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Early summer. The woods were alive with quiet beauty, the kind that snuck up on you if you let it. A crystal-clear stream wound its way through the dense trees, sunlight glinting off its surface like shards of glass scattered by the breeze. The air was still and warm, broken only by the gentle murmur of water over smooth stones and the occasional rustle of leaves. Not a soul around but Arthur Morgan and his mare, Peaches, her soft brown coat blending into the earth around them.Arthur knelt by the stream, his boots sinking slightly into the damp bank. He dipped his calloused hands into the icy water and splashed it over his face, the chill biting into his skin and waking him up in a way that felt almost brutal. It was the kind of sharp clarity he liked—simple, honest. Beside him, a small bar of lye soap rested on the rocks, its edges uneven and worn from use. Arthur picked it up, working it into a lather before scrubbing at his neck and hands with the same no-nonsense determination he brought to everything.Old habits were hard to shake. Even now, he caught himself rushing through things, cutting corners like he had somewhere to be or someone to chase. But these days, it wasn’t about just getting by—it was about trying, even if trying felt unnatural. Since getting married, Arthur had made an effort to take better care of himself. It wasn’t easy. Hell, most days it felt downright impossible. But Charles worried less when Arthur put in the effort, and that was reason enough.As he worked the washcloth over his arms, Arthur could almost hear Charles’ voice in his head, low and steady as a summer storm. “You gotta stop runnin’ yourself into the ground, Arthur. Ain’t no glory in it.” It was the same voice that had soothed him through a thousand restless nights, the same voice that reminded him he didn’t have to carry the whole damn world on his back anymore.The thought made Arthur’s lips twitch into a faint smile. He rubbed the washcloth behind his deer ears, flicking them once as the water dripped down the sides of his face. He traced the base of his antlers with the cloth, feeling the new velvet just starting to thicken. They were smaller this time of year—Charles never let him forget it. Always teasing, poking fun. “What happened to that big, impressive rack of yours?” Charles would ask, grinning that sly grin of his. Arthur always had a smart remark ready, but deep down, he liked the banter. It stuck with him, even out here, miles from the cabin.He glanced up at the trees, the sunlight filtering through their leaves in dappled patches. It was beautiful, sure, but the quiet unnerved him sometimes. It was the kind of quiet that made a man think too much, made the woods feel like they were holding their breath. Arthur shook the feeling off, scrubbing harder at the back of his neck. Just nerves, he told himself. It was the same thing he’d told himself a hundred times before. Peace like this never lasted. It couldn’t.The Van der Linde gang had taken over an abandoned ranch near Blackwater, a run-down place hidden deep in the folds of the landscape. “Hiding in plain sight,” Dutch called it, like the idea was clever instead of desperate. The ranch was nothing fancy, but the gang had taken to it surprisingly well. Most of them seemed to enjoy the slower pace, like they’d stumbled onto some long-lost part of themselves.Hosea was thriving. Watching over the livestock and crops like he’d been born for it, he’d taken to ranch life as naturally as breathing. John, too, had settled in with Abigail, their bickering replaced by a kind of uneasy peace. Maybe it was the rhythm of the ranch that soothed them, or maybe it was just that they’d run out of energy to fight. Even Sadie seemed calmer, though she spent most of her time hunting and scouting. She was a damn good hunter, almost as good as Charles—and Arthur himself, if he was being honest.Micah, of course, was still Micah. Always grumbling, always bitching. But even he seemed to enjoy the whiskey that came easier these days, thanks to Hosea’s careful planning.Arthur couldn’t say he didn’t like it himself. Sure, he missed the wide-open plains, the wild freedom of the ride, the rush of being on the run. But there was something about waking up in the same bed every morning, something about knowing Charles would be there beside him, that made it all feel worth it. It wasn’t a life Arthur had ever imagined for himself. Domesticity had never seemed to fit, like a pair of boots too tight around the toes. But now that he had it, he wasn’t sure he could ever let it go. Not for Dutch. Not for anyone.Their cabin sat just at the edge of the tree line, its small frame blending into the woods like it had always been there. Arthur had made sure of that, ensuring with a bit of sleight of hand that he and Charles ended up “paired” together when Dutch assigned accommodations. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the others—it was that some things weren’t meant to be shared.Nobody in the gang knew about their marriage, save Hosea. Arthur trusted Hosea to keep it quiet; the old man had a way of seeing things without asking too many questions. But the rest of them? They’d poke their noses where they didn’t belong, laugh at what they didn’t understand. Maybe even turn cruel.It wasn’t shame—not in the least. Arthur loved Charles with every damn piece of himself, and he’d take on anyone who said otherwise. But love like theirs was fragile, not because it was weak but because the world wasn’t kind to things it didn’t understand. Arthur had seen enough to know that some truths were best kept safe, held close to the chest like the delicate embers of a fire.Arthur sighed, rinsing the soap off his hands as he glanced toward the woods again. The shadows were growing longer now, the sunlight slipping away inch by inch. He shook the water from his hands and stood, the ache in his knees reminding him he wasn’t as young as he used to be.Arthur rubbed absently at his lower belly, his fingers lingering there as if he could will away the ache that lived inside him. The ache wasn’t physical—not anymore—but a heavy, gnawing weight that had burrowed deep, refusing to let go.They couldn’t know. He just couldn’t bear the thought of the others knowing.The memories pressed in, unbidden, and Arthur hated them as much as he hated himself for still holding onto them. He hated the lengths he’d gone to, the things he’d put himself through, all for something that was never meant to be.When he was fourteen, a robbery had gone wrong. A bullet to the hip, a festering infection, and weeks on death’s door had nearly claimed his life. He’d pulled through, stubborn even then, but the damage had been done. The doctor hadn’t minced words. “You’ll live,” the man had said, “but there’s no future for you in starting a family, son.” Arthur hadn’t understood at the time—not fully. Not until years later, when the truth finally settled in his bones like a bad winter.Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head like he could banish the memory, but it clung to him like a shadow. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, not back then, and not later when he met Charles. Especially not when they got married.He wanted a baby. He wanted a family with Charles so badly it hurt. He still remembered those early days, freshly married and so full of hope. The way they’d talked about it, planned for it, laughed about the idea of little ones running around their feet. Hell, it had seemed so simple, so natural.Abigail had gotten pregnant with Jack right around the time Arthur and Charles had started trying. One night with John, and there she was, glowing and round with life. They’d figured it’d be the same for them. Maybe it would take a little longer, maybe they’d have to try a few more times, but it wouldn’t be impossible.But time wasn’t enough.Arthur exhaled sharply, his hand falling away from his stomach as the memories hit like the icy rush of the creek. They’d tried everything in those first few months. A midwife in Valentine had been the first, her hands warm and kind as she’d murmured reassurances that never came true. Then there’d been an Indian healer from the Lakota tribe, mixing herbs and muttering prayers over Arthur’s belly. Nothing worked.And then there was the damn crystal. Arthur’s lips quirked in a bitter smile, though there was no humor in it. In his desperation, he’d bought a large green crystal from a woman in Van Horn who swore up and down it would bless him with a child. He still remembered Charles’ sour, embarrassed look when Arthur, full of hope and foolishness, bit into it—only to find it was rock candy. “Could’ve fooled me,” Charles had muttered, his tone light, but the sting behind the joke had been sharp for both of them.And then Jack was born.Arthur’s jaw tightened as the memory cut deep, fresh and bitter even now. He could still see Abigail by the fire, cradling that perfect little boy, her face glowing with pride as Jack let out his first cries. Charles had been the first to walk away that night, his panther tail swishing low as he slipped into the woods without a word. Arthur had followed an hour later, finding him sitting by a dying fire. In his hands was a beautiful snow leopard pelt he’d hunted and prepared. It was meant for their little one, though neither of them spoke it aloud. They hadn’t needed to.The death of a dream didn’t come all at once. It came in pieces, small losses piling up until they crushed you.Arthur blinked against the sunlight dancing on the creek’s surface, his throat tight. Jack had been a year old when Charles gave up hope. One quiet night, Charles had pulled him close, his tail flicking against the cot’s legs as he whispered, “It’s not meant to be, sweet thing.” His voice had been calm and steady, but Arthur had heard the heartbreak behind it.Charles might’ve let go, but Arthur hadn’t.Just one more try, Arthur thought, the words almost a mantra. He scrubbed harder at the back of his neck, as if he could wash the memories away with the cold water.Saint Denis had been his last hope. He’d scraped together every penny he could find, spinning some half-baked lie to Dutch about needing to pay off a rancher. Then he’d gone, five hundred dollars in hand, hope burning bright in his chest like a flame he couldn’t let die.The medical college had been everything he’d imagined: white coats, polished floors, gleaming instruments. The doctors had been all smiles, shaking his hand like they were on the verge of changing his life. Three injections of colloidal silver, straight into his womb. “You’ll be large with child by the end of the month,” they’d promised, their voices dripping with certainty.But they hadn’t mentioned the fever.Arthur shook his head, the memory clawing at him like a wild animal. The two weeks that followed had been hell. Fever-soaked and delirious, he’d barely managed to stay in the saddle when Hosea found him slumped over, barely conscious.