#rdr2 fluff

Your boots crunched softly over dried twigs as you ventured toward the tree line, bending now and then to inspect the carpet of copper-colored pine needles. Nestled near the damp, mossy roots of a decaying trunk, you found your prize—bay boletes, round and firm, a cluster of orange caps still unspoiled by frost. You knelt, smiling as you carefully twisted them free, brushing away the dirt with a thumb before tucking them into your basket. Good for stew, good for bait, and a treat for your horse—little rewards for another winter survived.

You straightened up, sunlight seeping through the dense canopy overhead. And you let it melt into your skin like warm honey, savoring the sensation as your eyes wandered over the clearing. The snow had finally retreated, and green had begun to claim back the landscape, lush and alive. You wouldn’t have minded finding one of those flowers again—the ones with the swollen purple bulb and speckled leaves you’d stumbled upon by sheer accident. You hadn’t seen one since last year, but you kept an eye out anyway, more out of fondness than expectation. Perhaps they would bloom once spring set its roots more possessively into this place. They were so beautiful—shaped like little slippers, almost too pretty to belong out here. Too whimsical to exist anywhere outside the pages of a fairytale.

And that was the thing about Tall Trees, it felt whimsical. It had its perks, living out here. This bountiful land most folks deemed too haunted—too wrong—to bother hunting, foraging, or fishing. Which meant the Basin—all its game, its fish, its untouched mushrooms pushing stubbornly through the cold earth—belonged entirely to you.

But as generous as Tall Trees was, you weren’t immune to its moods. The forest felt watchful, as though the leaves themselves were a million little eyes always paying attention. It didn’t feel haunted, exactly—just occupied. That was why you only ever came out in the mornings, when the light was gentle and forgiving. The moment the sun crept past the middle of the sky, signaling early afternoon, you always traced your steps back toward the Basin, and the safety of your porch. There was always laundry to tend to, wood to split, sage to dry, or a snag in a skirt to mend anyway. So you didn’t wander. You didn’t stray far. Some places demanded a certain respect—and Tall Trees was one of them.

You had just spotted another orange cluster, glowing like embers in the shade a few feet ahead, when a loud bang tore through the forest. The echo drilled into your ears, splitting the midday quiet so cleanly it felt like a physical blow. Birds burst violently from the trees, a frantic cloud of wings thrashing against the branches as they fled for the sky.

You froze mid-step, the forest suddenly, unnaturally still, save for the painful hammering of your heart against your ribs as you waited for the follow-up.

A hunter’s second shot, perhaps?

No.

Two more shots rang out in quick succession, followed by the jagged edge of angry shouting—at least three men, raised voices, overlapping in a cacophony of rage. This was no hunter.

Your breath hitched as the basket slipped from your numb fingers, mushrooms scattering across the forest floor like discarded coins. The realization hit you with the weight of a falling tree. You knew exactly where the noise was coming from. You knew the direction, the distance, and the perpetrators.

Damn Skinners.

“No, no, no,” you muttered under your breath, already moving, boots skidding as you rushed toward the narrow trail leading back to your cabin. Not again

You shared this land with those sick bastards—vicious, cruel butchers who turned the beauty of Tall Trees into a graveyard. They were everything that was wrong with humanity, patrolling the roads with cursed intentions, haunting them like demons who tortured anyone and anything unfortunate enough to cross their path, sometimes even wandering as far as the Basin. You knew the way they crept, the way they watched. Every time you heard their hollering, you dropped everything and ran to hide.

Your mind raced ahead of your feet, already mapping the quickest path inside, already picturing the heavy rug you’d yank back, the wooden mouth of the cellar waiting beneath the floorboards, the safety of the dark. You could be hidden in seconds. You had been before.

Another crack echoed, closer now, followed by a raw, guttural scream that died off into a wet choke. You pushed harder, your heart pounding in time with your footsteps as you leapt over a fallen trunk, lungs burning as branches clawed at your sleeves as if the forest itself was trying to hold you back.

Maybe you could reach the cellar before they noticed you. God—you hoped they hadn’t touched your horse.

The cabin finally came into view through the trees, smoke still lifting gently from your chimney as though nothing had changed since you left. A cruel image of domestic peace that vanished when you smelled the sharp, metallic air, heavy with the scent of burnt powder.

And that’s when the realization cut though the fear like ice water.

Skinners didn’t use guns.

They hunted quiet. Arrows that hissed against flesh, knives that whispered against muscle, traps that doomed futures.

You ducked behind the thick trunk of an ancient pine, peering toward your home. A man wearing a hideous skunk-pelt hat was limping away from your porch, moving as fast as his mangled, bleeding leg would allow. He hissed a curse, trailing behind three other dark shapes that scattered back into the dense tree line.

To your left, your horse whinnied, ears pinned back and teeth bared in a defensive snarl, but he was still standing.

Unharmed.

Thank God.

But relief fractured within a heartbeat, because the silence that rushed back into the Basin was somehow worse than the gunshots. It pressed tight and suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, indifferent slap of the water against your old wooden pier, and the fading rustle of the brush where the four Skinners had vanished.

You waited, counting your breaths until the forest felt empty again. Then crept toward the porch, following the wet, crimson trail the limping man and his companions had left behind.

The sight made your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat until your breakfast threatened to come back up. You hated blood. Always had. You hated the metallic tang of it in the air, the way it clung to everything, the heavy implication of pain and gore it carried. It was why you’d never taken work at the doctor’s office back home, no matter how steady the pay. You’d preferred the chaos of the post office instead, even when the shifts ran long and loud.

You reached the porch steps, your eyes darting to the door. It was kicked halfway open, red footprints guiding you inside like a gruesome map leading to a nightmare. You swallowed thickly, your skin crawling and your fingers numb as you crossed the threshold.

Two bodies lay sprawled near the hearth, unmoving, their blood dark against your floorboards. Unmistakably Skinners.

A few feet away, in the shadow of your kitchen, slumped against the worn table was a man you’d never seen before. Very much alive, even as he pressed a blood-soaked hand to his side.

He lifted his head when he heard you, eyes blue and icy as the water of the Basin, sharp and assessing beneath the brim of his hat.

For a moment, you simply stared. Your mind scrambled uselessly between run and hit him with something, while your heart thundered painfully against your ribs.

You did neither.

