fast and uneven. Arthur rose with visible reluctance, running a hand through his hair as he crossed the room, every step heavy with frustration.

“Yes?” he huffed, voice edged and dangerously thin, opening the door only a narrow inch.

You could easily imagine Mr. Fowler on the other side, craning his neck at an awkward angle, checking—discreetly, unsuccessfully—that everything inside remained in proper order.

“Sir!” he chuckled nervously. “I know you’re both very decent guests, but I must ask that you enjoy your dinner as quietly as possible. The guest in Room One—”

“Sure. Good night.”

Arthur closed the door before the man could finish, the click of the lock echoing like a final gunshot in the small, silent room.

He returned to your side slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed with his shoulders tense, as if weighing the gravity of the moment that had just been stolen from you both.

For a moment, only the pop and hiss of the wood in the hearth dared to interrupt the silence.

“He said—” he began, his voice a rough scrape of gravel.

“Yeah,” you cut in softly, your heart still hammering against your ribs like it wanted to break free.

“I reckon we—”

“Exactly,” you agreed instantly, not giving him the chance to talk sense into the situation.

“Jesus, you always talk this much?” He huffed a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. The bed groaned under his weight as he leaned over you suddenly, a dangerous smirk tugging at his outlaw lips.

“Only when I don’t feel like waitin’.” You smiled back, your fingers already finding their way back into the thick locks at the nape of his neck.

“That explains a lot.” He pressed his mouth to yours again—slow, certain—his broad frame pinning you gently against the headboard as the world outside faded into insignificance once more.

His kiss was sweet, carrying the lingering sugar of the peach you’d eaten the night before, and agonizingly patient—like a gentleman who understood the value of waiting for fruit to ripen.

He pulled back, just barely—just enough for your lips to part in protest—his nose brushing yours in the dim light, your skin already aching for the scrape of his stubble.

“You like my lips, Mr. Morgan?” you whispered, the lines from his journal flashing through your mind like a secret you weren’t supposed to know. Your hand rested comfortably against the iron-hard bicep braced beside your head.

“What use is there in askin’ the obvious, butterfly?” he said, years of tobacco, trail dust, and woodsmoke lodged deep in his husky, tempting voice. “Prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” His thumb slid slowly over your bottom lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the damp heat inside.

“Is that so?” You pressed your thighs together, chasing friction where heat had already begun to bloom. “What else do you like?”

“Hard to know,” his hand left your mouth to settle heavy and possessive on your thigh, “if I haven’t tasted it first.”

“Then taste it,” you dared, the invitation barely out of your mouth when your legs parted slightly, the cool mountain air from the balcony whispering against the sticky syrup that glistened between them.

He only smirked.

Instead of claiming you, he shifted, lowering himself to your side, propping his head on his hand as though he had nowhere else to be. As though he had all the time in the world to spare. As though he had no intention of touching you at all.

“What about the cookie-man?” he asked, his voice dropping into that dangerously intimate register. His free hand returned to your thigh, but instead of parting them, he pressed your legs together, locking your desire within suffocating walls. You almost whimpered in frustration.

“Who?” you managed, your thoughts unraveling beneath the heavy, commanding pressure of his fingers against your thigh.

“Your husband.” His gaze traced a slow path from your mouth down the line of your throat, lingering where your pulse fluttered beneath thin fabric of your chemise. For a moment, you thought—hoped, wished, prayed—he might kiss it. “Reckon he’d be real upset,” he continued, voice low and deliberate, “if these hands were to peel this nightdress off his pretty wife.”

Your body reacted before you could stop it, your thighs trying to bloom open for him—but he didn’t allow it. His grip remained firm, trapping your want in place.

“Open ‘em impatient thighs,” he murmured, his eyes dark with the fantasy he was spinning. “Touch her where she wants,” he squeezed just enough to draw a breathless moan from you. “Till my name’s the one she sings. And not his.”

Another sound slipped free of you—half-gasp, half-sin. Your cheeks burned as you pressed your thighs together again, desperate for any relief, any friction at all. Your folds—dripping with delight—glided deliciously against each other.

“Don’t wanna think ‘bout him no more,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a breath. “Bastard left me in the woods. All by myself. Until a real gentleman showed up.” Your legs shifted once more—insistent—and this time, seemingly pleased with your answer, he let you open for him.

His large, rough hand—the same hand that sketched careful lines of those he loved and placed bullets cleanly into those he didn’t—slid under the hem of your chemise with a devastating lack of ceremony. A sharp, hitching breath left you as his fingers found the slit of your drawers, brushing against the hair hidden there, and the cool touch of moist fabric against your skin told you exactly what he was about to find: you were already a wet, aching mess.

“Jesus, butterfly,” he whispered, the light tug of a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “All this ‘cause of a peach?”

You nodded helplessly, your brow knitting in pleasure, lips pressed tight together as you fought to keep quiet. The rough, exquisite pads of his fingers moved with reverent precision, exploring your slick folds, coaxing you gently until they discovered the tender bud hidden within—hot, aching, and swollen with want. His touch remained slow, deliberate, as though encouraging the most delicate flower to open for him.

“A—Arthur,” you whimpered, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

“Shh,” he hissed softly, his thumb circling the tender flesh in an unhurried, torturous rhythm that sent your hips bucking involuntarily into his hand. “Gotta do this quiet, remember?”

He said it—yet two thick fingers sank deeper inside you in the same breath, a sudden, possessive invasion that made your toes curl into the quilt.

“You sure you don’t miss him?” he groaned against your ear, a low guttural sound of triumph accompanying each deep, unrelenting stroke.

“Y—yes,” you managed, the word breaking into a soft whimper against his shoulder. “Hope he stays in Saint Denis forever.”

“Poor bastard.” His voice melted against your ear like caramel, and you didn’t need to see his face to know he was smirking.

“Exactly—ah—” you broke off, moaning into his shirt as his palm pressed hard against you, cupping you flat as his fingers continued their steady, indulgent rhythm that began to fracture your world into sparks of white and orange behind your closed eyes.

“Look at me, butterfly,” he commanded, his breath hot against your ear, each stroke of his fingers deeper and needier than the last. “Let me see ‘em pretty lips when I touch you like this.”

You obeyed instantly, against all better judgement. There was no way to keep quiet now—not when his fingers curled inside you like that, not when the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you echoed obscenely in the room, only making you wetter still.

“Shhh,” he brushed his nose against yours as if to soothe the desperate hitch of your breath. “You’re real pretty, butterfly,” he gifted you the mercy of a peck against your lips. “So damn tight.”

You bit back a scream of pure, unadulterated pleasure at the compliment, his fingers working a magic that sent shivers through every nerve in your body.

He leaned in to claim your mouth again. His lips urgent, desperate, tasting of hunger that had turned wild. His tongue pressed against yours, mirroring the unrelenting rhythm of his fingers below. You kissed him back with a greed you hadn’t known you possessed, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, starving for more of him.