“What the hell’s happened to you, Arthur?” Hosea had muttered, his voice gruff but laced with worry as he looped an arm under Arthur’s shoulders. Peaches had danced nervously behind them, nostrils flaring as Hosea half-dragged Arthur toward the tent.Arthur, weak and shaking, had barely managed the words: “Doctors… help things along… one last try…”Hosea had frowned, pressing a cold cloth to Arthur’s burning forehead as he settled him onto a cot. “Help things along? What’re you talkin’ about, boy?”And that’s when Arthur had broken. The words spilled out in a hoarse, trembling whisper. “Baby. Tryin’ so damn hard. Wanna have one. So damn badly. Charles deserves a family with me. Hell or high water, I’ll give it to him. Spent my money at the medical college in Saint Denis. Five hundred dollars. They promised me… promised…”Hosea had gone still, his eyes sharp and soft all at once. “You’re a damn fool, Arthur Morgan,” he’d said, his voice low and steady. “But I get it. I get it.”Arthur exhaled slowly, bringing himself back to the present. That had been two years ago. The dream was gone, buried under the weight of reality, but life had moved on—even when the ache hadn’t.He glanced toward the cabin where Charles was waiting, the man who had given him everything. He had a good marriage, a good life. What more could a man like Arthur ask for?But deep down, he still couldn’t help but wonder.The cabin assigned to Charles and Arthur had been an in-law house once, built for someone who needed to be close to family but far enough away to have their own quiet. Arthur liked the way it felt—solid and steady, like it had been waiting for them. The logs were thick, the foundation firm, but sometimes, when the wind blew just right, Arthur swore he could hear the bones of the place creak. It wasn’t unsettling, not exactly. It was more like the cabin was speaking, whispering stories from a time long forgotten, carrying the weight of lives lived and lost within its walls.Arthur dried his face with a rough cloth, his eyes drifting toward the tree line. Somewhere beyond it, their cabin stood tucked among the woods, quiet and secluded. Well, mostly quiet. Charles had been transforming the place little by little, and the sounds of his hammer or saw were as familiar now as the birdsong in the mornings.What Arthur hadn’t expected when they moved in was just how good his panther of a husband was with his hands. The cabin was no longer just a house—it was turning into a work of art. The scent of fresh-cut wood lingered in the corners like a blessing, and the beams above the hearth gleamed with new polish. Charles had taken one of Arthur’s old sketches, a twisting bramble of flowers, and carved it into the mantle. Some nights, Arthur caught himself staring at it, tracing the delicate patterns with his eyes, marveling at how Charles could turn rough wood into something so fine.Charles had even started talking about adding rooms. He’d found a thick book on plumbing and tile work—one of those big Sears and Roebuck catalogs—and flipped through it like it was a novel. His tail swished behind him as he tapped the pages with his clawed finger, the excitement in his voice unmistakable. “Wouldn’t be too hard,” he’d said. “We could dig a better well. Maybe even put in a proper latrine. Make it nice.”It was something to see Charles like that, his golden eyes lit with ideas, his hands sketching plans in the air as he explained them. Arthur couldn’t help but smile whenever Charles got that way. It was rare to see him so openly excited about something.Arthur bit his lip, trying not to let his mind wander too far. New rooms. The thought dug its way into his chest and settled there, heavy and painful. He hated how easily he could picture it. A nursery, bright and warm, the walls lined with shelves Charles would build himself. And Charles, calm and steady, cradling a little one in his arms, his panther tail flicking as he hummed a low lullaby.Arthur sighed sharply, shaking the image from his head. It wasn’t fair—not to Charles, and not to himself. Some things just weren’t meant to be.It wasn’t like they hadn’t tried.He lowered his gaze to the creek’s surface, letting the water’s cool ripple calm his thoughts. But something caught his eye. There, half-hidden by the current, a glint of gold shimmered against the stones. Arthur blinked, his ears flicking forward as his tail gave a small, curious swish. Whatever it was, it looked like treasure.Rolling up his pants leg and leaving his boots on the shore, Arthur waded into the stream. The icy water stung his skin, making him hiss through his teeth, but it didn’t stop him. Humming a half-remembered tune under his breath, he bent low, his sun-bleached hair falling into his face. “What do we have here?” he murmured, his voice soft with curiosity.His fingers brushed against the object, and for a moment, the icy chill seemed to lift, replaced by a fleeting warmth. Arthur frowned, pulling it free from the creek bed and holding it up to the light.It was an ear cuff, delicate but sturdy, the kind of craftsmanship he’d only ever seen in big city jewelry shops. A wolf carved from pearl, caught mid-stalk, chased a running rabbit etched into ruby. A fine gold chain connected the cuff to a tiny charm shaped like a peach flower, which dangled delicately from a small antler. Arthur turned it over in his hands, studying the intricate details with a faint smile.“Well, I’ll be,” he murmured. “Betcha worth fifty bucks easy. Maybe more, for the gold and the stones.”He waded back to shore, pouring a splash of vodka from his flask over the cuff to clean it. “Too nice not to be mine,” he said with a quiet chuckle.Rubbing the soft fur of his left ear, Arthur fiddled with the cuff until it latched securely. The gold curled around the edge of his ear, light as a whisper. It fit so perfectly that he almost couldn’t feel it. Tilting his head, he watched the peach blossom charm sway faintly in the creek’s reflection.It reminded him of the little beads and feathers Charles wove into his hair, each one carefully chosen and placed. Arthur smiled faintly, imagining a cuff like this curling around one of Charles’ sleek panther ears. Maybe gold, like this one? Or silver, to match the soft gleam of his fur? Something simple but striking. Something that felt like Charles.Arthur caught himself grinning. “Looks good,” he muttered to himself, smirking faintly. Something pretty for once. He figured he deserved that much.He grabbed his boots, slinging them over his shoulder as he stepped out of the stream. The chill of the water bit at his legs, but he didn’t mind. The cuff swayed lightly against his ear with each step, but instead of bothering him, it felt… right. Like it had always been there.As he climbed back up the bank, Peaches nickered softly, her ears flicking forward as she eyed him curiously. Arthur patted her neck, his smile lingering. “What’s got you so interested, huh?” he murmured.Peaches nickered softly as Arthur approached, her ears flicking forward with curiosity. She nudged his chest harder than usual, her soft pink nose pressing insistently against him, as though she’d found something new about him that needed investigating. Arthur chuckled, running a hand down her broad neck. “What’s got into you, huh? You ready to head home, sweet girl?” His voice was low and warm, the kind of tone reserved for his favorite mare. “Got daddy somethin’ real nice today, didn’t we? I know, I know—you hate the wagon, but it won’t be long till we’re back.”Peaches nuzzled him again, her tail flicking impatiently as Arthur dug into his pocket for a sugar cube. “I know, baby girl, I know,” he murmured, holding the cube flat in his palm as her lips tickled against his hand. She snapped it up with a satisfied crunch, and Arthur gave her mane an affectionate ruffle.He glanced toward the woods, where their cabin waited, tucked snugly against the trees. Charles would be home, probably elbows-deep in another project. The thought made Arthur’s lips curve into a faint smirk. He couldn’t wait to see Charles’ reaction to the cuff. Knowing Charles, he’d probably tease him about it at first, but Arthur could picture the soft warmth that would follow, the admiration Charles always seemed to wear when looking at him.Arthur turned his attention to the cart, which was lighter today—a small haul, but a good one. He’d salvaged a few treasures from an abandoned house by the creek: a neat stack of blue-and-white tiles, a carved banister, a slab of stained glass, and even a ceiling fan, complete with the belt system for a windmill. He’d found the windmill itself—or what was left of it—scattered in the weeds nearby. Carefully tucked beneath the banister was an oval mirror with a tarnished silver frame, the kind that might’ve once hung in a fine lady’s parlor. Arthur had even grabbed a few books, though he hadn’t checked if the pages were still intact.Outlawing had taught him what to grab and what to leave behind. Back then, it had been about what could be sold fast—gold, jewelry, a pistol or two. These days, the rules had changed. Now, Arthur picked what could make their little cabin a home. Charles would take these bits and pieces and turn them into something better than they’d ever been. That was just who he was.Climbing into the wagon, Arthur clicked his tongue and coaxed Peaches into motion. The cart rattled and creaked, but it wasn’t overloaded. Peaches was a sturdy mare—there wasn’t a horse stronger in Arthur’s eyes. Peaches and Tamia together? Him and Charles? Hell, there wasn’t much they couldn’t handle.But then again, Arthur was a little biased when it came to his husband.Heading home wasn’t like heading back to camp. It felt different. He had roots now, something he hadn’t known since he was a boy hiding behind his mama’s skirts. Rounding the corner of the dirt road, the large oak tree came into view, its sprawling branches marking the almost-invisible driveway to their cabin.The sound of hammering reached Arthur’s ears, making them flick in excitement. “What’s that man up to now?” he cooed to Peaches, who gave a low whinny in reply.Arthur chuckled, his voice soft and teasing. “Don’t you worry none, I’ll free you from this evil ol’ cart first.” He halted the wagon, carefully wedging the wheels in place before unhitching Peaches. Leading her toward the pasture where Tamia roamed freely, Arthur brushed down her coat, picked her hooves, and slipped her an apple he’d tucked away in his saddlebag. She gave him a final nuzzle before trotting off into the tall grass to join Tamia.Arthur leaned against the fence, watching the two horses move lazily through the pasture. The wind stirred the grass, catching in their manes, and for a moment, Arthur just stood there, soaking it in. “Peaches deserves a home too,” he murmured to himself, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.The