“Uh—” You cleared your throat, the sound far too loud in the quiet, your own voice too small, too polite to belong in a room that reeked of gunpowder and death. “You ain’t a Skinner.”

A sound escaped him—half-snort, half-wheeze—and you couldn’t decide if it was incredulity or sheer indignation. If he rolled his eyes, it was subtle, but unmistakable.

“Most folk would be screamin’,” he said, his voice a hoarse rumble edged with tired irritation, despite the alarming amount of blood soaking through his shirt. “And here I was, havin’ a dull day, until you walked in to enlighten me with the obvious.”

He was right. Up close, it was clear he was no butcher. No hideous pelt fashion. No human bone trinkets. No filth stitched together in mockery of clothing. He wore leather and denim, dust and road stitched into every seam.

And somehow, against all reason and despite the two bodies cooling on your floor, the realization made your knees go weak with relief.

“Dear God—thank you, good sir,” you gasped, a frantic, shaky smile tugging at your lips as you stepped closer. “You saved my home! I was mostly worried they'd burnt the place down… or hurt my horse.” Your gaze dropped to the satchel at his side, hanging open where he’d likely been fumbling for a bandage, blood dripping down the leather. “And those are my peaches in that bag, mister.”

He let out a huff that might have been a laugh if he wasn’t so pale. “I’ve killed the two men in your kitchen, lady,” he said flatly, “and gave the rest a reason to stay clear. I reckon I earned a peach.”

You nodded quickly. Of course. Of course. A juicy peach was the least you could offer this gentleman, who seemed to be deteriorating with every breath he took. His face was the color of old parchment, and a fine sheen of sweat made his skin glint ghostlike in the firelight.

You leaned closer, and then you saw it—the deep track of a blade carved through his hand from back to palm, and two arrows buried deep in the meat of his thigh, the shafts shivering slightly with every pained breath he took. Dark, heavy drops of crimson hit the floorboards like a ticking clock.

“No, no, no, no…” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, your head spinning. “I hate blood.”

The man looked down at his leg, then back up at you, his expression flat and unimpressed.

“Well, I’m real sorry, ma’am,” he grumbled. His free hand trembled, but still managed a mocking little wave. “I’ll stop bleedin’ now.”

You spun around, eyes darting frantically in search of anything useful. But all you saw was your unmade bed. A jar of sugar cubes. Big Valley Canned Apricots. The two Skinners with clean bullet holes in their heads. Sloppy Molly’s Salted Offal. The Schmitz Canned Salmon you’d picked up at Manzanita Post last week—

There it was. The moment of clarity you needed.

“Wait here, good sir,” you said, voice certain like a promise. “I’ll go find help.”

“No,” he cut in sharply, as if you’d suggested a mercy killing. “No doctor—” The words came too fast, breaking into a ragged cough that made him wince in pain. “No doctor,” he repeated more quietly, voice dropping to a stubborn growl.

The audacity of such a request nearly took your breath away.

Who else would you bring if not a doctor? The undertaker? He was bleeding all over your scrubbed pine, slumped against your table with two—possibly poisoned—arrows in his leg and a knife wound to his ribs and hand, and somehow you were the unreasonable one for suggesting help.

“You a wanted man, mister?” You asked, already snatching up your satchel and coat, shoving a clean rag into his hand. “Just stay put. I won’t be long.”

You were halfway down the porch steps when another thought struck you—sharp, unwelcome, and oddly specific.

Where was the box of Hedley Baking Company’s Assorted Biscuits you’d also bought at Manzanita last week? The ones you’d been rationing carefully, knowing Saint Denis shipments didn’t always make it as far as Tall Tress. They were supposed to be right above the canned salmon.

You turned back.

Why was he here in the first place?

“Sir,” you retraced your steps into the cabin, “you were lootin’ my home,” you announced. It wasn’t an accusation—more like commenting on the weather.

“I wasn’t lootin’ ‘your’ home,” he said, knuckles turning white as he pressed the rag to his side. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

“Well, you were still robbin’ whoever you thought lived here.”

“I wasn’t. I was inspectin’.” His breath was shallow now, chest hitching with a wet, ragged sound.

“Inspectin’ for what?” You challenged, folding your arms.

“The idiot.”

“What idiot?”

“The one,” he wheezed, his blue eyes narrowing, “who decided to live in a cabin in the middle of Skinner territory.”

You scoffed, feeling a flush of offense crawl up your neck. You knew, however, that his reasoning carried a stinging amount of truth.

You took a steadying breath, doing your best to ignore the way the cabin smelled like a butcher’s shop.

“Just don’t bleed to death while I’m gone,” you said firmly. “You’ve got a lot of explainin’ to do, mister.”

You turned to leave—then stopped halfway through the doorway.

“One more thing—”

“What now?” he muttered. The edge in his voice was sharp with pain, and you understood the urgency, but if those devils came back and found him wounded and alone, they’d torture this poor man to shreds.

“I don’t know how wise it is for you to move in that condition, or if you even can, mister,” you said, already crossing the room, “but those bastards might be thinkin’ of comin’ back as we speak.” With a soft grunt, you hauled the heavy, hand-woven rug aside, revealing the wooden latch set into the floorboards. “So please, hide here.”

He stared at the dark opening in the floor, then slowly lifted his gaze to yours.

“Jesus,” he muttered, studying your face as if trying to decide whether he’d misjudged you entirely. "Is that where you hide the bodies?"

“What bodies, mister?”

“I’m just sayin’,” he half-grunted, each word sounding like it cost him precious breath, though that didn’t stop the snark. “A lady livin’ all by herself in the middle of the most cursed woods in the country. I ain’t accusin’ you of nothin’, but it is suspicious.”

You rolled your eyes, leaving the latch open in case he decided he needed it, and grabbed your coat.

“Just hide if you can, please,” you said shortly, heading for the door for good this time.

-

The gentle firelight spilled across the cabin walls in dusty orange slants, catching in the steam rising from a basin of warm water on your bedside table. It was that fragile hour before dawn, a moment of absolute stillness, when the birds hadn’t yet stirred, and the only sound was the soft, rhythmic lap of the lake against the pier outside. It was a hauntingly peaceful contrast to the red chaos of the day before.

Your lower back and neck throbbed from hours of scrubbing, and your hands felt like cracked rubber from the harsh lye and all the water it had taken to scour the blood and brain matter from your porous floorboards. You hadn’t been able to stomach a single bite of dinner after that. And when you’d finally been ready to collapse for the night, the realization had hit you like a splash of icy water: you’d be spending the night in the rocking chair.