Beyond the walls, the world went on—murmured voices drifting up from the street, the distant, eternal rush of the waterfall, cicadas humming their evening song, and the cool night air inviting itself through the open balcony door. But inside this room, wrapped in the heat of his body, you were burning. The air was thick with the quiet, illicit sounds of your shared desperation: the soft pull of lips, the slick glide of his fingers inside you, the broken gasps you couldn’t contain when his thumb brushed just the right spot, the mattress creaking as you arched toward him…

You savored the moment, the sweetness coating his lips, a dizzying blend of dark coffee and premium cigarettes that made your head swim.

His pace quickened, fingers burying deeper and harder into your sensitive walls as you swallowed them whole. The smell of lavender drifting from his damp locks drove you higher and higher, promising that the fall would hurt. Pressure bloomed low in your belly, a sweet, agonizing ache spreading through your core. You whimpered, a helpless, desperate sound that was lost in the hungry open mouth he pressed against yours. You clutched him tighter, your nails digging into the rough fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as the edges of your vision blurred.

Then it crested.

With a soft, broken cry of his name—a sound he swallowed whole— you shattered.

Your body arched against him, every muscle seizing as pleasure gushed out of you in bright, blinding waves. You convulsed around his fingers, a silent, beautiful explosion at dusk. Satisfaction rumbled deep in his chest, his hold on you tightening as he pressed you against him, riding the aftermath with you. The sweet, heavy scent of your pleasure filled the small space, an intoxicating perfume that seemed to settle in the very grain of the wood.

He kissed you through it all, slower now, tender—soft presses of his mouth, butterfly kisses to your lips until your trembling eased. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing the same ragged air.

“A—Arthur.” Your eyes fluttered open to the amber glow of the lamp with a sigh of his name, feeling warm, sated, and utterly cherished. Your hand drifted down, finding him hard, eager and neglected beneath his jeans. You stroked him gently, a silent offer.

He caught your wrist, his grip gentle but firm.

“S’okay.” He kissed the back of your hand, his voice thick with an emotion you’d never heard in a man before. “Just you’s more than enough for me.” One so steady and so deep it sounded almost like a promise. “Reckon you must be real hungry. Ain’t had a proper meal since that stew from last night.”

You melted into the pillows, your skin humming with the ghost of his touch as you watched him rise from the bed.

The world remained blurred at the edges, your senses beautifully clouded with delight as your eyes followed him to the washbasin in the corner of the room.

You watched the play of muscles across his back as he cleaned his hands, water splashing softly in the quiet. And all the while, a single thought looped through your mind:

How could a man with bounties on his head and blood on his hands—capable of robbing trains, shattering jail walls, ending lives with cold precision—be such a gentleman to you?

So careful.

So sweet.

So selfless.

“A little cold but—” he broke the silence, shoving a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth, the simple domesticity of the act making your heart ache. “Reckon this still works for me.”

You smiled absentmindedly from the bed, your fingers drawing idle patterns over the bruising flesh of your thigh, where his hands had just been. As you watched him under the fairytale glow of the lamplight, the realization settled over you with a quiet, soul-crushing certainty. After Big Valley—after he’d seen you safely back to the Aurora—the gentleman and the outlaw would both vanish into the wild.

He was a man of the trail. A son of the wilderness and open skies. A memory meant to drift in the wind. A shadow that belonged to the horizon. He was the kind of stranger you tipped your hat to when you crossed paths on lonely roads at dusk—not the kind of forever you kept chained to the domestic rituals of a cabin in the woods.

Your gaze drifted to the empty space beside you on the bed, still warm, still bearing the shape of him. Once his debt of care was paid, he would ride out of your life atop that raven Shire of his, just as abruptly as he’d crashed into it—leaving nothing behind but the lingering scent of cigarettes and leather.

A scent you already knew no soap, no “magic solution” of yours, could ever remove from your skin.

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First one drop on your cheek, then another on your shoulder. You turn in your saddle, glancing back to the forest you’d spent the better part of the afternoon hunting in; a successful hunt, thankfully. The sky above has roiling, dark clouds close by, part rain and part the start of the evening. Not above you just yet but you know soon the rain will be pouring down. Not enough time to make it back to camp, but enough time to set up a tent if you stop now.

“Arthur,” you start, wiping the errant drop of rain off your face.

“I know,” he replies, not turning back to you. He flicks his head, using his chin to point at the path ahead of you both, “We’ll stop in Valentine.”

Thunder rumbles miles behind you, close enough to make your horse burr and pick up her pace, getting you right beside Arthur. You pat her neck then make sure the rabbits you have tied to her saddle are secured, after the rain you’ll still be expected to bring in some food for the gang. The buck strapped down on the haunches of Arthur’s mare Temperina stays snugly in place even as she joins your horse in a canter.

“It’s alright, Rio,” you soothe, scratching the side of your mare’s neck, “You’ll be alright.”

It only takes a few more minutes to reach town but by then the rain has started, a light shower that makes you shudder as it dampens your clothes. Thankfully the stables have room for your horses, the kills will have to stay on their saddles until tomorrow but they’ll keep. Arthur takes both your saddlebag and his off the horses, slings them over one shoulder and walks towards the open door. You feed Rio an apple from your palm and kiss her nose before joining Arthur at the exit, sighing when you realize the rain has picked up. It falls in fast, heavy drops, turning the dirt roads of Valentine into mud. People run inside and dogs snap their jaws trying to catch the water in their mouths, the rain muffles all the sounds of the town into a dull, steady thrum.

“Let’s go,” Arthur says, pushing his hat down on his head then lifting his arm for you to duck under.

You curl up under his jacket as you two run to the hotel, mud gets kicked up to your knees but the rest of you makes it out unscathed, Arthur takes the brunt of the rain without complaint. The door shuts behind you, Arthur's arm brushes down your back as he returns it to his side. A tremor runs through you, sucking in a hard breath makes you realize you and Arthur smell like sun baked brush and sweat. You don’t mind it at all.

You both do your best to scrape all the mud off your boots at the entrance mat before you enter any further, you give the clerk a smile as he greets you both, “You’re in luck, we have one last room available,” the man chirps as he takes the key off the hook and holds it out to you, “Perfect for the happy couple!”

Something about being mistaken for a couple makes you want to burst into nervous laughter. Not that the thought is unpleasant, the opposite, in fact. You wait for Arthur to correct him. He doesn't. Arthur just rebalances the saddlebags on his shoulder before reaching into his satchel and pulling out a dollar, placing it on the counter with a muttered thank you then taking the key. He hurries up the stairs and you’re quick to follow, apologizing to the clerk over your shoulder for the mud.

The room is outfitted with a single bed. Not ideal, but it’s warm and dry, its own fireplace and two windows that tinkle with the sound of falling rain. In short, you think it’s perfect. Arthur puts your saddlebags on the dresser and starts to peel off his wet jacket.

“Go order us some baths,” he instructs, the leather of his jacket squeaking.