sound of hammering pulled him back. Arthur straightened, shaking his head as he adjusted his hat, careful not to snag it on his antlers. He smoothed back his hair, rubbed at his teeth with the pad of his thumb, and undid the top few buttons of his shirt. Had to look good for Charles.As he approached the cabin, Arthur looked up to see Charles on the roof, his bare chest catching the afternoon sun. Damn, did he just think the word glistening? Arthur snorted softly at himself, his tail giving an involuntary wag. Charles worked with practiced ease, a few nails held in the corner of his mouth as he pounded the shingles into place.Charles was a rare breed, in more ways than one. The mix of panther and raven blood in his veins was as striking as it was uncommon, and he’d inherited the best of both parents. But nature wasn’t kind to hybrids like Charles—alphas like him couldn’t sire children. It was one of life’s cruel ironies, and one that Arthur and Charles had learned to live with, even if the wound still stung.Arthur grinned mischievously and made a playful bleating sound like a fawn. “Hey, you!” he called, holding his hat in one hand as he looked up at his husband. “What’s a man like you doin’ on top of my house?”Charles leaned over the edge of the roof, his movements sleek and deliberate, golden eyes gleaming with amusement. His smirk revealed the barest hint of fang. “Hunting,” he replied smoothly, his voice rich and teasing.Arthur squinted up at him, grinning wide. “Hunting? Whatcha huntin’ from all the way up there?”Charles stepped lightly along the roof, the smirk never leaving his face. “Ohhh, a big-chested white-tail deer,” he said with mock seriousness. “Very hard prey to track.”Arthur’s laugh rang out, warm and loud, echoing across the clearing. “That so?”Charles smiled, softer now, his golden eyes warm as he moved to climb down the ladder. “What’ve you been up to? You’ve been gone since sunrise.”Arthur gestured to the cart, his grin widening as he adopted a showman’s flair. “Found ya some stuff,” he said, his tail wagging faintly behind him.Charles raised an eyebrow, his tail swishing lazily as he crossed the yard. “Stuff? You mean someone else’s crap you decided to drag home?”Arthur puffed up like an offended rooster, planting his hands on his hips. “Not just crap—fancy crap.”Charles laughed, his sharp fangs catching the sunlight. “Alright then. Show me what treasures you’ve got, big-chested deer.” He stopped in front of Arthur, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips, slow and warm. “Missed you,” he murmured against Arthur’s mouth, his voice low and genuine. “But I do appreciate the note you left for me.”Arthur’s ears flicked, and his cheeks turned faintly pink, though his grin didn’t falter. “Figured you’d worry if I didn’t. ‘Sides, you always get cranky if you don’t know where I’ve gone.”Charles snorted, brushing a hand affectionately over Arthur’s hair, careful of his antlers. “Damn right, I do. Now, let’s see what treasures you’ve got for me this time.”Arthur grinned, his tail wagging as he pulled the cart closer. He lifted a folded tent canvas to reveal his finds, carefully unwrapping each piece like it was treasure. He knew he’d done a good job when he heard the way Charles whispered his name.“/Oh, Arthur./”Charles’ ears twitched in delight as he picked up one of the tiles—a delicate piece of blue and white ceramic. “So you have been listening to me,” he praised, running a thumb over the smooth surface before setting it down. He picked up another. “Blue, white, and pale green,” he mused softly. “Perfect.”Arthur’s chest swelled with pride, his grin widening. “Knew you’d like ‘em.”Charles was already moving to the next item, his eyes lighting up as he peeled back an old quilt. His breath caught as he revealed a carefully wrapped object beneath. “A looking glass…” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet awe.The mirror’s silver frame was tarnished but intact, its surface cloudy yet unbroken. Charles ran a hand along the edge, his touch reverent. “You always know how to surprise me.”Arthur ducked his head, ears flicking. “Figured it’d look good over the mantle. Thought you might like it.”Charles turned to him, his golden eyes warm and soft. “I do. It’s perfect.” He gave Arthur a kiss. Rubbing their noses together. “It always amazes me, your eye for quality. You are one hell of an outlaw” His eyes flicked to Arthur’s deer ear. He held his husband by the chin, tilting his head to admire the cuff earring. “What do we have here?” He asked. Cheeks turning a happy shade of pink. “Ya like it? Can’t believe I found somethin’ that fine in the damn creek.” Arthur asked, reaching up to lightly touch the peach blossom that now dangled from his antler. “It was so pretty I couldn’t help myself, wanted to keep it.” “It suits you. Gold has always been your color. But the pearl? That’s something I didn’t expect to look so good on you.” Charles’ voice was low, warm, as his fingers traced the delicate details of the cuff. He started at the pearl rabbit stud, his thumb brushing the smooth surface, then followed the curve of the cuff to the etched wolf stalking above it. His fingers trailed up the thin gold chain that connected to the base of Arthur’s antler, where the tiny peach blossom charm swayed gently.Arthur could feel his cheeks heating, his ears flicking nervously under Charles’ touch. He might as well have been a puddle in the man’s hands, melting under the attention. Charles had a way of admiring him, of making him feel like he was something rare and precious, and Arthur never quite knew what to do with it. He pressed a kiss to Charles’ wrist as he traced the cuff, his voice soft and a little breathless.“Ya like it? Can’t believe I found somethin’ that fine in the damn creek. It was so pretty I couldn’t help myself—I just had to keep it.” He glanced down, his fingers brushing lightly over the charm. “Might even have squealed a little when I fished it out. Not that I’d admit that to anyone but you.”Charles chuckled, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement. “It suits you, Arthur. Gold always has. But this… the pearl, the peach blossom—” he tilted Arthur’s chin slightly to admire the way the light caught the cuff, “—it’s different. Thoughtful. Makes you look… I dunno, softer.”Arthur snorted, a little self-conscious. “Softer, huh? Ain’t sure if I should take that as a compliment.”“It’s a compliment,” Charles murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to Arthur’s temple. His tail swished behind him as he stepped back, his gaze falling to the cart. “Now, what else did you drag home this time?”Arthur grinned, his chest swelling with pride as he gestured to the cart. “Oh, just some odds and ends,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “Y’know, fancy crap.”Charles raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to peer into the cart. “Fancy crap, huh? Let’s see…” His ears perked as his gaze scanned the various pieces of metal and wood piled inside. Then he froze, his tail giving a sharp flick. “No… Arthur. Is that—how the hell did you find a windmill?”Arthur chuckled, puffing up like a rooster showing off. “Can’t give away all my secrets now, can I?” He leaned in beside Charles, his tail wagging faintly. “Found it in pieces down by the creek. Guess it got blown away in a storm or somethin’. I was just grabbin’ the pump pole and some pipes at first, but then I saw the blades scattered around. Figured it was worth haulin’ back.”Charles crouched slightly, his hands running over the windmill parts with a practiced eye. “It’s in good shape, all things considered,” he murmured. “Gonna need some work, but I can already see it—this thing’s gonna look real nice out back.”Arthur’s grin widened. “Oh, but that ain’t the best part.” He gestured toward two wooden crates nestled in the cart, their surfaces stamped with bold lettering: Sears and Roebuck. The boxes were weathered but unopened, the nails still gleaming faintly in the sunlight. “Found these up in the old house. Looks like the folks bought ‘em just before they ran off.”Charles leaned closer, his brow furrowing with curiosity. “What’s in ‘em?”Arthur’s tail flicked again, his excitement barely contained. “A belt system for the windmill. Meant to power a ceiling fan in the house.” He paused for dramatic effect, watching Charles’ ears twitch with growing interest. “Imagine that, huh? Cool air in the summer without havin’ to open every damn window.”Charles let out a low whistle, his lips curving into a wide smile. “A windmill and a ceiling fan? Hell, Arthur, you really outdid yourself this time.”Arthur crossed his arms, leaning against the cart with a smirk. “Told ya it was fancy crap.”Charles laughed, pulling him into a one-armed hug and pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Fancy, sure. But this… this is somethin’ special. You’re somethin’ special.”Arthur ducked his head, his blush deepening as he muttered, “Aw, shut up.” But the smile tugging at his lips betrayed how much the words meant to him. He adjusted his hat with a quick tug, looking back at Charles with a spark of mischief in his eyes.“I don’t reckon our house is just a cabin anymore, huh? What’s somethin’ rich folks have that’s like a cabin?” He snapped his fingers a few times, the word dangling just out of reach.Charles tilted his head, his tail flicking as he considered. “Uhhh, not sure. Only thing I know about rich folks is stagecoaches and train cars. And neither one of those seems right.”Arthur grinned, the faintest wag of his tail betraying his excitement. “A lodge! That’s the word I’m lookin’ for. We got ourselves a lodge house now. A fancy cabin.”Charles chuckled softly, the corners of his mouth quirking into a fond smile. “A lodge, huh? Guess that makes us fancy folks now.” He crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the wagon.Arthur’s grin widened as he let the tailgate down, his boots scraping the dirt as he stepped closer to Charles. “Can you believe that? This time last year, I was hopin’ to share a nice cave with you. Maybe a lean-to if we were lucky. Now look at us.” He gestured broadly to the cart, the half-finished house behind them, and the open land stretching beyond the trees.Charles’ expression softened, his golden eyes meeting Arthur’s. “It’s somethin’, isn’t it?” His voice was quiet, warm with sincerity. “I always thought… we’d be runnin’ forever. Never dared to dream about this.”Arthur scratched the back of his neck, his antlers brushing against the brim of his hat. “Yeah, well, I still reckon the gods have a strange sense of humor, givin’ us a windmill before we even got proper windows. But I ain’t complainin’.” His gaze drifted toward the cabin, his voice growing quieter. “Never thought I’d have somethin’ like this. With someone like you.”