Your bed was already claimed.

You wrung out a clean cloth, water dripping back into the basin with a soft plop. Your eyes drifted to the man currently resting against your lacy pillows.

He was still out cold, his breathing deep and slightly raspy, but steadier than it had been when you’d hauled the doctor through the front door. You’d found the physician exactly where you’d hoped—perched on the porch of the general store at Manzanita Post, spectacles slipping down his nose as he turned a page of the Blackwater Ledger.

He’d been a godsend, though he’d grumbled incessantly about being dragged into Skinner territory and the bodies cooling on your kitchen floor.

You’d found the stranger sprawled in a heap of denim and leather right next to the cellar door he’d been too stubborn to enter. For a terrifying moment, you’d thought he was a third corpse. But no, he wasn’t cold like the Skinners lying beside him. Instead, his skin had been burning.

Between the doctor’s grunts and your own aching muscles, you’d managed to get the arrows out and the man into your bed.

Now, as you pulled the quilt down to reach the bandage on his side, you couldn’t help but stare.

You’d handled the laundry of half the men in your hometown since you were old enough to work—the mayor’s soft, expensive shirts; the store clerk’s and his sons’ spindly long johns; the butcher’s oversized, blood-stiffened aprons—but you’d never seen a man built like this.

Even in repose, he looked powerful. Dangerous.

His shoulders were broad and unyielding, sinking into your mattress as if forged from iron. His chest was a rugged, hairy map of old scars and hard-earned muscle—a landscape of a life lived violently. But the mark on his left shoulder was different: a gnarled, puckered mess of twisted tissue that broke the rhythm of his skin. It was shiny and distorted, a scorched patch of history that looked like it had been sealed by fire and grit rather than a doctor’s hand. There was a weathered strength to him that made your small cabin feel suddenly, startlingly cramped.

You carefully began to dab dried blood away from the edges of his bandage, shuddering at the sight of the red staining the white. And yet, your fingers couldn’t help but linger just a second too long against the warm, solid skin of his ribs.

“You’re a lot of work for a man who tried to loot my home, mister,” you whispered, the words barely more than breath.

The doctor had left you with two bottles of tonic and a stern warning:

“Your husband’s got a constitution like an ox, but he’s lost a lot of blood. Keep him warm, keep him clean.”

A tiny, involuntary giggle bubbled in your throat at the sight of your rough “husband” tucked into dainty floral bedsheets. You still couldn’t believe the lie had worked, but instinct told you that a man who refused a doctor was a man with ugly secrets. You didn’t want to know who he was running from; you just knew that “husband” was an easier explanation than “armed looter who saved my life.”

You moved the cloth over the curve of his bruised bicep. It felt like tempered steel beneath your palm. You’d never touched muscle like this before. What kind of life carved a body like his? Besides looting homesteads, that is. You doubted any ordinary life could produce a build like that.

You studied his sleeping face, searching for an answer in the sharp jaw, and the golden stubble catching firelight. Without his hat, he looked less like a threat and more like a man. A very tired, very wounded man who currently had your favorite quilt pulled to his waist and a battered satchel, still holding your peaches, sitting brazenly on your vanity.

You dipped the cloth back into the water, your mind wandering through a forest of unanswered questions. You didn’t even know his name.

Pulling the quilt down further, you moved to the stitched mess on his thigh. The doctor had been forced to cut away much of his denim and drawers to let the wounds breathe, leaving thick, corded muscle exposed to the cool morning air.

As you moved the rag over the skin, something pressed against your hand from his remaining pocket. Driven by a mix of curiosity and the need to clear any debris, you reached in, pulling out a crumpled box of Millicent’s Premium Cigarettes and a sturdy folding pocketknife.

“You loot many strange men, ma’am, or just me?”

The low, gravelly rumble vibrated through the mattress, making you jolt so violently you nearly fell off your chair.

“Jesus!” you gasped, the rag dropping to your lap as you clutched your heaving chest. “Don’t do that again, mister. I ain’t used to hearin’ other voices ‘round the house.”

He didn’t move much—couldn’t—but his eyes tracked you with a sharp, heavy intensity. “You live out here alone?”

“Well—yes. Mostly,” you answered, your heart still hammering too hard for you to think clearly. “I mean… except when I don’t.”

There was a long, skeptical silence.

“…That ain’t exactly reassurin’,” he said, shifting his head slightly, the rough gold of his stubble scraping against your lacy pillowcase.

Seeing him like that—awake and observant, gears turning inside his head in God knows which direction—it suddenly hit you: you didn’t know him at all. He was helpless now, sure, but what about tomorrow? Or next week? When he was all healed and towering over you? He was so broad, so dangerously strong. He’d stood against at least five Skinners all by himself and came out alive. What could you do against a man like him? What if he decided he liked your cabin for his permanent home? What if he decided he didn’t want a witness to his “inspecting”?

“I mean, except when my husband’s here, of course,” you added quickly, the lie slipping off your tongue with alarming ease for the second time in twenty four hours.

“Your husband?” he asked, sounding surprised though not entirely incredulous.

“Yes. Why?” You busied yourself with the cloth again, hands trembling.

“What kind of worthless piece of shit leaves his lady alone to fend for herself in a cabin and in the middle of Tall Trees, of all places?” he grunted, his breath catching as your gentle touch met the wound on his thigh. “If it was me—”

“He…he’s travelin’,” You blurted, staring at the tender wound, your stomach churning at the sight and your mind scrambling for an explanation at the same time. “For work,” you cleared your throat, “he travels a lot.”

When there was only silence for an answer, you glanced up to meet his gaze.

And there it was. His blue eyes were clouded with fever, but there was still a spark of that dry, defiant wit behind them.

“He works for…” you averted his inquisitive gaze, desperate for a detail. Your eyes darted to the vanity, landing right on his satchel where your biscuits still remained taken. “The Hedley Baking Company.”

He cocked one sandy eyebrow.

“You know… the biscuit factory,” you added weakly.

“Saint Denis?” he asked. You nodded fervently.

He let out a long, pained huff of air that might have been a scoff under other circumstances.

“Well, if it was me, I’d take my lady to the city. Buy her a floor somewhere nice and make sure she was safe every time I came home from... makin' cookies. Wouldn't leave her to her luck, only to come back and find a rottin' body in this cabin. Just sayin’.”