“Excuse me?”

Arthur huffs a laugh and gives you a smile over his shoulder, “Please, order us some baths.”

“That’s better,” you nod, “Start a fire for us, would you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Arthur replies with a nod of his own. He turns to hand you some coins for the bath out of his bag before facing the vanity again, shrugging his suspenders off his shoulders.

You smile at his back then turn on your heel to head downstairs.

You return from the baths before Arthur does, feeling shiny and clean and exhausted as you pull a nightdress from your saddlebag. The cotton is pleasantly scratchy against your body, you wring out the ends of your hair with a towel as the rain pattering against the window makes your eyelids grow heavier. It can’t hurt to sit for a moment, you think. The bed is soft and cushiony compared to the saddle you’d ridden in for hours today and the fire Arthur started washes the room in a warmth that seems to encourage sleep.

You’re not sure how much time passes before a knock against the door makes you sit up, startled awake after dozing off, “Yes?”

Arthur cracks the door open and peeks inside, his eyes soft and as sleepy as yours, “Don’t worry, ‘s just me.”

“Hey, just me. Come on in,” you smile sleepily and continue toweling off your hair.

Arthur’s hair is still dripping, leaving tracks of water trailing down into his collar. One drop travels from his temple, through his stubble, down to his collarbone, a slow drag along his skin you follow with greedy eyes. He eases the door shut before you throw your towel at his head, fighting a grin when he laughs, his nose wrinkling attractively.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says, leaning against the dresser and rubbing the towel carelessly over his hair.

You stand, crossing your arms over your chest, “Like hell you will, Arthur.”

“Well, I ain’t lettin’ you sleep on the ground.”

“Arthur.”

He huffs your name with the same exasperation.

You huff and drop back down to sit on the bed, hands in your lap, “Can’t we just share?”

Arthur blinks, stops drying his hair, “Really?”

“They already think we’re a ‘happy couple’,” you shrug, “Unless you can’t be a gentleman for a few hours.”

He scoffs, “What? Of course I can!”

You laugh at how affronted he gets at your little tease, “Dunno, Arthur. I’ve been told I’m quite the lady, I’ll understand if you can’t resist.”

“Shut up,” he rolls his eyes before crossing the room to toss another log into the fire.

The rain continues as you slide into bed, increasing in strength steadily but slowly. Even if the moon was full it would have no chance at shining any light down through the clouds. Thunder cracking and booming with no particular rhythm makes for the perfect symphony to pull you down into sleep. You shift onto the far side of the bed, leaving the covers folded over for Arthur. The bed dips slightly with the weight of him sitting. You wait for him to lay beside you but he doesn’t, you crack an eye open to find him staring pointedly at you.

“I can take the floor, really,” Arthur whispers.

You roll your eyes and drag him down to the mattress by his elbow, “Get some sleep, Arthur.”

Your eyes slide shut as he settles, very consciously leaving space between you two. You wouldn’t mind him laying closer to you but you don’t tell him that.

Instead you say, “Good night.”

Arthur hums back, “Good night.”

-

It hasn’t been too long since you joined the Van Der Linde gang, a few months shy of a year, you’d guess. You’re still not sure whether it was good luck or back luck that set you on a path that merged with theirs, but you’re grateful for the company, for the friends. In spending time with the group you’ve taken a liking to Arthur, a fondness for him that only grows with everything he does. You’ve taken joy in learning more about him, stockpiling little things like how he sneaks sugar into his coffee. Watching the way he moves, the way his hands move, deadly and precise against a trigger then clumsy, warm and friendly with a drink in his hand when he’s around friends. The way he thinks, performatively oafish even though he couldn’t hide his sensitivity and intelligence if he tried. And, oh, he tries. As if you wouldn’t notice the way he enjoys learning, drawing new plants and animals in his journal, the way he listens and engages with people.

You know Arthur is a bad man, thief and conman and killer like his fathers, both biological and not. Doesn’t matter to you, you’re just as bad as the rest of the gang. The same thieving and killing under your belt as everyone else, you’re no angel. You don’t care anyhow, you’ve seen how Arthur has a kindness folded into him for the ones he loves, even strangers on occasion, and a romantic streak a mile wide if you know where to look. You’re looking out for it, always. Sometimes you find it when you catch him holding the framed picture of his mother, when he’s singing by the fire and bringing people gifts, when he’s sketching with that focused yet easy and open expression on his face. You catalogue everything, how it feels to have him smile at you, to touch you, the pleasant warmth that sparks in your chest. It’s nice to trust him, to be his friend. You certainly wouldn’t share a bed with most of the men in camp, that’s for sure.

-

“I told you not to come,” Arthur barks over the wind, the fabric of the tent whipping around as he tries to wrestle it into place.

You grunt, cursing him under your breath but knowing he’s right, “How was I supposed to know it would snow?”

You should’ve thought something was coming when the cool, fresh scent of the breeze turned icy and sharp, but then the snow started pelting down from the sky before you could say anything. It takes a few more matches before you manage to get the fire lit, the sticks you’ve gathered mercifully catching quickly and providing a small wave of heat on your bare hands. You stand and tug your coat around you even tighter, grumbling something nonsensical to yourself about letting your crush on Arthur getting you wrapped up in a fruitless hunting trip.

The sounds of Arthur working stops, tents are all set up now, and he slots himself beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

You do your best to not let your teeth chatter when you ask, “Got a cigarette for me, Arthur?”

“For you? Sure.”

He blindly rummages in his satchel for his pack of cigarettes then shakes one out into your waiting hands. You hold it up to your lips as Arthur takes one of your matches then bends down to strike it against his boot, the pop of orange flame against the monochrome white snow feels impossibly bright as Arthur holds it up to your cigarette. He doesn’t manage to light it though, your hand is trembling too much to keep it steady. Arthur follows the dance for a few seconds before he plucks it out of your fingers with a soft grunt. He puts it between his lips and lights it himself, cupping his free hand around the match to keep the flame alive. The small fire lights his face up in warm tones, his eyelashes have countless snowflakes that melt against his cheeks when he shuts his eyes and takes a short drag before he tosses away the match into the snow.

“Here,” he utters softly, just barely audible over the wind.

Arthur holds the cigarette up to your mouth and his fingers just barely graze your bottom lip and chin when he pulls away, you find yourself swaying forward slightly to follow the touch. You steady yourself and shove your hands under your armpits, mumbling a thank you around the cigarette.

Arthur’s eyes find yours then flick down to your arms before he starts to rummage around his satchel, finding what he needs before long. He tugs at your elbows until your arms drop and he can take one of your wrists in his hand to shove a glove over it, too big yet perfectly toasty.

His gaze is heavy when you meet his eyes as he puts the glove on your other hand, his cheeks flushed red from the cold, “Told you to buy some gloves, stubborn girl.”

“Yea,” you smile around the cigarette as you take a drag, wiggling your fingers in the oversized leather, “But yours are nicer.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, rubbing your hands for a moment before he shoos you away, “Go lay down, try ‘nd warm up.”