“It’s early summer, the gods gave us a windmill so we won’t cook to death in the heat of it.” Charles reached out, tugging Arthur gently by the shirt until their foreheads pressed together. “We’ve earned this, You earned this, Arthur. You deserve it. Don’t forget that.”Arthur huffed a laugh, though his cheeks flushed pink again. “You keep sayin’ stuff like that, and I’ll start thinkin’ you like me or somethin’.”Charles smirked, his tail swishing faintly. “What gave me away?”“No idea.” Arthur shot back playfully. The afternoon stretched on, golden sunlight spilling lazily across the clearing as Arthur and Charles worked side by side, their banter punctuated by the occasional hammering or scraping of tools. They talked about the windmill—where to set it up, how it might connect to the well, and how it could power the latrine once the pipes were sorted. Arthur teased Charles about his obsession with tile patterns, while Charles mocked Arthur’s knack for salvaging “fancy crap.” It was all sweet nonsense, the kind of foolish talk that belonged to a life they never thought they’d have.As the sun began its slow descent, Charles found himself leaning in the doorway of the cabin, his broad shoulders filling the frame. His gaze rested on the two unfinished rooms that branched off the master bedroom. The wooden beams gleamed with fresh polish, but the spaces beyond them stood stark and empty, shadows pooling where sunlight couldn’t quite reach.Arthur noticed the shift in his husband’s mood before a word was spoken. Quietly setting down the tools he’d been sorting, he crossed the room and slid his arms around Charles’ waist, resting his chin on the panther’s shoulder. The scent of sawdust and fresh-cut wood clung to Charles, grounding Arthur in the moment.“What’cha thinkin’ about so hard, Sugar?” Arthur murmured, his voice soft and easy, his breath warm against Charles’ neck.Charles chuckled, but the sound was faint, a shadow of his usual laugh. He turned his head slightly, meeting Arthur’s eyes with a sad smile. “Just… what we can’t have, I suppose.” His words were quiet, tinged with a heaviness that Arthur felt deep in his chest. Charles pressed a lingering kiss to Arthur’s forehead. “I keep looking at these rooms and tryin’ to picture something, but… my mind won’t let me. Like I’m scared to.”Arthur held him tighter, his arms firm around Charles’ waist. For a moment, he said nothing, just leaned into him, his nose brushing the curve of Charles’ neck. Then, with a resolute edge to his voice, he murmured, “Ain’t nothin’ changed. Them’s the babies’ rooms.”Charles raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking faintly despite the ache in his chest. “Babies’ rooms, huh? How’s that?” His tone was light, but there was something raw beneath the surface.Arthur kissed the back of Charles’ neck, the warmth of it soothing. “We tried the old-fashioned way—we tried everything,” he said, his voice steady but low, like he was confessing a secret to the trees outside. “As much as I want our baby… It just ain’t that simple, is it?”He let out a slow breath, nuzzling closer to Charles. “Dutch and Hosea found me in a horse stable when I was just a scrawny kid, curled up to Silver Dollar like a damn foal. A few years later, they found John in a trash heap, rootin’ around like some raccoon. Hell, even Trelawny says his folks traded him for a keg of beer.”Charles let out a soft, surprised laugh, shaking his head. “Arthur…”“No, listen,” Arthur said, pulling back slightly to meet Charles’ golden eyes. “What I’m gettin’ at is… we’re gonna have a family. Maybe not a baby like we dreamed, but a young’un all the same. A kid who needs someone—hell, who needs us.”Charles’ expression softened, the sadness in his eyes slowly giving way to something quieter. He reached up to cup Arthur’s face, his thumb brushing lightly over the deer’s cheekbone. Arthur’s ears flicked, his face heating under the gentle touch.“Why not us?” Arthur pressed, his voice cracking slightly as he fought to swallow down the lump in his throat. “We’ll search every damn nook and cranny if we have to. I don’t care how we find them—we’ll get ourselves a kid. A lotta young’uns out there need a home.” His voice wavered, and he blinked hard, willing away the tears threatening to spill. “Why not us?”Charles didn’t speak right away. He studied Arthur’s face like he was memorizing every freckle, every line, every flicker of emotion. Finally, he leaned in, resting his forehead gently against Arthur’s. “Why not us,” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.Arthur sniffed, his laugh watery but real. “Damn straight,” he muttered, his arms tightening around Charles as he let himself feel the warmth of his husband’s presence. “We’ll figure it out, Sugar. We always do.”Charles smiled faintly, kissing the corner of Arthur’s mouth before whispering against his skin, “We will, Arthur. I promise.”The two of them stood there for a long moment, the late-afternoon sunlight casting long shadows across the cabin floor. Beyond the doorframe, the land stretched out, open and untamed, but for once, Arthur didn’t feel the usual pull of the wild. This was their home, and they were building it together, piece by piece.Finally, Charles straightened, his hand lingering on Arthur’s cheek. “C’mon,” he said, his voice light but steady. “Let’s get back to work before the gods decide to give us somethin’ worse than a windmill to deal with.”Arthur laughed, the sound brighter now. “Don’t tempt ‘em, that’s just begging for a tornado.” he teased, grabbing Charles’ hand and tugging him gently back toward the tools. The ache in his chest hadn’t disappeared entirely, but for now, it felt lighter—like it might not crush him after all.The sun hung low in the sky, its golden light painting the trees and fields in hues of amber and rust. The windmill pieces glinted faintly from their pile in the cart, and the half-finished cabin stood like a promise, steady and waiting.Arthur leaned against the fence, watching Peaches graze in the tall grass alongside Tamia. The two horses moved in easy rhythm, their tails swishing lazily. He tugged his hat lower on his head, a faint smile playing at his lips.Behind him, the soft creak of the cabin door opened, followed by the steady, familiar sound of Charles’ boots on the porch. Arthur didn’t turn, but he felt Charles’ presence as his husband stepped up beside him, leaning on the rail with that effortless grace Arthur could never quite get over.For a moment, they didn’t speak, just watched the horses and the slow ripple of the tall grass in the evening breeze. It was Charles who broke the silence, his voice low and steady. “Do you ever think about where we’ll be in a year? Or five?”Arthur tilted his head, considering the question. His tail flicked faintly, a nervous habit he hadn’t quite outgrown. “Used to think about that all the time,” he admitted. “Figured I’d be dead by now, or worse. But now?” He glanced at Charles, his lips curving into a soft smile. “Now, I think about this.”“This?” Charles raised an eyebrow, his golden eyes glinting with quiet amusement.Arthur gestured broadly to the land, the cabin, the fading light. “This,” he repeated firmly. “You. Me. A home. A family.” He paused, his voice softening as he added, “Ain’t gotta run no more, Charles. Ain’t gotta dream about it, neither. We’re livin’ it.”Charles didn’t respond right away, but the way his gaze lingered on Arthur—warm and full of something too deep for words—was answer enough. Finally, he said, “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?”Arthur chuckled, low and quiet. “That we have, Sugar. That we have.”The two of them stood there until the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky awash in deep blues and purples. The first stars flickered into view, their light soft and faint, like whispers from a distant time. Charles gave Arthur’s hand a gentle squeeze, his voice low and steady. “C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s head inside. Long day tomorrow.”Arthur followed him up the porch steps, the wood creaking faintly beneath their weight. At the door, he paused, glancing back at the land one last time. The rolling hills, the dark stretch of forest, and the windmill standing tall against the evening sky—it was rough and unfinished, like their cabin, but it was theirs.It was home.The door closed behind them, shutting out the cool night air. Inside, the cabin was quiet, lit only by the faint glow of the lantern Charles had left burning on the table. The walls were still bare in places, and the floors had patches of uneven wood, but it felt solid. Safe. Arthur’s gaze lingered on the carved mantle above the hearth—Charles’ handiwork, roughened with love—and he felt a flicker of something warm.Hope.Soft, fragile, but steady all the same.Whatever came next, they’d face it together.But what neither the panther nor the deer realized was that Arthur now wore the cuff earring. In the dim light of the outlaw’s home, its ruby eyes gleamed faintly, the peach blossom charm glowing with a quiet vibrancy.Far beyond the mortal plane, in a realm forgotten by time, the old gods stirred. Their names—once spoken in reverence—had long since faded from the tongues of men. Yet they watched now, awakened by an outlaw in a world that no longer believed in them.Althar, the god of love and loyalty, and Omira, goddess of hearth and family, gazed upon the pair. They saw the scars etched into both men, the weight of the pain they carried, and the choices that had shaped them. Tested by the world’s cruelty, Arthur and Charles had chosen to rise above, to be righteous and just, learning from their mistakes and holding fast to one another.The gods smiled.It would take time, as all great blessings do. But Althar and Omira would watch, their presence unseen but ever near. And when the moment was right, they would bestow their blessing upon this precious pair.Destiny had been rewritten. Fate’s course, altered.For love like theirs was sacred, even to the gods.