“And I'm just sayin’,” you countered, fingers careful as you cleaned the edge of his wound, “for a man who was stealin’ peaches and biscuits from my kitchen just yesterday, you’re awfully rude to my good husband—considerin’ he ain’t even here to defend himself.”

“Or you,” he murmured.

You opted for silence. He was impossible. You pretended to focus on the task at hand, but your mind couldn’t help but wander to that absurd image: a version of you living in bustling Saint Denis, wearing a perfectly starched apron and pristine hair, baking cookies all day while the trolley rattled by your window. It couldn’t be further from the reality of your raw, scrubbed hands and the smell of pine and smoke you woke up to every morning. You almost chuckled at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“Sorry,” he added suddenly. The word was so quiet, so unexpected, it took the breath right out of you. “Didn’t plan on gettin’ stabbed yesterday.”

“That’s all right.” You offered him a small, genuine smile, pulling the quilt back over his broad chest to keep the morning chill at bay. “I ain’t done yet, mister. Still gotta clean that nasty cut on your hand. But I figured you must be hungry. Doctor said you’ll likely sleep for days, but not before you eat. Can’t take your medicine on an empty stomach.”

You turned toward the kitchen counter, aware of his gaze lingering.

“And no, before you ask, I didn’t tell him your name—which I don’t even know—nor did I mention you were a stranger who just happened to be…” you reached for a spare bowl you kept on the top cabinet, “…inspectin’ my home when those Skinners arrived.”

You glanced back, mischief flickering on your lips.

“Rest, assured mister. I told him you was my husband.”

You’d expected a scowl or a grunt. Instead, you found the corners of his mouth twitching, his cheeks pulling back to return the smile. It transformed his face, smoothing out the hard edges of the bleeding man you’d met on the kitchen last afternoon.

“Thank you,” he murmured. His voice was so weak and heavy with exhaustion that you knew he’d be back in the dark of sleep within minutes. You needed to get some broth into him, and fast.

“It’s Arthur,” he said, the sound of his name stopping you mid-step.

You turned around, wooden spoon in your hand. He was watching you from the pillows, his eyes half-closed.

“Arthur Morgan.”

-

You woke before the sun had fully crested the treeline, the world still caught in that pale, breath-held quiet between night and morning. The Basin lay glassy and still, mist curling low over the water as you knelt at its edge, sleeves rolled tight, fingers aching as the cold bit into your skin. The water was bitter this early, but you’d never minded. You liked to work before the day truly began—an old habit learned back home, when the hours were long and the laundry had to be finished and folded before the town ever noticed you were there.

The past four days had been uneventful—about as uneventful as having a wounded stranger occupying your bed could possibly be.

He’d spent most of it sleeping, just as the doctor had warned. The first two days, he’d burned with fever, stirring only when you pressed a careful hand to his shoulder and coaxed him awake to drink broth. He hadn’t complained about the soup itself, only about being “treated like a baby,” his voice hoarse and obstinate even through the haze of pain.

The two days after that, he’d improved enough to sit up on his own. He’d remained stubbornly grumpy, but his stomach had managed solid food at last—starting with the very peaches he’d looted from you, now soft and ripe and disappearing faster than you’d expected.

And now, it was the fifth day.

You twisted the heavy fabric of his shirt once more, your eyes flicking toward the cabin without meaning to. A man like him wasn’t built for stillness. You could see it even in his sleep, in the tension that never quite left his frame. Five days confined to a bed would drive a man like him to the brink of madness—of that you were certain.

You only hoped he wouldn’t decide to prove you right by tearing open his half-healed stitches.

You wrung the shirt between your hands, watching the water cloud faintly pink before running clear again. It had taken four days of patient scrubbing and soaking in your carefully guarded “magic solution”—a mix of lemon, salt, and secrets—to get the blood out completely, but you’d done it. The fabric was finally clean, saved from ruin.

You huffed a quiet breath through your nose, more satisfied than you cared to admit.

“How could I ever have called myself a laundress if I couldn’t rescue you, Mr. Shirt?” you murmured, speaking to the fabric more than to yourself—a habit you’d picked up living alone in the woods, just to keep you from going insane in the silence.

“Now we just have to get you dried, and then I can stitch you up,” you explained to the shirt, giving it one last soak for good measure. “You’ll look even newer than when your grumpy owner first ordered you from that catalogue.”

“You always this talkative or did the Skinners rattle your brain loose?” A voice, husky with a morning rasp, drawled behind you.

You let out a small shriek, spinning around with your heart jumping straight into your throat. No, you would never get used to hearing another voice in this clearing.

“Mr. Morgan,” you said, half-greeting, half-scolding.

“M’lady,” he replied, tipping his head as if doffing a hat that wasn’t there.

He stood on the porch, chest bare save for the clean bandages you’d wrapped snug around his torso the night before. He was clutching his satchel’s strap in his hand. And you didn’t care how good he thought he felt or how strong he believed himself to be—it was too early for this. Too cold.

“Why are you upright?” you demanded, crossing back toward the line.

“Cause I got two legs?”

“You had two arrowheads deep in one of those legs,” you reminded him, pinning his freshly cleaned shirt to the line with unnecessary force. “I didn’t spend the last five days of my life cleanin’ and re-wrappin’ bandages just for you to tear ’em open again ‘cause you “got two legs”, mister.”

He let out a long, heavy breath, shoulders dipping.

“Ma’am,” he said quietly, the edge leaving his voice. “I really do appreciate what you’re doin’. I do.” He paused, a ghost of a rueful smile playing on his lips. “But if I gotta stare at that ceiling one more day, I swear I’m liable to lose what little sense I got left.”

You shook your head, opting for silence instead of an argument, and turned back toward the water. There were still bloody rags to wash. If he was determined to ignore common sense, you weren’t going to exhaust yourself trying to provide it for him.

The Basin was beginning to wake with you. The sun crept higher, pale gold spilling through the ancient trees and catching on the water’s surface, breaking it into a thousand scattered coins of light. You knelt at the edge, skirts gathered, and dipped the rags into the cold. The soap bloomed white between your fingers, sharp and clean against the iron tang that still lingered in the fabric.

The water numbed your hands first, then coaxed them awake, just as it always did. You worked on instinct, movements smooth and practiced, muscle memory guiding you where thought wasn’t needed. Bubbles rose where small fish darted near the shore, quick silver flashes disappearing the moment your shadow shifted. Somewhere deeper in the trees, a bird began to sing—then another—the woods slowly filling with melody.

