Arthur Morgan, who first truly notices you when he catches you grooming his horse.

Arthur loves his horse more than most people, and he’s fiercely protective of the animal. For weeks, he’d seen you around camp – the quiet girl who didn't make a fuss – but it wasn't until he returned from a short hunting session with Charles to find you meticulously brushing the grime from his horse's coat that he actually saw you.

He stopped in his tracks, leaning against a nearby wagon, watching the way your small hands worked with such tenderness. 

You hadn’t only been cleaning his horse. Rather, you were whispering to it, your voice a soft melody that seemed to calm even the most spirited beast. He watched the way you leaned in to kiss the horse's velvet nose, a genuine, sweet smile lighting up your face. 

In that moment, the hardness in Arthur’s chest cracked just a little. He felt a strange, sudden pull toward you, a desire to be the recipient of that kind of gentleness.

He didn't say much then – just a gruff “Thank you, Miss” – but as he walked away, he found himself glancing back over his shoulder. 

He couldn't stop thinking about the softness of your expression and the way you handled something he loved with such genuine care.

Your Lieutenant who also refused to eat anything in the mess, or touch his mre's whilst on ops. Maybe he wasn't a fan of lifting his mask and eating in front of others? Regardless, you didnt press, all it meant was more apple crumble for you

Your Lieutenant who is always covered up on every single op, even on base, even during a heatwave! You understood not wanting to show skin but wasn't this too much? You were worried about him overheating, but he seemed fine.

Your Lieutenant who seems to be up all hours of the night, always in his office, always available for a debrief or a meeting, and never tired after an op, and seemed like he had endless stamina to train.

You, who finds him to be admirable, so dedicated to the cause and motivated all the time.

One night, you decided to head to his office to ask him to give you tips! Hes your Lieutenant afterall.

You, who walks in on Ghost, in his office, stripped down to briefs, on the floor, mask off, fangs out as he bit into and sucked on a pre prepared blood bag, panting and heaving as he made a mess.

"S-sergeant-" Ghost growled out, his eyes glowing a faint shade of red as he spotted you. God, you looked delicious...

--------------------------------------------------

arthur morgan is not a good man. he knows this, always has. the life he leads is not a good one : an outlaw at best, scum of the earth at worst. a criminal with no means of redemption, the blood on his hands too becoming of everything he knows and everything he is. even saints cannot save him now ( and you both know this ). but you-- you are good, you are everything meant for radiance. you, who is brighter than the sun itself, always find the good in everything, even him.

he doesn't get it. tries not to overthink it, really. easier for both of you that way -- better for him to not spiral in that rabbit hole of self deprecation and doubt, and easier for you -- better that he doesn't push you away, try to get you away from a life you should not live.

"i love you, you know." you whisper one night, your hand on his cheek, lips soft against his, like something meant to be holy. "love you so much, arthur morgan."

he doesn't get it, but he kisses you all the same like it's the only thing that might save him ( as if he was meant for saving, anyway ).

"you sure about that?" he tells you, and the slight teasing in his voice is not enough to mask the doubt that creeps into his being, invades his every thought and second of existence in a brave new world. "better men to love out there, sweetheart."

you hum, gentle, never dissuaded. you and your goddamn heart of steel, so stubborn and soft all at once.

"you always say such nonsense." you kiss him again. once, twice, three times, just in case he forgets tonight. "i only want you, you fool. i love you, always. it'll always be you, you know."

he sighs into your kiss, and you feel the way he smiles against you, like a silent surrender.

( he knows. of course he does. he kisses you back. once, twice, three times. just in case you forget tonight. )

tea 🤏🏻🤏🏻 we love a jealous theo

Navigation; masterlist;

You've been doing this dance with Theodore for four months now.

Four months of stolen kisses in empty corridors. Four months of his hands on your waist, pulling you into alcoves between classes. Four months of late nights in the common room where conversations turn into something more, something heated, something that leaves you breathless and wanting.