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“So I says to the man, ‘Ohhh, thank ya kindly, Arthur,’” Sadie teased, her drawl dripping with exaggerated sweetness. She stretched the words out like a cat playing with a mouse, her grin wide and mischievous. The sun flared behind her, golden and sharp, as she looked up at Arthur. He stood above her at the edge of the hole they were digging behind the house, his antlered silhouette cutting a striking figure in the light. Ever the gentleman, he handed her a cold beer with a small, bashful smile, his deer ears twitching nervously. If she hadn’t known better, Sadie might’ve called him charming.Sadie took the bottle with an exaggerated flourish, pressing one hand to her chest like some debutante from a high-society ball. Her cougar ears flicked forward as her sharp grin widened. “Like Arthur’s some fine lady, showin’ off his hospitality. Jesus, that’s cold, too! Ain’t you livin’ high on the hog, Charlie?”Arthur twitched at her ribbing, his face calm, though the faint red creeping up his cheeks betrayed him. “Since we’re sweatin’ our tails off in this damn heat, I set a few bottles in the creek back yonder.” He popped the cap off another beer, handing it to Charles, who stood just outside the hole, arms crossed and watching them with the quiet patience of a predator surveying its territory. “Drink up, Mr. Smith. You earned it.”Sadie snickered, her grin turning wicked as she leaned on her shovel. “Arthur and his ‘Mr. Smith,’” she repeated, her voice lilting with exaggerated refinement. “You sound like some proper lady talkin’ about her husband at tea. ‘Oh, Mr. Smith this, Mr. Smith that,’” she mocked, fluttering her hand as if holding a fan. “Ain’t that right, Arthur? You’re just a delicate little thing, swoonin’ over your dashing Mr. Smith.”Arthur froze, the beer pausing halfway to his lips as his deer ears flicked nervously. His cheeks flushed a deep red that spread all the way to his neck. “Sadie…” he started, his voice low, but it only made her grin widen.“What’s next?” she continued, clearly on a roll now. “You gonna start wearin’ silk gloves and call him ‘darlin’’ in public? Maybe buy yourself one of those fancy hats with them big feathers—”Arthur’s blush deepened at the word darling. It was something he called Charles sometimes, when they were alone. He fiddled with the fastener on his work gloves, his flustered state plain as day. “That’s enough,” he cut in, his voice tinged with exasperation, his eyes darting toward Charles as if seeking backup.Charles, who had been quietly sipping his beer, let out a low chuckle. “Let her have her fun,” he said, glancing at Arthur with a faint, almost teasing smile. “She’ll get bored eventually.”“Oh, I’m never bored,” Sadie shot back, tipping the brim of her hat with a flourish. “Not when I’ve got you two around. You’re like one of Mary-Beth’s novels come to life—all forbidden romance and flowery speeches. Only difference is, you don’t have a faintin’ couch.” She snorted, clearly pleased with herself, and took a long pull from her beer.Arthur groaned, covering his face with his free hand, while Charles shook his head and muttered, “Dig, Sadie.”he took a moment to pull himself together before asking, Arthur’s curiosity getting the better of him. “H-how did you know? I work very hard to keep us private.” His fingers twisted anxiously at his gloves, the question betraying how much effort he’d put into their secrecy. Hell Arthur would love to not have to hide his own marriage butt… Sadie threw her head back and cackled, the sound wild and unapologetic. It echoed off the weathered boards of the house behind them. “Ohhhh, I didn’t know,” she said between laughs, her grin wicked. “But I had my suspicions. Can’t hide it from someone who’s had what ya both have… once.” Her voice softened at the end, the sharp edge of her humor faltering as her eyes drifted to the left, settling on nothing in particular. For a moment, the teasing mask slipped, and something quieter, sadder, took its place. The look in her eyes was far away, as if she were seeing ghosts.Arthur blinked, his ears tilting forward now, uncertain. He glanced at Charles, his hesitation clear, as though seeking permission to speak or act. Charles let out a low sigh and stepped forward, his sharp features softening as he moved. Without a word, he slipped an arm around Arthur’s waist, pulling him close. It wasn’t hurried or performative—just a quiet, instinctive act, like it was the most natural thing in the world.“It’s not shame,” Charles said quietly, his voice steady but heavy with meaning. His fingers gripped Arthur’s side firmly, a silent reassurance.“No,” Arthur murmured, leaning into the touch. “Ain’t shame at all.” He rested his head against Charles’ shoulder for a moment, letting himself linger there before pulling back slightly. Just enough to press a soft kiss to Charles’ cheek. “It’s just… the gang. You know how they are. If they found out we’d been married this long, they’d start pokin’ and pryin’.”Charles’ jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of pain crossing his face. “And they’d figure out why we… can’t,” he finished, his voice low and rough, the weight of unspoken loss hanging between them.Sadie watched them both, her sharp eyes narrowing as a heavy silence settled over the trio. When she finally spoke, her voice was unusually even, her teasing tone replaced by something steadier. “They’d be cruel to you both,” she said plainly, the faintest hint of anger flashing in her expression. She tilted her head, studying them with a look that was equal parts fierce and wistful. “I reckon I know how that goes.”Arthur tilted his head, his deer ears twitching in confusion. “You… know?” he asked cautiously.Sadie nodded, staring down at the beer bottle in her hands. She turned it slowly, letting the sunlight catch on the glass. “More than you think,” she said quietly. Her voice was distant, like she was speaking to someone who wasn’t there. She took another swig, then let out a short, humorless laugh. “Ain’t no gang, gaggle of church wives, or even your own grandma that’s ever gonna take kindly to somethin’ they don’t understand. ‘Why can’t ya just do it? It’s so easy—hell, I had twelve.’” She mimicked the shrill voice of a busybody before letting her own voice drop again. “They don’t get it. And they never will. Not for folks like us.”Charles watched her closely, his sharp eyes narrowing as if trying to piece together a puzzle. Sadie, however, wasn’t one for laying herself bare, and when she finally looked up at them, her smirk was firmly back in place.“Anyway,” she said, waving her free hand dismissively, “this well ain’t gonna dig itself, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna do all the work while you two stand there makin’ googly eyes at each other.”Arthur’s tail swayed behind him as he started working, the motion slow and deliberate, betraying the faint smile tugging at his lips. For a moment, the weight of the gang, the secrets, and the past seemed lighter—like they were laying the foundation not just for a well, but for something that might last.It was strange, Arthur thought, having someone else know about their marriage. Before now, it had always been Hosea—the only one they trusted with something so precious. Hosea had understood, never judged, and guarded their secret like it was his own. Yet here was Sadie, leaning on her shovel, acting like it was no big thing at all—like it was just another part of who they were, nothing to be hidden or guarded. She wasn’t careful with it, exactly, but that was the point: it didn’t need care. Not from her.Arthur stole a glance at Charles, who had moved closer, his broad shoulders framed against the afternoon sky. For a moment, Charles seemed worried, his brow furrowing slightly, as if bracing for something. But when he met Arthur’s gaze and saw the warmth there, his own expression softened. A faint, almost shy smile touched his lips—a rare thing, soft and unguarded. It made Arthur’s chest ache in the best way.Arthur’s tail began to wag before he even realized it, the motion flicking dust and dirt behind him. He quickly looked back down at the ground, pretending to focus on the work, but the smile wouldn’t leave his face. The steady rhythm of the shovels felt less like labor now and more like laying the foundation for something bigger—something that could last.He could already see it: the cabin—no, their lodge—standing tall right here. He imagined it three years from now, maybe less, considering how much work he and Charles were putting in. A sturdy roof overhead. A barn full of horses. Mischievous goats causing trouble. Chickens scratching at the dirt. A dog to hunt with, play with. A fat, spoiled house cat curling up with him and Charles by the fire. Maybe even ducks waddling along the creek, proud and pretty, perfect for sketching.And the babies—Arthur stopped, his shovel hitting the dirt harder than he meant to. Babies. The thought hit him square in the chest, unbidden, like it always did. Goddamn it. No matter how often he pushed it down, it always crept back up. He pressed his weight into the shovel and let the familiar ache settle in.Hosea had always said that love multiplied. That when you loved someone deeply, it grew like a vine, spilling out of your chest until it filled all the empty spaces. Love made room for more. More of everything.Arthur couldn’t help it; the idea of a child clung to him. Not in the way he once dreamed, though. There’d be no stork delivering a bundle of joy, no soft cries breaking the stillness of the night from the corner of a room. But still… his tail gave a slow, wagging sweep behind him, scattering dirt. And hell, if a stork did happen to fly by, he thought with a faint smirk, he’d probably look up. Just in case.He chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head, and got back to digging.Charles straightened beside him, the motion catching Arthur’s eye. He watched as his husband tilted his head, those panther ears twitching in thought.“What’s today?” Charles asked, his voice low and thoughtful.Arthur blinked and looked up at the sky, squinting. “Uh… May the eighth?” He sounded as unsure as he felt. “Why?”Charles’ brow furrowed. He started counting on his fingers, his sharp claws visible for just a moment. Then his expression darkened, and a heavy sigh slipped past his lips.“…Friday, right?”Sadie froze, nearly dropping her shovel. “Oh, hell,” she groaned, pulling her hat down low over her face.Arthur and Charles exchanged exhausted looks before groaning in unison.“Family dinner night,” they muttered together.Dutch’s rule. Once a week, no matter what, the scattered gang had to gather at someone’s house for dinner. Dutch called it tradition, a way to keep the group close and remind them all where they came from. Everyone brought something, and the evenings usually dragged on for hours—eating, drinking, and, worst of all, listening to Dutch talk.Sadie snorted loudly and dragged her hands down her face. “It’s Dutch’s turn, ain’t it? Guess we’ll be wined and dined,” she grumbled. “But is it just me, or has the ol’ bastard gotten worse since settlin’ down? Feels like every damn dinner’s just him fillin’ the silence.”Charles’ lips twitched, almost a smile. “He says he’s working on his next big plan,” he muttered, his tone dry.Sadie rolled her eyes so hard Arthur thought she might hurt herself. “Oh, sure,” she said, hefting her shovel again. “I’m sure that’s why he’s been draggin’ that damn notebook around like it’s the Bible.” She sighed. “Well, we’d better finish this well. Don’t wanna be late. You know Dutch’ll make some godawful speech about community or somethin’.”Arthur groaned, shaking his head. “Or about loyalty,” he muttered.Sadie barked out a laugh, shooting Arthur a wicked grin. “Well, we all know Dutch loves the sound of his own voice. C’mon, boys. Let’s finish this hole so we don’t have to hear it all night.”Arthur smiled faintly and pressed his shovel into the dirt. Family dinner night. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, but somehow, it didn’t seem so heavy now. Not with Charles beside him. Not with Sadie acting like she’d known their secret for years. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, having more people know. Maybe it was a good thing.“Charlie,” Sadie said, breaking the moment, “be kind to me. What’s somethin’ good that pussy-poo over there makes? Because if I have to force down another spoonful of stew, I swear to God, I’m shootin’ myself.”Arthur froze mid-swing, his tail stiffening as Charles let out a warning growl.“What’s his name?” Charles demanded, his voice low and sharp, as his panther ears flattened against his head.Sadie tilted her head, a sly smirk curling her lips as she exhaled a puff of smoke. “So that’s your line in the sand, huh?” she mused, arching an eyebrow. “Fair enough.” She tapped her cigarette, letting the ash fall. “Charles, what’s your favorite thing Arthur makes? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cook a damn thing.”“That’s better,” Charles rumbled, returning to his work. “Give me a minute… Arthur’s a damn good cook. I’ve got a few favorites.” He reached for a cigarette of his own and lit it with a flick of his match.“we take turns cooking,” Arthur’s cheeks warmed as Sadie looked at him, openly amused. “Now, Sadie,” he said, his voice catching slightly. “You’re makin’ it sound like I’m some kind of… housewife.” He reached up and touched the small charm hanging from his antler, grounding himself with the familiar motion.Arthur took a step back, moving out of the path of the smoke. He didn’t smoke anymore, not since he and Charles had first tried for a baby. It had been one of the midwife’s first suggestions, and once Arthur stopped, he’d never picked the habit back up.Sadie snorted, watching him. “Housewife, huh? Well, if the shoe fits…”Arthur groaned but didn’t argue. It was easier to let her have the last word.Charles let out a breath of smoke, his voice breaking the moment. “Rabbit pot pie,” he said, almost wistfully. “Hell, I wish Arthur’d make two just for me. He even makes a rabbit outta the crust—almost too damn pretty to eat. And those spiced peaches he cans…”Arthur gave his husband a small chuckle. “Two? You should’ve said somethin’, darlin’—”He froze mid-sentence when he caught the look Sadie was giving him—a grin like a cat with a mouse caught between its teeth.“Shut the hell up, Sadie,” Arthur muttered.But Sadie didn’t answer, because she was already climbing out of the hole they’d been digging. Arthur blinked, straightening as he called up after her. “Where the hell are you goin’?”“Huntin’!” she shouted, dusting herself off. “I gotta have some of that pot pie now. You got any of those peaches, too?”Arthur frowned, shaking his head. “And why should I? What makes you think I’m gonna cook for you?”Sadie slung her rifle over her shoulder and gave him a mock-innocent look, then shrugged. “…Don’t, then. Cook for him,” she said, jerking her chin toward Charles.Arthur blinked and turned to Charles, who was watching him with a fangy smile, smoke curling lazily from his cigarette.“…Cook for me, then,” Charles said simply, his tone teasing but warm.Arthur groaned again, exasperated. “Charles.”Charles shrugged, his broad shoulders rising and falling with an easy grace. “Sadie’s not wrong. Pearson can cook, sure, but…” He paused, his nose wrinkling slightly. “I can’t stomach another bowl of that stew.”Sadie laughed from the edge of the hole, already halfway to her bag. “See? I’m just speakin’ the truth, Arthur. You better start preppin’ that pot pie. I’ll be back before sundown.”Arthur sighed, leaning on his shovel as Sadie disappeared toward the treeline, rifle in hand. He glanced over at Charles, who was still wearing that little half-smile like he’d won something.“I swear,” Arthur muttered, brushing the dirt off his hands. “You’re all a pain in my ass.”“Maybe,” Charles said with a low chuckle, flicking ash from his cigarette. “But you’ll still make the pie.”Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but he knew better. Charles wasn’t wrong, and they both knew it. With a shake of his head, Arthur muttered, “Guess I’d better start gettin’ ready, then. You know how Dutch gets when we’re late. Or worse, if we don’t bring somethin’ to the table.”Charles nodded, his expression darkening just slightly. “He’ll find a way to turn it into a speech. Always does.”Arthur snorted softly. “Don’t remind me.” He picked up his shovel again and hefted it over his shoulder, already imagining Dutch’s booming voice carrying through the room, rattling the windows as he droned on about loyalty, community, or some other grand idea.By the time Arthur and Charles finished the well and cleaned up, the sun hung low in the sky, spilling warm gold across the horizon. Arthur stood in the cabin’s kitchen, rolling out pie dough with quick, practiced movements. The scent of spiced peaches filled the air, wrapping the room in warmth and memory.The process was a little nostalgic for Arthur. One of his few memories of his mama was making rabbit pot pie together, her hands guiding his as he worked the dough. The peaches, though—that was Bessie’s doing. She’d taught him how to can them back when she and Hosea were first getting together. Between the two of them, Arthur felt like he carried little pieces of both women in the kitchen tonight.He glanced at the two large Dutch ovens sitting on the counter and frowned slightly. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever cooked for more than just himself and Charles.Speaking of which, he could hear Charles outside, brushing down the horses before they left.Sadie had come back an hour earlier, tossing two fresh rabbits onto the counter with a triumphant grin. “Told ya I’d get us dinner,” she’d said. Then, instead of helping, she’d cracked open another beer, slouched into a chair, and watched Arthur work.“Never knew you were so talented,” she teased at one point, smirking over the rim of her bottle.Arthur just rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he cleaned and prepped the meat.Now, as he settled the crust over the second pie, he paused to admire his handiwork. The edges were neatly braided, framing the leaping rabbit he’d shaped out of dough. He stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron, and felt a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth. It was a damn fine pie, even if Sadie and Charles teased him for it.Carefully, Arthur set the Dutch ovens into an old apple box, covering the pies with their heavy cast iron lids. He laid a quilt over the top to keep them warm, making sure everything was secure before stepping back.“Arthur, you ready?” Charles called from outside, his deep voice cutting through the quiet.Arthur glanced over at the counter, grabbing the cooling jar of peaches before fixing his hat. “Yeah,” he replied, stepping outside into the warm evening air. The breeze brushed against his skin as he adjusted the box in his arms.He sighed, the faintest hint of a smile still lingering on his lips. “Let’s get this over with.” strong arms holding the very heavy apple box as he approached his husband. Arthur chuckled when Charles took the box from Arthur. “now Charles.” “Shut up, Arthur. let me help you.” Charles rolled his eyes playfully. “you cooked, I carry. thats how it works.”“Will you two get your asses into the wagon already? Let’s go!” Sadie’s voice rang out across the yard, sharp with impatience. She sat in her small wagon, arms crossed, her glare sharp enough to cut through the fading light. “I’m so hungry I can’t think straight!”Edmond, her hulking black draft horse, shifted in his harness with a restless huff, stomping one massive hoof against the dirt. The white diamond on his forehead gleamed as he tossed his head, ears flicking back like he shared Sadie’s annoyance.Arthur glanced at the horse as he walked toward the wagon, shaking his head. Edmond liked the wagon—but only when Sadie drove it. He liked being ridden—when Sadie was in the saddle. He even liked behaving—on Sadie’s watch. But with anyone else, Edmond was all stubbornness and mischief: bucking, biting, and generally raising hell.Sadie always said Edmond was the only man she could ever love besides her husband. Watching her now, Arthur didn’t doubt it. The two of them were a pair—cut from the same cloth. Edmond had Sadie’s stubborn streak, her sharpness, and her flair for making everyone else’s life just a little harder. But like her, there was something steady beneath it all. Loyal. Fierce.Edmond snorted and turned his head to nudge Sadie’s shoulder, his massive nose nearly knocking her hat askew. Sadie didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she let out an exaggerated sigh and patted his neck. “Alright, Edmond, settle down. You’ll get your dinner soon, too.”Arthur smirked as he hoisted himself into the wagon beside Charles, who carefully set the apple box in the back. “She’s got him wrapped around her little finger,” Arthur muttered under his breath.Charles chuckled softly as he sat beside Arthur, his panther ears flicking slightly. “Or maybe it’s the other way around.”Sadie snapped the reins lightly, more for show than anything else. Edmond didn’t need much convincing. He started moving with a smooth, steady rhythm, his ears flicking forward as if he were as ready for dinner as Sadie was.“C’mon, boys!” Sadie called over her shoulder, a grin tugging at her lips. “If y’all drag your feet any longer, I might just leave without you!”Arthur shook his head, smirking. “She’d do it, too.”Charles let out a soft huff of laughter. “She would. And we’d probably deserve it.”The ride to the main ranch house was surprisingly pleasant. The swaying fields of tall grass rippled like waves in the soft evening breeze, cattle grazing lazily in the golden light of the setting sun. The little wagon bumped along the path as the sky shifted from deep orange to dusky purple, painting everything in a warm, fleeting glow.Arthur leaned back slightly, resting his arm on the edge of the wagon as they neared the house. His gaze drifted toward the silhouette of the ranch house in the distance, and something about it made his brow furrow.“Maybe I’m spoiled now,” he began, half to himself before glancing at Charles and Sadie. “But… doesn’t the ranch house seem kinda, I dunno, run down?”Charles followed his gaze, tilting his head slightly but saying nothing.