Behind you, the porch boards creaked softly.

“You… do this for a livin’?” he asked after a moment. His tone careful, as if testing the waters of your temper.

“Used to,” you replied, wringing out a rag and watching the red bleed into nothing. “Back in Strawberry.”

“Strawberry?” he echoed.

You nodded, not looking at him.

“Been there, mister?”

“A few times,” he said. “Pretty little town.”

“That it is.” You smiled despite yourself, the memory bubbling up easy and warm inside your chest, a stark contrast to the icy lake water. You could almost hear the river running straight through the heart of town, the steady melody of the waterfall singing by your window day and night. You remembered the way mist clung to the flower baskets on the bridges in the early mornings, the petals heavy with pearls of dew.

He was quiet for a moment.

“You don’t miss it? Up there?”

“I do,” you admitted. “Most beautiful town in the whole country.” You paused, scrubbing gently, thoughtfully. “Miss ridin’ out to Big Valley. Campin’ there. Pickin’ lavender so the clothes’d smell nice after.” A small smile curved your lips. “Heard there’s a ranch up there now.”

You hadn’t been back in years. Too many to count.

“Looks like there ain’t a stain stubborn enough for you,” he said, his voice closer now. And you could hear the rustle of the floral blanket he’d wrapped around his waist.

You shrugged, dunking the cloth once more into the water. “Some things just stick with you, Mr. Morgan.”

The words settled between you, soft as the morning mist.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him shift on the porch, head turned in your direction.

“Say, ma’am,” he drawled, “how’d a hardworking woman like yourself leave the quaint little capital of Big Valley just to end up livin’ in a graveyard?” He asked gently, not like a man judging or measuring, but like someone trying to place himself into a life that wasn’t his.

A quiet chuckle slipped out of you. Some days, you wondered the same thing—whether there was an explanation that didn’t sound like good ol’ lunacy.

“I was workin’ a shift at the general store back in Strawberry,” you began, wringing out a rag until only a couple lonely drops fell. “Customer comes in to buy a newspaper. Well—he eyes it. Doesn’t buy it. Mr. Cooper got real mad. Didn’t say nothin’, but I could tell.”

You smiled faintly at the memory. “Anyway, the man starts readin’ the headlines out loud. Then he mentions an advertisement—cheap property, right here in the Aurora. I’d been here once as a cub. Remembered how alive it felt. Thought… how bad could it be?”

He listened without interrupting. The only sounds were your voice, the gentle creak of porch boards beneath his bare feet, and two does grazing along the far shore, heads lifting now and again as if listening to your story.

“Next day, I went to the bank with all my savings,” you finished, heading for the clothesline. “And the rest is history, Mr. Morgan.”

“So,” he said at last, his voice a low rumble, “you hear one strange conversation and decide to move into the woods?”

“I thought it sounded… affordable,” you replied, pinning a damp rag to the line beside his shirt.

“That ain’t usually a good sign, ma’am.”

“Well,” you said lightly, “I haven’t been eaten or tortured yet.”

“Yet,” he echoed, the word heavy with the weight of experience.

“You’ll laugh at me,” you added, hanging another rag, “but I thought bears would be my biggest problem.”

He let out a low chuckle that vibrated in the morning air. “And? Are they?”

“Sometimes.” You sighed, finally turning to face him, clutching a clean, wet rag to your chest. “I figured folks just… exaggerated.”

“They usually do,” he said, glancing around the treeline. “Just not out here.” He leaned a shoulder against the porch post, the blanket around his waist shifting. “That husband of yours oughta have done more research. Ask ‘round or somethin’. Man can’t just drop his wife in a den of wolves and go back to sellin’ cookies.”

You winced inwardly. Right. You had completely forgotten about your “husband” from Saint Denis. Now you had no way of fitting a biscuit-maker into this story of a woman buying land on a whim. You would have to come up with something later, because your imaginary husband was starting to tangle with your reality like unbrushed hair, and you had the distinct feeling that Mr. Morgan was far more observant than you’d given him credit for.

“Are you goin’ somewhere, Mr. Morgan?” you asked, eyeing the satchel clutched in his hand, desperate to divert attention from the crumbling logic of your “marriage.”

“Like this? No, ma’am,” he said with a huff of amusement. “Just waitin’ on a friend.”

A friend? How did he—

Before you could ask, he lifted two fingers to his mouth and whistled—sharp, clear, and commanding. It echoed off the surface of the Basin and died into the trees.

A heartbeat later, you heard it. The heavy, rhythmic thud of hooves drumming against the damp earth. The frantic rustle of brush on the opposite shore.

Your breath caught in your throat when you saw it.

The largest stallion you’d ever seen burst from the treeline on the far side of the water, raven-black and gleaming, mane streaming like silk as he rounded the water’s edge to reach the porch. His reflection rippled alongside him, dark and imposing against the gold-lit surface.

“C’mere,” he murmured as the horse slowed to a snorting halt. “You alright there, boy?” His voice dropped—a softer, gentle register—as he reached up to ruffle the animal’s thick mane. “I’m sorry, boy.”

“That your friend, mister?” you asked, stepping closer, helplessly drawn in by the sheer, raw power of the beast.

He nodded, reaching into his satchel. “Sent him off when ‘em damn Skinners showed up,” he explained, offering the horse a handful of oats. “Didn’t want no arrow findin’ him.”

You watched the animal as he ate happily from his owner’s palm. You’d seen far too many horses on the roads near Tall Trees with Skinner arrows buried in their flanks, still hitched to carriages driven by corpses. To see this one whole, healthy, and loved felt like a small miracle.

“And he waited for you all this time?”

“Figured he’d manage,” he said, his eyes never leaving the horse. “Plenty to eat out here. He’s smart.” He gave the stallion a firm pat with his wounded hand. “Ain’t you, boy?”

The animal snorted, a deep, vibrating sound of contentment, clearly pleased to be back at his rider’s side.

“He a Shire, mister?” you asked, your hand already reaching out. He nodded as the horse leaned his velvet-soft nose into your palm.

“He’s massive,” you continued, your voice breathless. “And beautiful. You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve gone lookin’ for him. Could’ve stayed in the lean-to. My horse could’ve used the company, and this handsome boy wouldn’t have been out in the cold all alone.”