“It’s too cold to sleep, Arthur,” you whine, knocking the ash from your cigarette.

He huffs and scratches the back of his neck, “There’s a fire…” he starts, losing steam quickly and trailing off into silence. A beat passes, you take a few more drags from your cigarette before you toss it into the snow, then Arthur’s up, taking the few steps towards his tent to reach inside. He comes out with his bedroll and blankets in hand, a man on a mission..

“What are you…?” you start to ask.

Arthur doesn’t reply, just shoulders his way into your tent and lets the opening close behind him.

“Arthur?”

“Well, come on,” he shouts through the fabric, “Let’s get warm!”

You follow him into your tent and find the bedrolls side by side, just a few inches between them, Arthur is already sitting on his and laying out blankets. The heat from the fire manages to seep into the tent’s space, not quite cold but not quite warm just yet. You sink down into your bedroll, settling down on your side with a huff, smiling at the way Arthur appears to be already halfway to sleep. His chest rises and falls steadily, his breath coming out in little visible puffs through his nose. You study his face, the freckles along his cheeks, the scar on his chin, you think he’s the one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen. Arthur’s hand rests in the minute space between you two, it’s easy for you to follow your impulse and slip your hand into his. Arthur curls his fingers around yours as he cracks an eye open. You steel yourself, trying not to shrink back even though embarrassment makes heat creeps up your neck.

“What?” he grunts.

“I’m cold,” you answer quietly.

“C’mere, quit yer bellyachin’, girl,” Arthur says gruffly, tucking the blankets around you and dragging your bedroll towards him, bringing you into the fold of his arms.

With your face pressed into his solid chest you feel, somehow, that there's a line somewhere between you two and this is getting you both nearer to it. For a moment, you try to follow the thought but sleep comes in. Heavy, dark and warm, smelling like Arthur.

-

“Rum is far better than whiskey,” you muse as you raise your glass, wincing at the pain in your shoulder before you knock back the shot, “Dunno how you drink that swill, Arthur.”

Your arm aches something awful after Rio bucked you off earlier today. It’s not her fault, bullets started flying when bandits tried to rob you and Arthur on the road. No more worries now, you’d both made short work of them and managed to drag yourselves to the nearest saloon to drink.

Arthur laughs, “Whatever you say, princess.”

He’s standing close enough to touch but he takes care to keep your injured arm in a protective little bubble as he drinks his whiskey. You wrinkle your nose as his taste in liquor, he just chuckles again and plucks almonds from the bowl, popping them into his mouth one by one.

“Can I get you folks rooms for the night?” the barkeep asks while he cleans a glass.

Arthur answers, “Sure, we’ll take one.”

Your stomach flips with surprise, then with pleasure. He didn’t bother to ask about availability, just decided to share a bed with you again. Arthur must realize it at the same time you do, his posture going stiff and awkward beside you as he looks at you sideways and catches you eyeing him. He puts down a few bills on the bar, enough to cover the room and the drinks, then makes like he’s going to touch your shoulder. He starts to reach for you, then aborts the gesture, changing direction to rap his knuckles on the countertop twice.

“I’ll be upstairs,” he mutters.

You laugh into your glass, heat blooming in your cheeks as you watch him hurry up the stairs.

“Newlyweds?”

You nearly choke on your rum, sputtering out, “What?”

“Sorry, miss,” the barkeep apologizes, but gives you a smile and a wink anyway.

You take a few coins out of your own bag and leave them on Arthur’s pile of bills, “A bath, please.”

The barkeep pockets the money and hands you the key to your room, tells you where the baths are and assures you yours will be ready shortly as you walk away. You find Arthur lingering in the upstairs hallway, pacing until he sees you at the top of the stairs.

You smile and wave the key in the air, “Forgot something?”

He huffs a laugh and nods, moving aside to let you lead him to the door. You and Arthur work around each other as you set things down in the room, shedding gear and coats and laying them wherever there is space for them. The only hiccup arises when taking off your bandolier, raising your arm over your head makes it throb dully, enough to make you let your gear fall to the floor with a wince.

“Shit,” you hiss, rubbing your shoulder absently.

Arthur flits by your side at once, “You okay?” he asks, hands hovering around your body, assessing.

Mother hen, you think, smiling as you soothe him, “Just a bruise, honest. I’m gonna take a bath, I’ll be back soon.”

Thankfully the bath is right beside your room and, as promised, ready for you. You try not to make any more sounds of discomfort while you undress, taking sharp breaths and biting the inside of your cheek instead. For a while, you manage to hold it in. Going through the motions of bathing without a hitch until you notice the leaves and dirt in your hair. No doubt from hitting the ground earlier today, something you’ll have to take care of before you go to bed. You sink below the water to wet your hair before you rise and start to scrub your scalp. Well, you try to, it soon becomes too uncomfortable and painful to be manageable.

“Damn it,” you curse, letting your arm slide into the water with a frustrated groan.

Two sharp knocks at the door have you sitting upright in a jolt, bath water sloshing as you start to speak, but the voice on the other side of the door talks first.

It’s Arthur’s voice, “It’s just me.”

You relax back down into the bath, letting yourself slip in until the bubbles are at your chin, “Come in, just me.”

You barely hear his little chuckle over the door opening, he keeps his eyes on the floor as he comes inside and shuts the door behind him. He clears his throat, still pretending like the floorboards are the most interesting thing in the world, “You alright?”

“Sure,” you shrug then grimace at the way your arm twinges, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Sure,” he parrots with a hum before he comes around to kneel beside you and cross his arms over the edge of the tub, resting his chin on his arms so he can look you in the eye, “Can I help you anyway?”

You make a noise in your chest, hiding your smile in the bubbles as your heart skips a beat. You think of the line again, that line friends probably shouldn’t cross, think of how this gets you both even closer to doing just that. You wonder if Arthur feels it too.

“Yea,” you breathe, “Okay, Arthur.”

Arthur nods, shifts in place then lowers his hands into the water, “Scoot up, right here.”

You do as he asks and he gets to work, starting with his hands at the nape of your neck, cradling your head for a moment before he starts to detangle your hair. Pleasure washes over you, prickling your scalp and sending goosebumps down your arms and legs despite the temperature of the water and the heat of Arthur’s hands.

Arthur works slowly, methodically, with the kind of gentle care you knew he was capable of. Every knot and tangle gets pulled apart, his fingers combing through your curls and washing away the dirt. His nails scratch gently at your scalp, pulling pleased little sighs from your chest as you let your head move in any direction Arthur directs it in.

“Keep your eyes shut, sweetheart,” he whispers, a thrill zipping through you at the pet name.

You hum and let him tip your head back, his hand on your forehead stops the water from getting into your eyes as he rinses your hair. Arthur’s thumbs drag across the shell of your ear for a moment before he presses his lips to your cheek and stands.