“We’ve been on this ranch for what—three months now?” Arthur went on, frowning as he gestured toward the house. “Dutch ain’t fixed his windows yet? Or the porch? Looks like it’s about ready to fall in.”Sadie let out a sharp laugh, sitting up a little straighter. “You noticed that, too?” she said, twisting in her seat to get a better look at the house as Edmond plodded forward. “It’s a damn miracle that porch hasn’t collapsed with him struttin’ all over it like a damn rooster.”Arthur smirked faintly but shook his head. “It’s just strange, is all,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I mean, Dutch always goes on about pride and appearances, doesn’t he? A man like him, lettin’ his house go like that…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.Charles’ ears flicked, his sharp eyes narrowing as they approached the house. “He’s been busy,” he said, though there was a trace of doubt in his voice. “Maybe he hasn’t had time.”Sadie snorted, clearly unimpressed with that excuse. “Or maybe he’s too busy scribblin’ plans in that damn notebook of his to care.” She tipped her hat back and gave Arthur a sly grin. “Hell, maybe he’s waitin’ for you to fix it, Arthur. After all, you’ve been playin’ house over there, makin’ pies and wells and whatnot.”Arthur groaned, tipping his head back against the wagon’s side. “Don’t even joke about that,” he muttered.“Why not?” Sadie teased, her grin growing wider. “I think you’d do a real fine job. Maybe braid some flowers into the porch railin’, make it all pretty.”Charles chuckled low in his throat, earning an exasperated look from Arthur.“Y’all are impossible,” Arthur muttered, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.As they drew closer to the ranch house, the signs of its neglect became clearer. The windows were smudged with dirt and cracked at the edges, a few patched with haphazard planks of wood. The front porch sagged visibly, the boards warped and splintered. One of the shutters dangled precariously by a single hinge, creaking faintly in the breeze.Arthur leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing again. “Y’know,” he said slowly, his voice thoughtful now, “it just don’t feel right. Dutch always talks about this place like it’s the gang’s new start. he picked this house because it was in the best shape. had the most stuff in it. A new beginning, all that talk about building somethin’ solid.” He gestured at the house. “But look at it.”For a moment, no one answered. The only sound was the creak of the wagon’s wheels and the rhythmic clop of Edmond’s hooves.Finally, Charles spoke, his voice low and careful. “Maybe it’s not about the house. Maybe it’s about the idea of it. Dutch… he talks big, you know that. Doesn’t mean he sees the details the way the rest of us do.”Sadie rolled her eyes, leaning back in her seat. “Yeah, well, if he don’t start seein’ the details soon, that porch is gonna be the death of him. I swear, next time he gets up there to make one of his damn speeches, it’s all gonna come crashin’ down. And wouldn’t that just be poetic.”Arthur snorted, but his gaze lingered on the house, heavier now. He didn’t say it aloud, but the thought pressed into him like a weight: if the ranch house was falling apart, what did that mean for the gang? What were they even doing now? Didn’t they need money?That’s what it always came back to. Dutch had drilled that phrase into his head so many times that Arthur half-expected “we need money” to be his name.His thoughts broke when Charles tapped him gently on the shoulder. “Come on,” Charles said, his voice low and steady. “Let’s go inside.” He offered Arthur a hand as he climbed down from the wagon, his dark eyes soft but insistent.Sadie, still in her seat, made a dramatic gagging sound.Arthur’s ears twitched as he scowled back at her. “Shut it!” he growled, though he still took his husband’s hand, climbing down with an annoyed huff.“I didn’t say nothin’,” Sadie shot back, grinning as she adjusted her hat.Charles shook his head, his tone firm but calm. “Inside, you two,” he ordered, shifting the apple box into his arms as he turned toward the house.Sadie groaned but swung herself down from the wagon with practiced ease, muttering something under her breath about lovebirds and bad pies.Arthur adjusted his hat, sparing another glance at the ranch house as the three of them headed toward the sagging porch. The faint creak of the boards beneath their boots only made Arthur’s frown deepen.The first thing Arthur noticed when they stepped inside was the smell—stale wood and dust, mixed with something faintly sour. The air was heavy, like the house hadn’t been properly aired out in months.Dutch’s house was big, no doubt about that, and once, it might’ve even been grand. The high ceilings and wide, open spaces still carried the bones of something elegant, but that elegance was slipping, like a fine suit left too long in the rain.The entryway was dim, even with the last streaks of sunlight streaming through the windows. One of those windows had a crack running spider-like across the glass, the edges clouded with grime. The curtains hung unevenly, their once-rich fabric faded to a tired, dusty gray.Arthur glanced down at the rug beneath his boots—a sprawling, ornate thing that must’ve been expensive in its day. Now, it was worn so thin in the middle you could see the bare floorboards beneath it, and the edges curled like a dog’s chewed-up ear.The furniture was no better. There were chairs with cracked leather seats, a once-polished table now dulled with water rings and scratches, and a cabinet leaning slightly to one side like it had given up trying to stand tall. The details were all there, sure—fine carvings, gilded trim—but the neglect was just as obvious.Arthur snorted quietly, his eyes catching on a vase sitting on a side table. It was chipped along the rim, but someone—Dutch, probably—had still stuck a handful of dead flowers in it. The stems crumbled as Arthur passed, one falling to the floor without a sound.“Fine things don’t mean much if you don’t take care of ‘em,” he muttered under his breath.Charles, carrying the apple box, gave him a quiet nod of agreement, though his gaze was more focused on their path forward, as if he didn’t want to look too closely at the house around them.They passed through the main room, where a large, sagging couch sat beneath a mounted stag head that stared down with glassy eyes. Dust clung to the antlers and the folds of the curtains flanking the room’s only window. Dutch’s desk sat in the corner, papers and notebooks stacked high, some spilling onto the floor like they couldn’t wait to escape.And then, the shift.Arthur noticed it the moment they crossed into the other side of the house. The air felt different—lighter, cleaner, even smelled faintly of cedar and ink.Hosea’s side.The difference was night and day.The floorboards here had been swept, the rug—though simple—was free of dust. The walls had been patched in places where cracks had started to form, the plaster still fresh. A sturdy bookshelf dominated one corner, neatly packed with well-worn books. A few were stacked beside a chair near the window, as if Hosea had been reading earlier and set them down only moments ago.That chair, Arthur noted, actually looked comfortable—patched in places but clean, with a folded blanket draped neatly over the back. The table next to it held a lamp, the glass chimney polished, and a small, half-empty cup of coffee.Arthur ran a hand along the edge of the wall as they passed, his fingers brushing over where Hosea had clearly started repainting. Only part of the hallway had been done, but the smooth strokes of fresh paint stood out against the older, cracking sections like a promise: I’m working on it.Sadie let out a low whistle behind him. “Damn, it’s like walkin’ into a different house,” she muttered, leaning on the doorframe as she surveyed the space.Arthur turned his head toward the other side of the house, toward the dimness and decay creeping in from Dutch’s domain. The cracked windows, the sagging furniture, the half-hearted attempts at maintaining an illusion of grandeur. It all felt hollow.Two sides of the same house, Arthur thought grimly. Two sides of the same gang.He shook his head, his fingers brushing over the smooth edge of a wall Hosea had clearly repainted. The new coat of paint stood out starkly against the faded, cracking sections around it—a promise of effort, of work being done, but also a reminder of how much was left unfinished.“Y’all are early,” a voice cut in, lilting and soft, and Arthur’s ears twitched at the sound.He turned toward the doorway, where the vixen Molly O’Shea stood framed by the faint glow of the hallway light. She wore her green dress with gold stiching, even her hair was in a gold clasp, the one that made her look like she belonged at a fancy ball instead of here. She’d clasped her hands tightly at her chest, her knuckles white, and her eyes flitted between them nervously before settling on Arthur with a practiced smile.“I’m glad to see you all,” she said, her voice sweet but carrying the faintest edge of desperation. “It’s been far too long.”Arthur tilted his head, taking her in for a moment longer than he meant to. Something about the way she stood there, clutching herself like the weight of her loneliness might knock her over, made him uneasy.Sadie, however, didn’t hesitate. “Molly,” she said, tipping her hat with an easy grin. “Look at you, playin’ the hostess. What’s the occasion? Dutch finally lettin’ you outta his shadow for a minute?”Molly stiffened, her smile faltering ever so slightly before she smoothed it back into place. “Oh, I… well, I thought it’d be nice to have everyone together again.” Her hands unclasped as she gestured toward the room, the movement quick and a little awkward. “Feels like ages since we’ve had a real gathering. Don’t you think?”Arthur glanced at Charles, who was setting down the apple box near the far wall. His husband gave him a look, steady and unreadable, before turning back to Molly with a polite nod.“Dutch mentioned something about dinner,” Charles said, his voice calm. “We were just admiring how much work Hosea’s done in here.”Molly’s gaze darted to the walls, then back to Arthur. “Oh, Hosea,” she said, letting out a nervous laugh. “Yes, he’s… well, he’s always doing something, isn’t he? Never could sit still, that one.”Sadie, leaning casually against the bookshelf now, gave a snort. “One of the few around here who shouldn’t sit still,” she said, her tone sharp as a knife.Molly’s smile tightened. “Well, I… I’d better see if the kitchen’s ready,” she said, clasping her hands again as she turned toward the door. “I’m sure Dutch will want everything perfect.”Arthur watched her go, his frown deepening. She moved quickly, like she was running away from something—or toward someone.Sadie let out a long, exaggerated sigh, pushing off the bookshelf and crossing the room. “I’d say that girl’s wound tighter than a two-dollar watch,” she muttered, shaking her head. “And all for what? Dutch ain’t gonna thank her for playin’ house.”“Sadie,” Charles said softly, his voice carrying a note of reproach.