He smirked faintly, the expression reaching his eyes and making the "stranger" look remarkably human. “Hear that, boy? Lady here’s sweet on you already. You’re quite the charmer, ain’t you?”

You laughed softly, the sound warm and ticklish like the horse’s nose under your palm.

And then he tipped his head back, the early sunlight catching his face—five days worth of stubble glowing like gold, eyes shifting from cold blue to a warm, honeyed hazel under the morning sky. You realized, distantly, that this was the first time you’d seen him properly in the full honesty of daylight.

The next thought hit you before you could stop it.

This “stranger” in your cabin—this wounded, stubborn man with blood on his hands and your biscuits in his satchel—was actually quite handsome when he wasn’t covered in Skinner gore.

—

Arthur Morgan

It was rare for you to see Arthur like this. Sure, you had seen him drunk before, but nothing compared to this.

You went to the saloon together, just wanting a few drinks.

Then you lost him and when you found him again, he was laughing his ass off about nothing in particular. You giggled and laughed with him, confused at his current state.

When he recognized you, he wrapped his arms around you, as if he feared you might go away otherwise.

“There you areeeee. Been missin‘ ya, can‘t jus‘ go away like thiiss.”

He was clearly drunk so you didn‘t pay his words or their meaning too much mind at that time.

After some troubles off getting this big man to move, you finally made it to your horses again.

You had to put him on the back of your horse, as he wouldn‘t have been able to stay on his own.

He nuzzled his head into the back of your shoulder while you rode. When he spoke again, his words were little more than slurred mumbles.

“‘m sorryy, i‘m a- a fool, I know… you‘re so… good to me… I think… I’m in love with ya… Yes, definetly in love…”

You had trouble concentrating on the road when he said that. Did he… mean it?

Will cling even more to you after his confession. When he sobers up and you bring it up, he will be a little emberrassed to have acted like that around you. But he still stands up to what he said.

Swears to himself to never drink that much again though.

Javier Escuella

It started with Javier, Micah and you just chatting casually at the poker table.

A few hours and drinks in, you still sat at the table, although a little bit more tipsy than before

You laughed at something Micah said, too drunk to mind the man you usually despised. Javier had a visibly good time too, his cheeks got a little color from the alcohol already. You also thought you noticed him looking at you more often and laughing louder at your jokes, but you were convinced that you just imagined it due to the liquor.

After Micah had wandered off, it was only you and Javier. He became quieter, leaving the talking to you.

“Hey, are you still listening?”, you asked after he seemingly zoned off. He blinked a few times, then smiled stupidly.

“Anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are?”

You got taken aback by his question a little. Before you could ask him, why he‘d ask you that, he talked again.

“You know, I‘ve thought that for a while now. I think I like you. I mean- really like you.”

You‘re to shocked to say anything, but Javier doesn‘t mind. He slowly takes your hand in his and brings it up to his lips. He presses a soft kiss to it, mumbeling sweet nothings to your skin.

“Been sweet on you for a while…”

He‘d continue to smile, while you sat there speechless. If you don‘t reject him, he‘ll be the happiest man alive. When he‘s sober again he‘d plan a little date to ask you properly again.

Sean Macguire

A true Irish can‘t be really drunk, at least that‘s what you thought. Sean could be seen so often with a bottle in his hand, that you didn‘t even realize when he had one too many.

He‘d be the type of person to drink for some courage. So when he comes up to you, he gets straight to the point.

“Hey! I‘ve been thinkin‘… why don‘t ya marry me, eh?”

He speaks with about as much confidence as always but his legs are shaking and on the inside he‘s a nervous wreck. But that boy‘s dedicated.

So even when you laugh it off as one of his chokes at first, saying he never means it when he says it, he‘ll be motivated to show you right there and then how much he means it.

If you‘d let him, he‘d take your hands in his. He‘d tell you how he hasn‘t been able to think about much else these past few months than you. How you‘re not just a dear friend or someone he‘d like in bed, but someone who really makes his heart beat.

If you‘re still not convinced, he‘d move a hand to your cheek. His kiss would be a bit sloppy, but that boy has his experience. It leaves both of you breathless, and when you tell him, that you like him the same, he‘d be baffeled for a second.

He hadn‘t had any real hopes, that you‘d say yes. But once it reaches his drunk brain, he‘ll hug you laughing, acting more like a happy golden retriever (which he is anyways) than anything else.

In the morning, first thing he does is go up to you and ask if last night was real (Because he has been dreaming about this moment for quite a while now).

Bill Williamson

When he’s drunk, he becomes both more emotional and more offensive.

You were minding your business, sitting somewhere in camp, when suddenly Bill came around with a bottle in hand and sat next to you.

He‘d try talking with you, just starting a conversation. After some time, he‘d be more quiet, playing with his fingers.

He‘s thinking of if it‘d be stupid to tell you. Doesn‘t matter how much he knows, likes, or respects you, he always has the fear of not being accepted deep within.

You noticed how he became quieter after a while, so you lightly touched his knee to get his attention. When he looked up again, he got met with your concerned expression.

“I‘m fine. I don‘t need someone making a fuss about me. As if any of you‘d even care!”, he said as he took another sip from his bottle.

Most people would be annoyed by his behavior, but you just sighed and told him with a smile, that he can tell you anything and you‘d listen.

He would be really suprised by your offer. Not like anyone has made him such an offer, like- ever. At first he‘d laugh it off and call you ridiculous.

Then after some time he‘d ask, if he could tell you anything.

“Well- I… thank you… f-for caring.”

He‘d curse himself for his stuttering. But he was already too drunk to stop neither the stutter nor the words that were already coming out.

“You‘re a good friend… very good one. I… like you- as a friend!”

He propably wouldn‘t really admit it at first, but he was always so obvious. He never said anything kind to anyone, so you‘d know, what he means. After you told him that you love him, he‘d be completly in denial that someone like you could love him. But after many more reassurences, he believes it. He‘s completely baffeled.

(If you‘re alone, he hugs you and thanks you, for not hating him. He maybe even cries, which just shows how much he loves and cares for you, since he hasn‘t cried since the civil war.)

Kieran Duffy

That man never gets drunk except one time: Jacks return party. So it‘d be there where it happens.

He‘d propably be the only one who doesn‘t need to drink for courage. He‘d also confess when he‘s sober, if you and the rest of the gang accepted him enough already.