“All done,” he murmurs, then makes a noise somewhere between a cough and a choke.

You open your eyes and find him pointedly staring at the ceiling, the faded painting on the wall, anything but you. A glance down shows you the bubbles have dissolved enough to leave your chest exposed. Chuckling, you rise out of the bath, wringing out your hair and smiling at how Arthur turns all the way around to put his back to you.

He coughs nervously again, scratching at the back of his neck as he asks, “Is there, uh, anything else you need?”

You reach for your towel and step out of the bath, “Nothin’ else, Arthur, thank you.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Arthur says before quickly slips out the door.

By the time you’re dressed for bed and back in the room, you find Arthur on the floor in front of the fire shuffling cards.

“Wanna play?” he asks with a look over his shoulder, almost like he’s nervous you’d still be dressed in nothing but soap bubbles.

You nod and sink down across from him as he deals the cards for what looks like rummy. A few hands get played in comfortable silence, you lose a couple, win a few more, smiling at the way Arthur studies the cards like anything more than his pride is at stake.

“Got anything to drink?” you ask after a while, eyeing him over your cards.

Arthur rummages around in the bag by his feet before pulling out a half full bottle of gin and holding it out to you.

You sigh, “That’ll do in a pinch.”

You drink straight from the bottle, groaning unhappily at the burn then handing it over to Arthur while trying not to wrinkle your nose. He drinks the same way, hissing after he swallows. He pushes the bottle across the floor to rest by you.

“Rum is definitely better than this,” Arthur grunts. For some reason it feels like the funniest thing he could’ve said, you’re giggling before you know it, only rising in volume when Arthur starts to laugh too. He wipes a hand down his face and haphazardly sets his cards down on the floor, face up, “Let’s go to sleep,” he orders gently, taking your hand and pulling you up from the floor.

The cards show you would’ve lost the round but it makes you smile harder anyway, you figured he was letting you win, “Okay.”

In bed, Arthur slots himself along your back, mindful of your bad arm as his hand rests on your hip, his bare legs tangled against yours. The heat of his palm seeps into your bones as you drift off to sleep, thinking of a charming little saying you remember your momma reciting now and then, something about silverware snug in a drawer.

-

“I got you somethin’,” Arthur says in lieu of a proper greeting, vying for casual nonchalance as he sidles up to you in camp one morning.

You look up from your book and blink at Arthur’s silhouette against the sun. He reaches out to you and you meet him halfway, letting him slip something cool and smooth into your palm, his fingers brushing yours as he pulls his hand back.

It’s a necklace, a mother-of-pearl cameo pendant on a pretty silver chain. You let out a pleased gasp as you trace your finger over the woman’s pearlescent features, over the delicate carved ringlet of her hair falling along her neck. Your lips twitch upwards at the thought of some rich woman being robbed of her jewelry, your smile growing into a grin when you think of Arthur pocketing it just to gift it to you.

You stand, setting your book down beside you so you can get on tiptoe to throw your arms around Arthur’s neck, “It’s beautiful, thank you.”

His hands go to your waist as you hug him, lingering there when you don’t step too far away.

“Put it on me?” you ask, looking up at him through your lashes.

Arthur nods and you turn around, holding your hair out of the way for him. His fingertips grazing your neck as he clasps the necklace makes you shiver, preening with pleasure when the pendant settles on your chest.

You turn back to him, rising on tiptoe again to kiss Arthur’s cheek, “Thank you.”

Arthur opens his mouth to say something but seems to think better of it. He simply tips his hat to you and walks on by.

-

There’s still at least half a day's ride to the next town even though you and Arthur have had the horses galloping on and off all day. You know you should be focused on scouting ahead but your eyelids keep drooping despite your best efforts. The rhythm of the horses trotting seems like it's purposefully hypnotizing you to slip into unconsciousness. You jerk upwards a few times in your saddle when you start to nod off, desperately fighting the urge to lay down on Rio’s neck and fall asleep.

“Alright,” Arthur calls out when you startle awake again with a little yelp, turning his horse to stop in front of yours, “We should set up camp.”

“No!” you shout, straightening up and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, “I can stay awake!”

Arthur ignores you and hops down from Temperina, taking the reins from your hands to lead both horses off the road.

You groan and half heartedly try to tug the reins back into your control, “Arthur, I promise I can!”

Still, he ignores you, at least until he finds a clearing he must deem suitable to spend the night in. Then, he stands at your side gesturing for you to jump down into his arms. You sigh but do as he asks, hopping down and letting him catch you and lower you to the ground.

You two move in orbit around each other as you set up camp, brushing hands and arms alongside each other as you both grab supplies from your saddlebags. Arthur sets up the sleeping arrangements while you start a fire just a few feet away, taking a peek at him with hazy, tired eyes. There’s only one tent, bedrolls set up inside. They’re not side by side, far too close for that. The edges are placed one atop the other, two bedrolls made into one. Turning back to the fire, you bite your bottom lip and wonder why he’s still keeping up with this habit you two have developed. You try not to think about it too deeply, fighting a smile as you feed a few more sticks into the flames, an owl hooting somewhere far away.

The sky has darkened to the color of blue velvet as you two eat. Dinner is just whatever you have in your packs, neither if you in the mood to cook. The fire is more for warmth and light as you two wind down, shedding your outer layer of clothes before settling down for sleep. You climb into the tent first, dropping down with a huff and tucking yourself under blankets. It’s snug, comfortable, your eyelids are heavy as you peer out of the tent to watch Arthur.

He’s still by the fire, journal spread over his lap as he scribbles. Writing or sketching, you can’t say from where you’re laid down. Either way, you find it charming, almost domestic. Like you’re waiting for your husband to come to bed. Like he can sense your thoughts, he lifts his head to look at the tent, startling you. You squeeze your eyes shut and hope he didn’t see you watching him. A minute passes and you hear rustling, cracking an eye open in time to watch him slip out of his shirt. The muscles in his back bunch and flex as he pulls the fabric over his head, tucking it away in his saddlebag with no regard to if it’ll wrinkle.

You shut your eyes before he turns back around, focusing on keeping your breathing slow and even. Through your eyelids you can see warm firelight goes out as Arthur stamps out the fire and cold, pale full moon illuminating the inside of the tent, a slice of light coming in from the opening. Arthur steps inside carefully, leaving the fabric untied and open behind him as he lays down beside you. You fight to keep your breath from hitching when you feel his knuckles brushing up your forearm, the scent of him so close by it feels like you can taste him. His fingers drag upwards, almost teasingly slowly, before his fingers wrap around your wrist. The contact is brief, his thumb rubs over your pulse point only for a heartbeat before it’s gone. It feels like the moment before the next touch takes days in the silence between you two, but then he’s taking the cameo pendant on your chest between his fingers. He lets out a trembling sigh and sets it back down gently on your chest before rolling onto his back, so close his shoulder presses against your slack fingers. The steady rhythm of his breaths guides you to sleep.