Four months of nothing.

No labels. No definitions. No clarity about what you are to each other.

"It's casual," he'd said that first time you'd tried to have the conversation, his dark eyes unreadable. "We're just having fun, yeah? No need to complicate it."

But it doesn't feel casual. Not when he looks at you like that across the Great Hall. Not when his fingers trace patterns on your skin in the darkness. Not when he whispers your name like a prayer against your neck.

You want more. You want to be his girlfriend, want him to be your boyfriend, want everyone to know that there's something real between you. But every time you try to bring it up, he deflects. Changes the subject. Kisses you until you forget why you were talking in the first place.

So you've learned to take what you can get. The stolen moments. The secret smiles. The way his hand finds yours under the table when no one's looking.

It's not enough. But it's something.

At least, it was something. You thought it was enough until a Astronomy class on a cold Tuesday morning changes everything.

Professor Sinistra stands at the front of the classroom, her star-chart robes shimmering in the candlelight. "Your next project will span the remainder of the term," she announces. "You'll be studying a specific constellation in depth—its mythology, its astronomical properties, and its magical significance."

You're only half-listening, too aware of Theo sitting three rows behind you. You can feel his gaze on the back of your neck like a physical touch.

"I've already assigned your partnerships," Sinistra continues, and your attention snaps back to her. "These pairings are final, so please don't ask to switch."

Your stomach drops. Assigned partnerships.

One by one students get paired.

“Hermione Granger and Blaise Zabini”

“Draco Malfoy and Katie Bell”

"Theodore Nott and Lavender Brown."

The quill in your hand stills. You turn slowly in your seat, just enough to see Theo's reaction. He looks unbothered, already glancing over at Lavender, who's practically glowing with excitement.

Lavender Brown. Who's been trying to get Theo's attention since fourth year. Who laughs too loud at his jokes and finds excuses to touch his arm. Who's made it abundantly clear she's interested.

Your throat tightens. You force yourself to breathe through it.

"And our next pair—" Sinistra consults her list. "Harry Potter and...”

"Y/N L/N."

Of course.

You force yourself to look over at Harry, who gives you a small, slightly awkward smile. He's nice enough. You've worked together before. It's fine. It's fine.

Except when you glance back at Theo, his expression has shifted. Something dark flickers across his face before he schools it back to neutrality.

The rest of the class passes in a blur. Sinistra explains the project requirements, but you barely hear her over the rushing in your ears. Your chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped a band around your ribs and is slowly pulling it tighter. When she finally dismisses you, you're out of your seat immediately.

You catch up with Theo in the corridor, grabbing his arm. "We need to talk."

He turns, and for a moment, something vulnerable flashes in his eyes. Then it's gone, replaced by that carefully neutral expression you've come to hate.

"What's up?"

"Switch partners with me."

His eyebrows rise. "What?"

"For the project. Switch with Harry. You work with him, I'll work with Lavender."

"Why would we do that?"

Is he serious? "Because Lavender has been trying to get with you for years, Theo. Everyone knows it."

He shrugs, infuriatingly casual. "So? We're just doing a project."

"She's going to flirt with you the entire time."

"And?" He's looking at you with those dark eyes, and you can't tell if he's genuinely confused or deliberately being obtuse. "I don't see what the problem is."

The problem. The problem is that you're not his girlfriend, so you have no right to be jealous. The problem is that he's made it clear this thing between you doesn't mean anything serious. The problem is that your heart is breaking, and he doesn't even notice.

Your eyes burn. You blink rapidly, refusing to let him see. "Fine," you say, your voice cold despite the way it wants to crack. "Whatever. Have fun with Lavender."

You turn and walk away before he can see the tears threatening to spill. You make it around the corner before the first one falls, hot and angry against your cheek. You swipe it away viciously.

You will not cry over Theodore Nott.

You won't.

