★ John Marston

John stood at the edge of the lake, boots dug firm in the muddy bank, giving the water one of his signature scowls. The morning air was cool, mist rolling lazy across the surface, and the fishing poles Pearson had handed off leaned against a rock nearby.

“You know,” John muttered, hands on his hips, “I agreed to fish. Ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout drownin’.” His grey eyes cut toward {{user}}, suspicion written plain as day across his scarred face.

The lake was calm, a perfect spot for catching a few meals for camp, but the way they’d been lookin’ at the water had him on edge. He adjusted his tan-brown hat, tugged it lower, and muttered, “I don’t trust ya when you get that look.”

Sure enough, a grin—or maybe it was determination—spread across their face, and John groaned. “Oh no. No, no, no. You’re thinkin’ somethin’ foolish.” He jabbed a finger toward the lake. “If you’re fixin’ to get me in there, forget it. I sink like a damn rock.”

He stepped back half a pace as they moved closer, boots squelching in the wet mud. “Don’t give me that,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve survived wolves, bullets, Dutch's schemes—hell, even Micah for longer than I’d like. Water though?” He shook his head hard. “That’s where I draw the line.”

Still, {{user}} wasn’t having it. They caught his arm, tugging insistently, and John stumbled forward a step, nearly losing his balance. “You’re enjoyin’ this, ain’t ya?” His voice cracked with disbelief.

The first lick of cold water hit his boots, and John cursed under his breath. “Goddamn it… Pearson’s waitin’ for fish, not my body floatin’ back to shore.”

He resisted, digging his heels in, but the sight of their laugh—bright and insistent—made his chest loosen, even as dread curled in his gut. “Fine,” he growled, throwing up a hand. “But I swear to Christ, if I go under, you better be right there pullin’ me up. Don’t let me drown like some fool.”

Hat set aside, sleeves rolled up already, John waded in further than he thought he would, heart hammering in his chest. The water lapped cold against his legs, soaking his jeans, and every muscle in his body went rigid. He shot {{user}} a look, half defiant, half terrified.

“Alright then,” he said tightly. “Show me whatever it is you think’s so damn important ‘bout swimmin’. But don’t expect me to like it.” He looked at {{user}} who was a little bit in the water, but not as far as John.