-

Nothing in particular wakes you up in the middle of the night, you just rise to wakefulness. A slow, syrupy awakening that has you facing Arthur’s broad back. He’s rolled over in his sleep and now moonlight illuminates his back like a fine mist. In the almost ethereal light you can see freckles and scars, the musculature under his skin, even the evidence of the weight he’s gained in the past few weeks, something you’ve noticed before with a healthy appreciation.

Without thinking, you reach for him, shy fingers at the base of his spine barely touching before pressing down and moving upwards. Your palms slide along his back, feeling the way he breathes, the rumble of his snore makes you huff a quiet laugh, the domestic familiarity of it warming your chest. At the base of his neck you start feeling your way down, following the notches of his spine with one of your thumbs. His next breath comes deeper, the sound of someone waking up, then he starts to lift his head.

“It’s just me,” you whisper, still following the curve of his spine.

“Hey, just me,” Arthur answers as he settles back down, you can feel his sleep-rough, deep voice just as well as you can hear it, “What’re you doin’?”

You don’t answer for a few moments, a wave of embarrassment heating your cheeks, “Dunno.”

Your thumb passes over a beauty mark and you almost ache with the desire to kiss it. The imagined feeling of his sleep heated skin under your lips makes you bite the inside of your cheek, but you’re not brave enough to make it real, to cross that line. Instead you shuffle forward to drape yourself against his back, curling your arm over his waist like he has done to you.

“Go back to sleep,” you murmur with your cheek squished against his shoulderblade.

He grunts softly in acknowledgment and puts his hand over yours where it rests on his stomach, his thumb passes back and forth over your knuckles until you fall asleep again.

-

Sunlight draws you back up towards consciousness against your will but the light shrinks back when you squeeze your eyes tight and bury your face into the warmth in front of you. A deep breath tells you it’s Arthur, still smelling of last night’s campfire, but with an undercurrent of mint and moss. You hum and press in closer, taking in another deep breath and smiling against his back when he rubs up and down your arm with a little hum of his own.

“I know you’re awake,” he rumbles, you feel it more than you hear it.

You shake your head a little, tightening your arms around him uselessly as he starts to roll out of your grip. Arthur sits up, sneaking a hand into your hair to scratch at your scalp before he clicks his tongue.

“C’mon, girl, it’s mornin’.”

“Wait,” you grumble, “Just a minute.”

Arthur hums while you slowly swim back to consciousness, pressing your head into his touch like a dog would. You still feel his warm skin under your fingertips from last night, the memory has you surprised at yourself for your boldness and feeling embarrassed about it all at once. Arthur thankfully doesn’t seem put off, maybe he doesn’t remember it. Either way, you’ll have to wake up and face the day sooner rather than later.

“There she is,” Arthur encourages as you sit up, “I’ll make you some coffee, sleepyhead.”

He leaves you curled up where you are as he does as promised, starting a fire and setting a pot onto the flames as you lethargically crawl out of the tent. You stretch and blink against the sunlight, joints popping in time with the morning’s birdsong. You’ve scrubbed your face and yawned most of the sleep away by the time the coffee is ready, joining Arthur by the fire as he pours a cup for you. Arthur curls your hands around the tin of the coffee mug before he dips down to press a kiss to your forehead. You stay perfectly stock still, the feel of his lips on your skin has you almost dizzy, startlingly awake all of a sudden, but Arthur seems entirely unaffected. He goes to his things and begins tugging on his boots, not a hitch in the routine.

“I’ll be back,” he says as he plops his hat onto his head.

“Where you goin’?”

Arthur scratches his beard thoughtfully before he answers, “A walk, I guess,” he answers, “Clear my head.”

“Go on,” you tell him, waving him off, “I’ll set us up.”

“Thank you, darlin’,” he grips your shoulder briefly before he walks off, grabbing his coffee cup before walking off into the woods.

It doesn’t take long to break down the tent and pack up the bedrolls, even as you nurse your cup of coffee lazily, the only thing left to return to the horses are your day bags. You go to get Arthur’s satchel and see that his journal is resting atop it, a pencil between the pages to mark his place. You take it in hand thoughtlessly, pausing briefly as you worry your bottom lip, but you open the book anyway. You know it’s wrong but you can’t help yourself, months of curiosity suddenly begging to be satiated.

The page it opens to is a drawing of a fox, a sprig of thyme drawn a few inches underneath the black lines of the bushy tail. Before you can stop yourself, you’re flipping back through the pages. You try not to linger on the words, telling yourself you’ll afford him as much privacy as possible. His drawings of birds and plants and a proud buck leaping across the pages makes you smile at the reverent sort of care put into every pencil stroke. You do skim the words you find, try to spot your name anywhere you can. There aren’t any entries with you in them, not really, your name is here and there but nothing substantial. But where there aren’t words, there are portraits.

There is more than one drawing of you in the pages, scenes sketched out in graphite. You, fast asleep in a saloon bed, blankets and pillows around you making you look like the princess from that story about a pea. You, a soft smile on your face and fingers playing with the cameo pendant on your chest, something written then scratched out in the margin. You, in the process of putting up your hair, a pin between your teeth, careful detail put into your curls where they cascade over your hand.

It steals the breath from you, partly winded from the intimacy of these drawings and partly swaying from the wash of shame for peeking at his journal. You hear branches and leaves crunching underfoot, the sound moving closer. You scramble to return the journal to how you found it, pencil between the pages just so, before you rest against a tree in what you hope reads as casual relaxation. Arthur breaks the tree line back into the clearing with a nod, eyes already questioning.

“Ready to go?” you ask from behind the rim of your mug, trying not to sound breathless.

Arthur eyes you with a funny little smile on his face, taking the time to slowly sip at the dregs of his coffee as he walks towards you. He stops about a foot in front of you, a hand on his hip as he tilts his head like he’s trying to figure out a problem. You suppose he is, surely trying to piece together why you look as guilty as a child caught stealing sweets. Arthur steps forward into your space, raising a hand to check your temperature with fingers on your forehead, “You okay?”

Your lips twitch into a small grin, half nervous and half pleased. It would be so easy to tilt your head to the side, to catch his wrist with a kiss. The thought of it thrills you, but all you can manage is a quiet, “Yea, ‘m perfect.”

“Alright, girl,” he hums, patting your cheek before he smiles, “Let’s get goin’.”

-

“Like this, watch.”

Arthur drags his hunting knife against the flat top of the bullet, leaving behind a deep, straight line in his wake. He turns the bullet in his fingers to make another line, crossing it through the first to leave an X in the lead.

“Here,” he says, holding the knife’s handle out to you where you’re seated beside him, his fingers pinching the tip of the blade.

You take the knife, blinking at the surprising weight of it. The detailed engraving’s silver vines swirl under your fingers as you drag them along the flat of the blade, looping up and around the twin birds in a way that almost looks like they’re moving in the firelight. You press a fingertip to the face in the center of the engraving, smiling at the blank yet stern expression before you shift the knife so you can work. It’s slow labor, there’s no way you can do it as fast as Arthur does. While he has far more practice making split point bullets, you’re not terrible at it. A small heap of ammo forms by your feet, almost enough for two rounds in your revolver.