The library is quiet the next day, just you and Harry bent over your Astronomy textbooks. He's been explaining the mythology behind Cassiopeia for the past ten minutes, and you've been nodding along, but you haven't absorbed a single word.

Your mind keeps replaying yesterday. Theo's casual dismissal. The way he didn't even care that Lavender would be all over him. The way he looked at you like you were being unreasonable for even asking.

"—and that's why she was chained to her throne in the sky. Are you okay?"

You blink, realizing Harry has stopped talking and is looking at you with concern.

"Sorry," you say, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just... tired."

"You sure?" He shifts closer, and his knee bumps yours under the table. "You seem upset."

The genuine worry in his voice makes your chest ache in a different way. Harry is nice. He's attentive and kind and he actually seems to care about how you're feeling.

Unlike some people.

"I'm okay," you lie. "Really. Cassiopeia sounds great for the project."

Harry smiles, and it's genuine and warm and a little shy. "Cool. Um, I'm really glad we're partners, actually." He ducks his head, a flush creeping up his neck. "I've wanted to get to know you better for a while now."

Oh.

Oh.

The way he's looking at you—nervous and hopeful and sweet—makes it abundantly clear what he means.

Harry likes you.

You should probably discourage this. Should probably make it clear you're not interested, that your heart belongs to someone else even if that someone refuses to claim it.

But then you think about Theo. About his casual dismissal. About how he won't even acknowledge that what you have is real.

About how much it hurts.

"I'm glad too," you hear yourself say, and Harry's smile widens.

The guilt hits you immediately. You're using him. You know you are. Using his genuine feelings to make yourself feel wanted, to make Theo jealous, to protect your own bruised heart.

But maybe that's what you need right now. Maybe you need someone who isn't afraid to show they care.

Even if it makes you feel sick with yourself.

The next Astronomy class, you arrive early and deliberately sit next to Harry. You're laughing at something he said—you can't even remember what—when Theo walks in.

He stops mid-stride when he sees you. For a moment, something raw crosses his face. Then it's gone, replaced by that infuriating mask of indifference.

You force yourself to keep smiling at Harry. To keep your hand on his arm. To pretend you don't feel Theo's stare burning into the back of your neck.

Your chest feels tight again. Wrong. Everything about this feels wrong.

But you don't move.

"Why aren't you sitting with me?"

The question comes after class, Theo's voice low and tight as he corners you in the corridor. There's something in his eyes you can't quite read—something that looks almost like hurt.

You look at him coolly, even though your heart is racing. "I'm sitting with my partner."

"Your partner." The word sounds bitter in his mouth.

"For the project. You know, the one you didn't want to switch?"

His jaw clenches. "That's what this is about?"

"I don't know what you mean." The lie tastes like ash. "I'm just taking the project seriously."

You step around him, and his hand catches your wrist. Not hard, but enough to stop you.

"Wait—"

"I have to go," you say, pulling free. Your throat is tight again, tears threatening. "Harry's waiting."

You walk away before he can say anything else. Before you can see whatever expression is on his face. Before you can break down and tell him the truth—that every moment away from him feels like drowning, that you hate this game you're playing, that you just want him to care.

In the bathroom, you lock yourself in a stall and let the tears fall silently. Your chest heaves with the effort of keeping quiet, of not sobbing out loud where someone might hear.

This is what you wanted, isn't it? To make him jealous? To make him feel even a fraction of what you've been feeling?

So why does it hurt so much?

Over the next week, you perfect the art of avoidance, and it's killing you.

Every time Theo asks if you want to hang out after dinner, you say you're busy with the project. Every time he tries to catch you in the common room, you're heading to the library. Every time he sends you a note in Potions, you don't respond.

And every time, you feel like you're tearing yourself apart.

You lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling of your dormitory, replaying every interaction. The hurt in his eyes when you brush him off. The way his hand had lingered on your wrist. The tightness in his voice when he'd asked why you weren't sitting with him.