You found him wandering around. He swayed on his legs and you catched him just before he fell.

“Oh boy… I really am drunk.”, he chuckles.

You think he‘s really cute like this. Giggeling and laughing more. Just being overall more relaxed.

You carried him to his bedroll, when suddenly he wraps his arms around your middle.

“Ya know, i‘ve been sweet on ya fer a while… didn‘t know if you‘d kill me if I told ya, but I don‘t think that now…”

His words would be nuzzled into the crook of your neck, tickling you.

You‘d ask him if he really meant it, but he‘d already be blacked out by the time you do.

When he‘s sober again, he‘s confused when you tell him what happened. He can‘t remember and it‘s really emberassing for him. He apologieses a hundred times, before you tell him with a little kiss to the cheek, that you love him too.

His face is RED after the kiss, but he‘ll invite you to a little fishing trip anyways.

Micah Bell

He constantly hits on pretty much every woman in camp, but he stopped that when he realized he got feelings for you. Real feelings not just wanting you in bed.

He‘d try to charm you up similar to how he speaks with Grimshaw or Mary-Beth. But you‘d think he just wanted to fuck you, so you never really paid much mind to him, rejecting him as often and as quickly as you had to.

But Micah stayed persistent.

One evening, the gang settled around the camp fire, drinking and chatting. Somehow you ended up next to Micah, but suprisingly, he was rather quiet for the night.

After a while you got up to relieve yourself. When you were done and returning back to the others, Micah suddenly stepped in your way.

“What is it with you, always rejecting me, mh?”

He was a little unsteady on his legs, you noticed. You tried to tell him off again, but he only stepped closer to you.

“Thinking you‘re better than me?”

You could feel your heart beating at how close he was. You shook your head and told him that you knew that he only wanted to fuck you. Besides, you had seen him flirting with Karen just the other day.

“That girl ain‘t nothing to you darlin‘… how ‘bout you jus‘ give me one chance, hm cowpoke?”

You‘re still unsure. When you tell him that, he completly closes the gap between you. In one quick motion, he pulls you closer by your waist and presses his lips against yours.

Your first instinct was to push him off, but then you noticed how gentle his kiss was. Not demanding, not hungry, just a gentle kiss.

When you both pulled away, Micah had a small grin on his lips.

“So… ya ready to give me a chance now?”

Colm O‘Driscoll

After a successful heist, the O‘Driscolls were drinking once again.

While most of the gang was either in town with a whore or drinking arround the camp fire, you and Colm had settled in the cabin he claimed as his own. He asked you all kind of questions about the heist, and together you were already planning the next one.

At some point however, you started talking about yourselfes more.

“You always been a good gun ta me. Following orders, bein‘ reliable, not like the bunch of idiots out there.”

You laughed a little. Colm noticed and grinned back at you.

Then he suddenly stood up from the table and walked around to your chair. He supported himself by placing his hands on the armrests of your chair, effectively trapping you were you were sitting.

“Gotta be one of my most loyal members… I‘ve always been wonderin‘ where that dedication of yours came from…”

He leaned closer and you could tell by now that he was really drunk. Normally that man protected his personal space like a wolf his prey. Colm moved one hand to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing against your lips. His eyes seemed a little unfocused.

“Been wonderin‘ fer a while now, how far that loyalty goes…”

He moved the hand to grap your hair on the back of your head, before pressing his lips on yours.

You didn‘t excpect him to ever really like you in this way, let alone kiss you.

you miss the wide grin arthur shoots in your direction, observing your pointedly sleepy state. all tangled in bedsheets, hair sprawled out on the pillow like a halo. he'd rather you sleep, god knows you need it. some small part of him desperately misses the eight formerly uninterrupted hours of sleep, you tucked under his chin and his arm draped over your collarbones. between late night feedings and diaper changes, he's not so sure whether he's doting on you, or isaac more.

you unfurl from your previously sleeping position as much as your weary bones let you, rolling over to face the foot of the bed.

“was he crying? i didn't hear.” your question comes out quiet, but thick with both the panic and guilt only a new mother can intermingle. half-lucid, half not.

your husband picks up on it instantaneously. “nah, only fussin.'” arthur's own voice is velvety, dredged with a soft exhaustion, his movements the smallest bit sluggish when he shifts isaac into a gentle bounce. “think he just wanted to be held.”

your blinks come in rapid succession, trying to adjust to the flood of golden light filtering through pointelle lace curtains. arthur stands a few feet from the crib, his attention solely focused on your son for the time being.

“still early, sweetpea. should go back to sleep.” he spares you a glance, all of it warm and not so different from the sunrise glow painting the bedroom walls. a lazy smile curls up on the corner of his mouth. honey blonde hair mussed from sleep, his sweatpants hanging low on hips.

much, much, more awakened now, you shake your head no. “i'm alright.” warmed cotton sheets kiss your skin while you move across the bed, eager to close the small gap between you and your family. “you been up long?”

arthur clicks his tongue. “ten minutes, maybe. don't you start worryin.'”

you huff, giving him a wordless protest, squinting to garner a better look at your son.

arthur moves to join you on the edge of the mattress, still gently lightly rocking isaac, while one of your hands reaches out to the baby's fist. you beam at the tiny, five-fingered clasp you feel in return. momentarily, you're taken aback over how arthur manages to make isaac look so, so small — being that your son weighed in at the total of nine pounds at the hospital, and the onesie covering his socked feet is fit for a three month old. already, taking after his daddy.

the smaller room across the hall, maybe less than a metre from the bedroom, comes to mind. the nursery, decorated in shades of cornflower blue and embellished with patterns of gingham; each surface, minus the changing table, crammed to the very inch with assorted gifts.

you think of the little crochet elephant by the windowsill, a gift from hosea. the carded, colourful set of storybooks, from dutch, amongst many other ridiculously expensive items you haven't quite unpacked from the baby shower just yet. the most precious, miniature pair of overalls you've ever seen, from abigail and john. your hearts ticks up in that familiar bout of joy, when you realise that at just a few weeks old, isaac is already so cherished. well, honestly, since before he was born. it remains a puzzle to you, how upwards of twenty people managed to cram in the small-town hospital waiting room.

“we should probably start using the nursery.” you mumble, gently, though the words carry no true intention behind them. you know you won't, not any time soon at least. you realise now that the metre is much too wide of a distance.

arthur shares a similar thought process; you know he does, remembering that the same crib in front of you is the one he insisted on building himself, and then haphazardly dragged into the bedroom the same night you came back from the hospital. when two, became three.