Arthur picks up a bullet from your pile, studying the cuts you’ve made with careful eyes. He sucks his teeth and taps your lines with a fingernail, “Gotta go deeper, can’t just be for show.”

Your eyes flick up to him then back to the bullet in your hand, angling your wrist to be able to press the blade in deeper just like he did. It takes some effort to press down into lead but you feel when the cut is deep enough, hollowing out the bullet exactly how it needs to be. You finish and hand it over to Arthur, smiling when he nods at your work. You start on another one, confident now. Maybe too confident. A brief but sharp sting of pain pricks one of your fingertips when the knife slips and nicks you. Blade and bullet fall to the ground as you yank your hand to your chest and hiss, sucking air harshly through your teeth with a fat, gem bright drop of blood blooming on your fingertip.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Arthur murmurs as he comes to your side, kneeling and gently pulling your hand away from your chest, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” you assure him through a grimace, letting him inspect your finger, turning it this way and that, “Not your fault.”

There’s no time to react as he lifts your hand to his mouth, putting your fingertip between his lips without a thought. The heat of his mouth shouldn't make you jolt with surprised pleasure, but it does. You can’t feel anything other than his tongue dragging across the flat of your fingertip, can’t see anything but the dark of his lashes kissing the tops of his cheek, can’t hear anything but the thud of your heart in your ears. It can’t be more than a moment before he pulls away, checking your finger before he looks at you, it feels like the seconds have stretched into minutes.

“Won’t even need a bandage,” Arthur says definitively, easily, like he hasn’t just woken your whole body up. He squeezes your wrist once before letting you go, offering you a little hangdog smile at the way you’re looking at him, “Sorry, wasn’t thinkin’.”

You don’t say anything, just keep your eyes on his face, the slope of his nose and the divot at the end of it that you’ve always found maddeningly charming. Arthur says your name quietly, bringing your focus back to his eyes as he tucks a stray bit of hair behind your ear. His fingertips drag along your skin, down your hairline and down the column of your neck so slowly it makes a slight shudder zip up your spine. Without thinking, you cradle his face in your hands, thumbing at the scar on his chin as his beard scratches your palms.

“Sweetheart?” Arthur breathes, brows furrowed.

“Are you ever gonna kiss me, Arthur?”

He blinks up at you and takes a sharp breath in, holding it a moment before he asks, “Do you want me to?”

A grin cracks your face with a bright laugh, “Stupid man,” but the words aren’t unkind. Arthur’s eyes soften, brows easing back down as you take his shirt in hand, fingers flexing in the fabric of his collar, “Kiss me.”

It doesn’t take more than a heartbeat before he shifts, tilting his head with a flutter of his lashes before he presses his lips to yours. There it is, you think, the line finally, blissly crossed. The kiss is soft, a question still obviously on his mind, one you answer with enthusiasm, wrapping your arms around his neck as you deepen the kiss. Arthur’s lips part with a surprised little moan, your heart squeezing in your chest at the sound. You chase it with your tongue, sliding it into his mouth with a moan of your own, only growing in volume when Arthur sucks gently on your tongue. The kiss breaks with both of you breathing heavily but Arthur doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath, he surges upwards to kiss you again, his hands coming around your waist.

“C’mon,” you whisper against his lips before yanking him to his feet, “Let’s go to bed.”

You slip your hand in his and lead him into the tent, biting your lip to tamp down your giggles at the way Arthur drops to the floor without a second thought, dragging you down to join him before you can think. Between the fire and the moon, the tent is illuminated enough for you to see the glimmer in Arthur’s eyes and you throw a leg over his hip. You feel him start to unravel beneath you the moment you straddle him, the hard planes of his body beneath you going pliant as he pets over your body, his hands trailing up your hips and over your waist. You hum, pleased, and ruck up your skirts, letting his hands explore you in his own time. He looks at you, almost dazed with surprise before you nod, and his hands go to your thighs, petting upwards.

“You sure this is okay?” he asks breathlessly.

You nod your approval with a smile, letting it turn into a peal of laughter when Arthur pulls you to him, flipping your positions so you’re the one pinned underneath him instead. You bracket his hips with your knees, heat blooming up your neck and onto your face at feeling so exposed, with Arthur it’s thrilling. Arthur returns his hands to your inner thigh, sliding high enough for you to feel the heat of him against your core, his knuckles just barely touching the hair around your cunt.

You gasp and he pulls back, startled, “We don’t gotta—”

You shut him up a buck of your hips and a whine of his name, “Please,” you tug him closer by his shirt, heart skipping at the way his hot breath fans across your jaw, “Please, I want it.”

“Alright, alright,” he purrs, nudging his nose into your cheek. His fingers gently part your folds, his touch soft but confident, petting along your slit for a few moments. Arthur pulls back as much as you allow, meeting your half lidded eyes with his own, a whisper of a smile on his face as he finds your clit, “Jesus, honey, you’re so wet.”

A breathy laugh escapes you, “Your fault.”

His fingers don’t dip into you more than an inch, just enough to feel your slick and drag it up to your clit to draw maddening shapes into it. Arthur tries a few methods before he finds the one you like best, swallowing your moans with kisses when you start to roll your hips.

“Take this off,” you order, tugging at his shirt until it comes untucked from his trousers.

He obeys with a little laugh, pulling it over his head and throwing it aside before he returns to playing with your pussy. You let him toy with you a while longer, enjoying the hot, easy pleasure of it, letting his chest press against yours with every all encompassing kiss. It takes a little work to get your hand between you two to touch him, but you manage it after a minute or so, finding his cock hard and trapped under his jeans. Your mouth opens with a soft gasp, he feels big in your hand even through the denim, and you squeeze him gently. Arthur groans into your mouth, hips bucking into your touch before he stops himself and jerks back a bit.

“Wait,” he grunts and gently moves your hand away, sitting back on his heels.

“What is it?” you sit up too, worried you did something wrong.

“Didn’t want it to be like this,” he stammers as he pushes his hair out of his eyes, “I was gonna do it right— in a nice bed, flowers and everything, honest.”

“Shut up,” you cut in, wrapping your arms around his neck to bring him in for a soft, encouraging kiss, “This is perfect.”

Somewhere between the myriad of traded kisses you both strip each other down to your underclothes, Arthur waits to help you out of your stays and drawers until you prompt him, nipping his bottom lip encouragingly. He spends a few minutes after that cradling your chest, tweaking at your nipples and squeezing the weight of your breasts in his hands, murmuring against your lips about how perfect you feel. Your brain stutters when he switches gears without prompting. He lays you back down without a word, shouldering his way between your legs with a very obvious mission in mind.

“Arthur!” you gasp in surprise, knees knocking against his head as you make to close your legs.