Maybe he does care. Maybe this is affecting him too.

But then you remember: ‘It's casual. We're just having fun.‘

And the hope dies.

Harry, meanwhile, is always there. He walks you to class. Saves you a seat at lunch. Brings you coffee when you're studying late.

"You don't have to do all this" you tell him one evening in the library. Your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.

"I want to" he says, and there's such sincerity in his green eyes that the guilt threatens to choke you.

You're using him. You know you are. Using his attention, his kindness, his genuine feelings—using all of it as a shield against your own pain.

It makes you feel like the worst person in the world.

That night, you cry yourself to sleep.

In Astronomy class, you watch as Lavender leans close to Theo, her hand on his shoulder as she points at something in their notes. She's laughing, tossing her hair, and Theo—

Theo lets her.

He doesn't pull away. Doesn't create distance. He smiles at something she says, and your stomach twists so violently you think you might be sick.

Your hands are shaking. You clench them into fists under the table, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.

This is what you wanted. You wanted him to feel what you felt. You wanted him to be jealous.

But watching him smile at her, watching him let her touch him—

It's unbearable.

"Hey," Harry says softly beside you. "You okay?"

You realize you've been staring. You tear your gaze away, blinking rapidly against the burning in your eyes.

"Fine," you manage. "I'm fine."

But you're not fine. You're so far from fine you can't even see it anymore.

Harry is quiet for a moment. Then, so quietly you almost miss it: "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

He's fidgeting with his quill, not looking at you. His ears are red. "I was wondering if maybe—I mean, if you're not busy—" He takes a breath. "Would you want to go to Hogsmeade with me? This weekend?"

Your heart stops.

"Like..." You trail off, not sure how to finish the question.

"Like a date," Harry says, finally meeting your eyes. He looks terrified and hopeful all at once. "If you want. No pressure. I just—I really like you, and I thought maybe—"

Behind you, there's a sudden crash.

You whip around to see Theo's ink bottle overturned, black liquid spreading across his parchment and dripping onto the floor. His hands are shaking—actually shaking—as he tries to hold the bottle. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping.

Lavender is fussing over the mess, but Theo isn't looking at her. He's looking at you, and the expression on his face—

Raw. Desperate.

For a moment, you can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but stare back at him.

Then Harry touches your arm gently. "So... what do you think?"

You tear your gaze away from Theo. Look at Harry's hopeful face. Think about all the times Theo has dismissed you, pushed you away, refused to give you what you need.

Think about how much it hurts.

"Yes," you hear yourself say. "I'd love to."

Harry's face lights up. "Really? That's—that's great!"

You force yourself to smile. To ignore the sound of Theo's chair scraping back. To ignore the way your chest feels like it's caving in.

You don't look at Theo again for the rest of class.

But you can feel him staring.

That evening, you're heading back to the common room when a hand catches your wrist.

"Can we talk?"

Theo. Of course.

You don't turn around. Can't. If you look at him, you'll break. "I'm actually pretty tired—"

"Please." His voice cracks on the word, and it sends a knife through your chest. "Just... come to my room? We can hang out. Like we used to."

You know what ‘hang out’ means. It means his hands in your hair and his mouth on yours and forgetting everything except the way he makes you feel. It means falling back into the pattern, into the casual undefined thing that's been slowly destroying you.

It would be so easy to say yes. To let him pull you close. To pretend everything is fine.

But it's not fine. Nothing is fine.

"I can't," you say quietly, still not looking at him. Your eyes are burning again. "I'm busy."

"With Potter." It's not a question. His grip on your wrist tightens slightly—not painful, but desperate. "That's all he is, right? Your project partner?"

You finally turn to face him, and the look in his eyes nearly breaks you. He looks wrecked. Vulnerable in a way you've never seen him.

But it's not enough. It's never enough.

"What does it matter to you, Theo?" Your voice is shaking now, tears threatening. "We're just casual, remember? Just having fun. No need to complicate it."

