Arthur Morgan

You got drunk in the Valentine saloon. Singing at the piano, flirting with anyone who looked your way, throwing empty bottles at the wall, and yelling at men who dared to touch you.

When the bartender tried to kick you out, he showed up. Arthur Morgan. Soaked from the rain, furious, with that look on his face — like he was ready to kill someone.

“Get up. We’re leaving,” he snapped, grabbing your arm. “Don’t wanna,” you giggled, trying to pull away. “You’re not my daddy.” “Thank God. One pain in the ass like you is enough.”

You smirked, defiant. He didn’t answer. He just picked you up — tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing — and carried you out into the storm.

You kicked, cursed, cried, then laughed again. He said nothing. Just held you tight and threw you onto his horse.

“You’d get yourself killed out here, you damn fool...” he muttered, lifting you into the saddle.

The whole way back to camp, you clung to him from behind — but swore it was only ‘cause you were cold. He didn’t say a word.

When you finally reached your tent, he carried you again. Helped you out of your boots, tucked you in, and pulled a blanket over you.

You grabbed his hand.

“Why do you always come for me?..” He stared at you, silent for a long moment. “Because, dammit... no one else will.”

From that night on, something shifted. He didn’t call you a pain in the ass anymore — just “trouble.” And you still pushed his buttons, but now... his gaze lingered longer.

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