“reckon we can wait some more still. 'till he's older, maybe sleepin' through the night more?” he phrases his sentence as a question, but lacks any surprise when you nod back at him.

the feel of arthur's bare arm curling around your waist, corded muscle separated by the layer of flimsy silk on your body, draws a contented sigh from your lips. he presses some lazy, drawn-out kisses to your hair, the crown of your head and your temple. his thumbs scribe crescent moons just above your hip.

you cut through the comforting silence. “i hope he looks like you.”

arthur grimaces, a gruff noise resonating from his throat. “that's a mighty cruel thing to wish on to a baby.”

“arthur,” your tone softens, something between a scolding and a warning, while your head snaps up irritably from the happy haze in admiring the chub on isaac's cheeks.

at your grumpy expression, he smiles a little bit. “i'm only jokin' with ya'.”

“best be.” you're weak to combat the jut of your bottom lip into a pout, or the slight pinch of your brows. he notices, pulling you that much more snug to his side.

arthur lets his mind wander for a moment, a common occurrence in the haze of being a new father. he imagines isaac, older. some summers in the future, zipping around barefoot in the yard. littered with sun freckles, maybe missing two front teeth, and no doubt with grass stains littered all over his knees. arthur already knows of the trouble that will come with trying to wrangle his son still, attempting to smother sunblock over his cheeks. his small, sticky fingers from too many homemade popsicles.

and of course, you always feature in those glittery daydreams. he sees you, standing on the porch, meeting his eyes tenderly while bouncing a daughter on your hip. matching dresses in floral print, her hair split into carefully parted bunches, secured with satin ribbons. a pink pacifier in her mouth, and you gently raising her tiny fist in a mock wave, to daddy and isaac — his little angels overlooking the house.

or, two daughters. he faintly remembers his mother saying once that twins run in the family, he can't be so sure now. decades have a tendency to make memories fuzzy. maybe, your tummy round with the fourth. he'll definitely have to upgrade the car, work longer shifts. but, arthur thinks it's possible, that seeing your features irreversibly intertwined with his, some of that self-loathing would start to chip away. bit by bit.

arthur fights the growing lump in his throat, inhaling deeply to make sure his next sentence doesn't tumble out sloppily. he needs you to know, and he needs you to know its not just an afterthought.

“i love you so goddamn much, you know that, sweetpea?”

you grow meek under the intensity of his words, as though the very product of your love - adoration, so profound, it had nowhere else to fit except in fusing the flesh and bone of a another human being - isn't half-asleep, cradled between your bodies.

“i do,” breathily, you giggle, tilting your head up to claim a feather light peck from your husband. arthur prolongs the kiss some more, the bridge of his nose bumping against yours. isaac coos below you, finally settled. “you tell me everyday.”

He had returned to find you waiting in the same spot, and the weight of his exhausting journey seemed to lift. You never set foot into the house until you saw the appearing form of your Arthur, running to him breathless with your skirts gathering the wind before he even made it past the fence. He dismounted his horse, and the sight of you, flushed with anticipation, had softened the sternness he carried with him. From his saddlebag, he always brought home something that reminded him of you. This time, it was a cluster of dainty wildflowers, and he took one to place behind your ear.

Stumbling footsteps and falling clothes, along with throaty chuckles, filled the room bereft of light. The firm bow of your corset was unraveled with practiced ease from his work-scarred fingers, the troublesome mechanics of its knot no longer an unfamiliar nuisance to him. A creak of the mattress sounded throughout the once quiet space, and the satin sheets creased as you lay upon them. Strands of hair splayed and stuck to the beads of forming sweat on your neck, and you watched as he fully discarded his shirt, revealing his brawny chest covered with a plentiful amount of faded scars. No matter how many times you had seen him undressed, it always stirred you beyond words and rendered you breathless.

With a slow tug pulling him forward, he planted the gentlest of kisses upon your lips and on your jawline, and he enveloped you in his warm touch. The sensation of his weight against you was almost far too much to bear and all that seeped into you was the addicting scent of his natural musk with a faint smokiness of gunpowder, leather, and pine. You pulled him closer, exploring the muscles of his back, tracing the lines of his form.

Arthur only pulled back to gaze into your irises behind half-mast lids to find any hint of reluctance or regret and even asked aloud, but there was nothing in them that spoke of such an idea, and your nod confirmed that. He dwelled dreamily at your parted lips, which awaited his kiss once more and, wishfully, forevermore. The edge of his calloused thumb brushed the side of your face lovingly and down to the seam where shuddering breaths escaped. 

He brushed your hair away from your ear, moving down to whisper, “I could spend the rest of my life looking at you.” It caused goosebumps to erupt on your skin from his low and vibrating tones. And before you deliver a quip, the words dissipate as he reconnects with you, and your mind goes vacant. 

Smooth, dreamlike moans elicited from your throat as he began moving down to your neck and your sternum. He trailed kisses along the curve of your waist, following the soft dips of your hips. Each kiss had sent ripples of anticipation through you, and you slightly dipped your head back at all of this, closing your eyes and softly smiling. His caresses on your skin left you boneless, while his mouth wandered senselessly, and he smiled to your song. 

Ribs flared to that of a bird's wings as your lower back arched, spine curving and bending to the will of want of its ever flourishing desire. His touch glided through your veins, reminding every single cell of this moment. Your fingertips nestled into his hair, and the placement of his kisses fell between slender legs. To the serpent’s apple. Arthur takes his time, savoring every moment and your taste, and he can’t help but shower you with praise.

“Arthur…” You breathed, pressing yourself into him instinctively. Your voice, once so gentle and sweet, was now needy and desperate. He moaned against you, gripping your thighs tighter, large fingers digging into your soft flesh. And you took in a deep breath, coming undone and loosening your grip on the sheets. He looked up for a moment and gazed at the way the moonlight had fallen over you through the gossamer curtains. 

And tonight remained similar to the many shared nights between you and Arthur, where he’d continue to show you his love in many ways, ways in which you couldn’t imagine possible, nor would you want it any other way or with anyone else. He’d leave you always in a state of pure bliss that you wished would remain forever, and you were soon wrapped in his arms beneath the sheets, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a peaceful sleep with soothing dreams of nothing but him.