You throw his own words back at him, and you watch them land like blows. He flinches.

"That's not—"

"I have to go," you say, pulling your hand free. A tear escapes, rolling down your cheek. You swipe at it angrily. "Harry's waiting."

You walk away, and this time, you do let yourself look back.

Theo is standing in the middle of the corridor, looking lost and broken and so unlike himself that it makes your chest ache.

But you keep walking.

You're walking back from the library two days later, your eyes tired and puffy from staying up late thinking about your last conversation with Theo, when you hear it.

Raised voices. The sound of a scuffle. You round the corner and freeze.

Theo has Harry pinned against the wall, his fist drawn back. Harry's nose is already bleeding, his glasses out of place.

"Theo!" you scream.

He doesn't stop. His fist connects with Harry's jaw with a sickening crack, and Harry crumples. Theo follows him down, and it takes two seventh-years to pull him off.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" one of them shouts, struggling to hold Theo back.

Theo's chest is heaving, his knuckles bloody. His eyes are wild, unfocused—and then they land on you.

The look on his face—rage and desperation and something that looks like anguish—makes you take a step back.

"Get Potter to the hospital wing," you say to the seventh-years, your voice shaking. You can't look at Harry's crumpled form. Can't think about the fact that this is your fault. "Now."

They half-carry Harry away, and you're left alone with Theo in the corridor.

"You," you say, your voice deadly quiet. "Come with me. Now."

You drag him to an empty classroom, slamming the door behind you. Your hands are shaking. Your whole body is shaking.

"What is your problem?" you demand, whirling on him. "You could have seriously hurt him!"

"Good." Theo's voice is rough, dangerous. There's blood on his knuckles, and he doesn't seem to care. "He deserves it."

"For what? For being my partner? For being nice to me?"

"For touching you!" The words explode out of him. "For making you laugh. For—for asking you to Hogsmeade like he has any right—"

"He has every right!" You're shouting now too, tears streaming down your face. "Because you know what, Theo? He actually wants me. He's not afraid to show it. He's not keeping me a secret or pretending this doesn't mean anything!"

"That's not—"

"You said this was casual!" Your voice breaks completely. "You're the one who wanted no labels, no commitment, nothing. So why the hell do you care if I go to Hogsmeade with Harry? Why do you care if he flirts with me? You don't get to have it both ways!"

"Because I lied!"

The words ring out in the sudden silence.

Theo's chest is heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"I lied. It was never casual. Not for me. Not once."

Your heart stops. The tears are still falling, but you can't move. Can't breathe.

"What?"

"I lied," he repeats, and now he won't look at you. His voice is raw, broken. "I thought—I thought if I kept it casual, if I didn't put a name to it, then I couldn't..." He breaks off, switching to Italian under his breath. "Cazzo. I couldn't lose you."

"Theo—"

"And then Potter." His voice roughens, and when he looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed. "Harry fucking Potter with his perfect smile and his Hogsmeade invitation, and you said yes, and I—" He stops, swallows hard. "I couldn't breathe. All I could see was you with him. Laughing with him. Choosing him."

You're frozen, unable to process what you're hearing. Three months of pain and confusion and heartbreak, and now—

"You want to know why I care?" He takes a step toward you, and you can see he's trembling. "Because you're mine. You've been mine since the first time you looked at me like I was something worth having. And I've been yours this whole time, and I was too scared to admit it."

"You hurt me," you whisper, your voice breaking. Fresh tears spill over. "You made me feel like I wasn't enough. Like I was asking for too much. Like I was crazy for wanting more."

"I know." He takes another step, and you can see the desperation in every line of his body. "I know, and I'm sorry. Amore, I'm so sorry. You were always enough. You were everything. I was just—" His voice cracks. "fuck, I was just too much of a coward to say it."