He rubs his temple and laughs a little as he says your name, “I just wanna taste you—”

“You don’t have to,” you insist nervously, reaching up to rub his other temple apologetically.

He takes your wrist and pulls your hand down to kiss your palm, “Do you… not want me to?”

“No,” you breathe, feeling the way you squeeze around nothing involuntarily at the way his eyes darken. While it’s not the first time you’ve been with a man, it is the first time a man has offered… this. Girls had giggled about it before, you’d always been curious about what it would feel like. And now that the thought of Arthur’s mouth on you has materialized, your heartbeat seems to have moved to throb in your clit. You swallow harshly and finally tell him, “I… I want it.”

He kisses your sternum before he croons, “Relax, sweet girl, it’s just me.”

Arthur turns to kiss the side of one of your breasts with a smile playing on his lips, catching your eye before he presses his face into your chest and making you laugh at the tickle of his beard. He takes a moment to give your chest more attention on his journey down your body, laving his tongue over your already sore nipples for a moment before he moves on. Arthur leaves a hot trail of kisses down your body, biting the fat of your stomach once along the way and gently parting your thighs to make space for him. He shuffles downward, letting your thighs drape over his shoulders as he brings his mouth to your pussy, beard scraping against your inner thighs.

The first hot stripe of his tongue against you makes unexpected heat flicker through your core and up your spine, your eyes go wide and your hands fly to his head, tugging at his hair without a thought. Arthur hums against your clit in a way that has you keening and pulling at his hair again. It’s too much, nearly overwhelming with Arthur’s single-minded focus, like he knows the exact steps to get you brainless and boneless with pleasure. You do your best to bite back a whimper when he lifts his head, taking the warmth of his mouth away. He meets your eyes when you lift your head to shamelessly beg him to keep going. The slick wet smile on his face makes your thighs twitch around his head.

“Gonna cum like this, sweetheart?” Arthur asks, voice rough and sweet as he brings his hand up to circle your clit with quick fingers, “When I haven’t even filled you up yet?”

You don’t even have it in you to rise to his teasing, you just brokenly moan and arch your back to push into his touch, “Please, yes, Arthur—”

He lowers his head between your legs again, humming against your clit until your stomach tightens and you’re falling over the edge. Your fingers tighten in his hair as he follows the roll of your hips, tongue flat and perfectly firm for you to hump against until you tire yourself out. You drop back to the floor with a shuddering sigh, tremors buzzing through you as you catch your breath. Arthur crawls up your body, petting the curve of your hip as he settles beside you with a satisfied little sound. You reach for him when your breathing settles, giving him a hard kiss before you shimmy down, raking your nails down his hairy thighs with sound in your chest like a purr.

“Let me touch you, alright?” you hum, grinning at how Arthur nods enthusiastically.

Arthur’s breath comes in ragged and rough as your fingers curl around his cock, right at the base where his wiry hair is a dark bush. You drag your hand up, then back down, his foreskin gliding back over his tip when you stroke him. A perfect pearl of precum rests along his slit, tempting you to taste. It’s easy to dip your head and gently suck his tip into your mouth, curling your tongue around his cock with a hum. Your head bobs, just a few inches going in and out of your mouth, the angle has his cockhead pressing against the inside of your cheek. He tastes like the salt of sweat, of gunsmoke and musk, it’s so perfectly Arthur that it makes your head spin.

Arthur's hand moves to stroke his thumb over where your cheek bulges, “Jesus,” he groans as you swallow around him, “You’re an angel. C’mere.”

You make a noise of confusion but let him move you, his cock still resting against your lips, “Don’t want me to…?” you ask, pressing your cheek into his hand as he cups your face.

“Not tonight,” Arthur murmurs softly, letting his tip spread more slick against your lips for a moment before he shifts, moving you along with him.

You let yourself be rolled onto your back, humming with delight as Arthur slots himself between your legs, his cock catching on your inner thigh just for a moment before it prods at your entrance, leaving a spot of saliva and precum along your skin. Arthur dips his head down for a kiss, hips tilting just so until his cock catches at an angle that lets him press inside you. The stretch of his cock isn’t unbearable, just enough to have your eyes pop open, wide and unfocused as you try to relax around him. Arthur nuzzles your cheek with his nose as he whispers mindless, encouraging praise, telling you how well you’re doing, how you only have a little bit left until you’ll have taken all of him. And before you know it, you have, Arthur’s hips flush with the cradle of yours.

“There’s a girl,” Arthur purrs as he pulls out, easing back into you with a sigh, “You’re so good to me.”

Stars blink in and out of your vision when Arthur shifts his weight onto his arms, straightening above you to watch where his cock disappears into you while he keeps his hips meeting yours in steady, even strokes.

“Touch yourself,” he groans, hair in his eyes as he nods down at you, “Please, I wanna feel you cum around me, sweetheart.”

What can you do but obey?

“That’s my girl,” Arthur moans at the feeling of you tightening around him when you start to cum, “Perfect girl, that’s it.”

He waits for your orgasm to die down before he bowls over, curling atop you with your knees in the crooks of his elbows folding you nearly in half. You claw at his back, his ass, his arms, curling forward to sink your teeth into his shoulder when he plants his knees more firmly into the ground. He doesn't stop his rhythm at all, knocking against the deepest parts of you with a strength that makes you dizzy.

“Hellcat,” he laughs breathlessly into your hair, the word dissolving into a groan when you cant your hips to better meet him, “I’m gonna cum if you keep that up, baby, oh—”

You nod into his neck, something in your chest clenching at the thought of it, “Please,” your voice is unfamiliar to you, desperate and almost pathetic with need, “Cum for me, Arthur, please.”

It doesn’t take long before he does, the barest brush of his lips against your ear as he moans your name, hips pistoning as he fills you. Your eyes roll behind your eyelids at the feeling of the spill of him inside you, hot and delicious, pleasure warming you down to your toes. Arthur’s hips keep bucking with little aftershocks for a minute or two before he settles with a deep sigh, his hands coming up to cradle your head as he peppers the side of your face with quick pecks until you’re humming with contentment.

Arthur moves to get up but you pull him back down, “Stay,” you sigh, and he does.

His body is a comforting, grounding weight on you, pinning you down exactly like you’d imagined he would. It seems like he knows when your eyelids start to grow heavy, he starts to move away. Arthur kisses your whine away as he slips his softened cock out of you and moves you until you’re half laying on his chest. The mess between your legs is warm and pleasantly sticky, easy to ignore with the wave of sleepiness that falls over you. You tilt your head on his chest, looking at his flushed cheeks through hazy eyes.

“You ever get tired of bein’ so pretty?” you ask, combing your fingertips through the hair on his chest.

Arthur’s chuckle rumbles through his chest as he thumbs at your hairline, “Do you, darlin’?”

You both fall asleep like that, sweaty, naked legs tangled up together in the light of the full moon, heartbeats in perfect rhythm.