"How do I know you mean it?" Your whole body is shaking now, sobs threatening to tear out of your chest. "How do I know this isn't just because you're jealous? That you won't go back to 'casual' the moment I forgive you?"

"Because I'm telling you now." Another step closer. He's right in front of you now, close enough to touch. "I'm telling you that I want you. Only you. Not casual, not undefined. I want all of it. Labels, commitment, everything I was too scared to give you before."

"Theo—"

"Per favore" The Italian falls from his lips like a prayer, and his hands come up like he wants to reach for you but doesn't dare. "Please. I can't lose you. I won't—I can't survive it."

You can see him trembling, this boy who's always so controlled, so carefully composed, falling apart in front of you. There are tears on his face now too.

"I love you," he says, and the words sound like they've been torn from somewhere deep inside him. "Ti amo. I should have said it weeks ago. Months ago. I love you."

Your breath catches. You've imagined him saying those words so many times, but hearing them now—

It's everything you wanted.

And it's not enough.

"You're an idiot," you breathe, your voice thick with tears.

"I know." He takes it like absolution.

"And an asshole."

"I know."

"And you—" Your voice breaks. "You broke my heart, Theo. You made me feel worthless. You made me cry myself to sleep. You made me hate myself for wanting you."

"I know." His voice is wrecked. "I know, and I—cazzo, I would take it all back if I could. Every moment I made you doubt yourself. Every time I pushed you away. I would take it all back."

"But you can't." The words come out as a sob. "You can't take it back."

"I know." He's crying openly now. "But I can—I can try to make it right. I can be what you deserve. I can—please , just give me a chance. Let me prove it to you."

He reaches for you, his hands coming up to cup your face, and you can see the moment he's going to kiss you. The moment he thinks this is over, that you're going to forgive him, that everything is going to be okay.

You step back.

His hands fall to his sides, and the look on his face—devastation, confusion, desperation—nearly breaks you all over again.

"I can't," you whisper. "I can't do this right now."

"What?" His voice is small, broken. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—" You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold yourself together. "I mean I've spent four months feeling like I wasn't enough for you. Four months wondering what was wrong with me. Four months breaking myself trying to be okay with casual when I wanted so much more."

"I know, and I'm—"

"And now you're sorry." Your voice is bitter. "Now that you think you might lose me, now you want to make it real. But where were you when I was crying in my dormitory? Where were you when I was tearing myself apart trying to understand why you wouldn't just choose me?"

"I was scared—"

"So was I!" The words come out as a shout. "I was terrified! But I was willing to risk it. I was willing to put myself out there and ask for what I wanted. And you—you just kept pushing me away."

"Please—" He reaches for you again, and you step back again.

"No." Your voice is firm despite the tears. "No, you don't get to touch me right now. You don't get to kiss me and make this okay. You don't get to fix four months of pain with one confession.

"Then what do I do?" He sounds desperate, broken. "Dimmi, Tell me what to do. I'll do anything."

"I don't know." You're crying so hard you can barely see him. "I don't know, Theo. I just—I need time. I need to think."

"Time." He says it like the word is foreign. "How much time?"

"I don't know!" You're shouting again. "I don't know, okay? I don't know if I can trust you. I don't know if this is real or if you're just scared of losing. I don't know anything anymore!"

"It's real." His voice is fierce. "I swear to you, it's real. I love you. I— I love you so much it terrifies me."

"Then you should have said so." Your voice breaks. "You should have said so before I had to break myself trying to make you jealous. Before I had to use Harry. Before you put him in the hospital wing."

He flinches like you've struck him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."

"I know." You wipe at your face, but the tears keep coming. "I know you are. But sorry isn't enough right now."

"Then what is?" He's begging now, openly begging. "What do you need from me? I'll do anything. Anything."

"I need—" You stop, trying to find the words through the tears. "I need you to let me go. Right now. I need you to let me walk out of here and figure out what I want."

"And if—" His voice breaks. "If you decide you don't want me?"

The question hangs in the air between you. You can see the fear in his eyes, the desperation, the love he's finally admitting to.

And you can't answer him.

"I don't know," you whisper finally. "I don't know, Theo."

You turn toward the door, and his voice stops you.

"I'll wait." It's barely audible. "However long it takes. I'll wait for you."

You don't turn around. Can't. If you look at him—broken and desperate and finally, finally giving you everything you wanted—you'll cave. You'll forgive him before you're ready. You'll let him kiss you and touch you and make promises you're not sure he can keep.

"Don't," you say quietly. "Don't wait for me. I can't—I can't promise you anything right now."

"I don't care." His voice is fierce again. "I'll wait anyway. Forever, if that's what it takes."

A sob tears out of your chest. You wrench open the door and run.

You run through the corridors, tears blurring your vision, your chest heaving with sobs you can't contain anymore. You run until you reach your dormitory, until you can throw yourself onto your bed and bury your face in your pillow and finally let yourself break completely.

He loves you.

Theodore Nott loves you.

And you don't know if it's enough.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

the spark, the ignition, the fire — victors of district twelve

𐔌 cw: age gap but it's not specified, innocent reader with low honor arthur, mild corruption thoughts, he eats his own cum out your hole, breeding and very mild pregnancy .ᐟ

the gang knew arthur was hiding something, something they had no right to see, touch, or sniff across the western plains. it wasn't a grand mansion ripe for a robbery or a score that would net them a pretty dollar. instead, it was a secret that kept him absent for long hours and busy days, forcing him to ride out at dawn before the fires were even stoked and return long after the kettles went cold.

by then, everyone was too occupied to interrogate, and the air in the camp no longer carried the warm scent of stew and beer. he would arrive humming softly under his breath, smelling like clean linen, homemade roast, and floral perfumes. the sinews of his shoulders no longer bunched in tension beneath pristine, clean blouse, but melted away.

he had a pretty thing out there who cared for him, it was impossible to miss. they could see it written all over his weathered face, in the defensive scowl he slipped the second anyone teased if he’d found himself a fancy lady.

the house lay tucked in a valley where flowers bloomed in full season and grass grew long and unconstrained, a sanctuary where no horses passed with thundering hooves that dragged rattling wagons, and no loud voices shattered the peace. travelers passed the other way, drawn toward a weathered wooden sign welcoming them to strawberry, a town nestled between towering pines and lush, emerald meadows.

yet it stood apart where timber walls looked in silence, adorned with lacy curtains and a fence rails mended by arthur’s own gritty hands, splashed with fresh white paint. kitchen hot with working stove, slow roasting the choice cuts of an elk he’d brought down on his ride back, wild sage and lavender bundled to hang from the rafters, the crisp scent filling every corner.

gathering into a heavy, fragrant trail that seeped through the propped open window panes and drifting out to timber line, teasing the hungry bellies of wolves and foxes that lurked behind. it was a place he could find blindly, as no matter how many hundreds of miles of trail lay between you, his horse would always find the way back.

he comes to the porch where you stood waiting, framed by the flower pots lining the wooden windowsill, the dress hemline caressed by the summer breeze in the very same way it stirred the petals. he dismounted his horse, offering an ever so gentle pat to its mane. his guns rattled softly within their leather holsters with the heavy, rolling sway to his broad hips, spurs catching slightly on the grass below.

you threw your arms around his strong neck the moment he came within reach, finding his sun bronzed skin still warm and rich with the scent of woodsmoke. chestnut brown beard prickling your plump lips as you pressed a kiss to his mole dotted cheek. that high pitched squeak escaping you when his large palms found their familiar place upon your tempting ass, fingers kneading into the pert globe with a tight, shameless grip.

he flashed a dopey, affectionate grin that depeened his crows feet when you chastised him with a flustered “arthur!” yet made no attempt to escape his embrace, choosing instead to lean deeper into the solid weight of his brawny chest.