“What?” she shot back, but her tone lacked its usual bite. “It’s the truth. Don’t mean it’s fair, but it’s true.”Arthur didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on the doorway where Molly had disappeared, then shifted back to the two sides of the house. The air felt heavier now, the contrast sharper than ever.His eyes locked with Sadie’s, giving her the same stern look he reserved for John when the younger man had royally messed up. “Mrs. Adler,” he started, his voice calm but firm.Sadie straightened slightly, raising an eyebrow. “What now?”“I need you to do something for me,” Arthur said, his tone softening just enough to sound less like an order and more like a request. “Miss O’Shea… she needs some good company.”Sadie tilted her head, skepticism flickering across her sharp features. “What exactly are you suggesting I do? Molly ain’t never been the social type with us women in the gang, and you know it.”Arthur leaned closer, lowering his voice like he didn’t want the walls to hear. “Get her roaring drunk. Help her feel more human. Take her out, raise some hell, get into some trouble if you want—but make sure she remembers what it feels like to be alive.”Sadie blinked, taken aback by the unexpected suggestion. She crossed her arms, glancing back toward the doorway where Molly had vanished. “Run wild with prim and proper Molly O’Shea?” she mused, a flicker of amusement curling her lips. “You sure about that? She’ll probably faint if I hand her whiskey.”Arthur smirked faintly. “She won’t faint. Might surprise you, actually.” Then, with a dry huff, he added, “Besides, you owe me. I made pies for Charles and you. Don’t think I forgot.”Sadie snorted, her grin widening now. “Pies, huh? Bribery from Arthur Morgan—ain’t that somethin’.” She looked away, chewing on the idea for a moment before nodding. “Fine. I’ll do it. But if she loses her damn mind, you’re the one dealin’ with Dutch afterward.”Arthur chuckled under his breath, tilting his hat back slightly. “Fair enough.”Sadie adjusted her hat and headed toward the door, muttering something about needing a stiff drink herself. As she disappeared, Arthur turned back toward Charles, who had been quietly observing the exchange with his usual steady calm. His husband raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips.“That was… unexpected,” Charles murmured, his tone both curious and amused.Arthur shrugged, leaning slightly on the back of one of Hosea’s sturdy chairs. “She needs it,” he said simply. “And Molly does too, even if she don’t realize it yet.”Arthur’s gaze drifted back toward Dutch’s side of the house, where shadows lingered in the corners and dust clung stubbornly to the curtains. The contrast between Hosea’s order and Dutch’s decay felt sharper than ever, the weight of it settling heavily on Arthur’s shoulders. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, glancing at Charles with a small, sad smile.“You know just as well as I do,” Arthur said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, “what it’s like to feel terribly alone in a group of people.” The words hung in the air, raw and heavy. He looked at Charles, his eyes searching, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.Charles didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze followed Sadie’s path toward the door, where Molly’s faint footsteps had long since disappeared. He nodded slowly, the understanding between them unspoken but palpable. “Yeah,” Charles said softly. “I do.”Arthur straightened up, forcing himself to shake off the weight pressing on his chest. “Come on,” he said, his voice lighter now, though the sadness still lingered in the edges. “Let’s get our part of the meal on the table.” He picked up the apple box again, cradling it in his arms with a bit more purpose.Charles reached out, placing a hand briefly on Arthur’s shoulder before moving toward the kitchen to help. The gesture was small, but it steadied Arthur, even if only for a moment.Two sides of the same house, Arthur thought again as he glanced back one last time toward Dutch’s side.But not everyone in the gang had a place that felt solid. Some were just drifting between the cracks.Arthur set the apple box down on the kitchen table with a soft grunt, rolling his shoulders to ease the ache from carrying it. Charles was right behind him, the door creaking softly as it swung shut. The scent of cedar still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the more familiar smells of old wood and faint smoke from the fireplace. Hosea’s side of the house was quiet, orderly, and alive with purpose—a far cry from the chaos that seemed to seep into every corner Dutch touched.Arthur glanced around, his gaze catching on the little details. The patched walls. The books neatly lined on the shelf. The small stack of tools in the corner, a reminder of Hosea’s constant tinkering and upkeep. It felt warm here, though that warmth carried an edge—like it came from someone who was working too hard to keep it burning.Hosea’s voice broke the silence, light and playful as he appeared in the doorway. “Well, if it ain’t my boys,” he said, his long ears twitching as his sharp eyes flicked between Arthur and Charles. The old jackrabbit was grinning, his weathered face softening with humor. “Come to grace your poor old man with your presence, have ya? Charles you keeping Arthur in line?””he doesn't need me for that.” Charles chuckled.Arthur smirked, shaking his head. “Came to bring the food in, ya conman. Figure it’s the least I could do, seein’ how you’ve been holdin’ this place together. single handedly.”“Don’t flatter me too much, son,” Hosea replied, though his grin widened as Charles nodded in agreement.“You deserve it,” Charles said, his voice calm and sincere. “You’ve done more work on this house than most people would do in a lifetime. It’s impressive.”“Impressive?” Hosea let out a bark of laughter, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “I’m just tryin’ to keep the damn thing from fallin’ on our heads. But I appreciate it, Charles. Least someone notices.” His tone was light, but Arthur didn’t miss the tiredness in his eyes.“Yeah, it’s impressive,” Arthur said, his voice quieter now. He glanced around the room again, his brows knitting together. “But it’s a lot, Hosea. You don’t gotta do all this by yourself. You oughta slow down, maybe let someone else take the reins for a while.”Hosea snorted, waving a hand dismissively. “And let you jackasses tear this place apart? I don’t think so.”Arthur’s jaw tightened, his worry surfacing despite himself. “I’m serious, Hosea. You’re wearin’ yourself thin. Ain’t like we’re livin’ the easy life here. You don’t need to—”“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Hosea cut him off, his grin returning full force. “Look at you, fussin’ over me like I’m some old granny. You sound like Bessie used to when she’d catch me fixing somethin’ I wasn’t supposed to touch.”Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but Hosea leaned closer, eyes twinkling with mischief as he pointed a finger at him. “my eldest son is married, I can hardly believe it.” he teased, his grin turning sly. “Lest you ain’t livin’ in sin. Can’t believe John is still bein’ so pigheaded about that.”Charles chuckled, his deep, warm laugh filling the room, but Arthur scowled, his ears twitching as his face flushed. “Hosea,” he grumbled, running a hand over his face. “You’re impossible.”“What’s the point of bein’ a Pa if I can’t get a rise out of you now and then?” Hosea laughed again, clearly enjoying himself.Arthur huffed but didn’t push further. The truth was, he didn’t mind Hosea’s teasing. Not really. It reminded him of the way things used to be—before everything felt like it was starting to come apart.Before Arthur could grumble another word, the sound of a door creaking open and heavy footsteps approaching made them all pause. Hosea’s ears perked, and his grin faltered just slightly, replaced by something harder to read. Arthur turned toward the doorway, the familiar rhythm of those steps filling the air like the steady beat of a drum.Dutch appeared, his presence as theatrical as ever. His thick black hair was slicked back, practically plastered to his head, catching what little light filtered into the room. He paused just inside the doorway, his sharp features framed by that thick mustache, and his tail—a mountain lion’s sleek, powerful thing—swayed lazily behind him. A cigar dangled from his fingers, and the gold and red rings on his hand gleamed like trophies.“Well, well,” Dutch said, his voice smooth and commanding. “A family reunion, is it? My two best men and the ever-industrious Hosea.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but the charm was as polished as ever. “Glad to see the three of you hard at work,” he added, taking a long drag from his cigar.Arthur stiffened, his hands slipping into his pockets as he leaned against the table. Something about Dutch’s presence always felt too big, too loud, like he sucked the air out of a room just by standing in it. Arthur glanced at Charles, who remained calm and steady as ever, though his dark eyes flicked to Dutch with quiet wariness.The flash of gold caught Dutch’s eye. “Look at that,” Dutch said, his voice playful but edged with something heavier. He gestured toward Arthur’s ear with the glowing tip of his cigar. “Gold cuff earring. Ain’t we livin’ extravagantly, Arthur? Wastin’ good money on a bauble… You know better.”Arthur felt the sting behind Dutch’s words, the disappointment the man didn’t even bother to hide. He raised a hand before Dutch could press further. “I found it,” Arthur said evenly, his voice steady despite the weight hanging in the room. “Ain’t spent any money on pretty things.”Dutch studied him for a long moment, his dark eyes sharp and unreadable. Then, with a faint nod, he let it drop. He stepped further into the room, gesturing grandly as he began to speak, his voice rising with all the pomp of a man certain his every word mattered.“This house,” Dutch began, spreading his arms as if inviting them all to admire the space, “represents everything we’re working toward. A foundation. A sanctuary. A place where we can all build a future.”Arthur’s chest tightened as Dutch’s words filled the room, heavy and thick, curling through the air like smoke. His voice was smooth, rhythmic, and too damn familiar—each phrase polished to perfection, yet hollow beneath the shine. The kind of talk that could sweep a person up and carry them away before they even realized it.That was the thing about Dutch. He could talk for hours, with so much charm and charisma that it put folks into a trance. Saying everything and nothing all at once. A would-be king, almost.Arthur’s vision swam. The edges of the room began to blur, the warm light dimming as if Dutch’s voice had pulled all the air out of the space. The walls, the furniture, even Charles and Hosea—all of it softened and faded until only Dutch remained, his words droning on like the steady hum of something mechanical and inevitable.Arthur’s breathing quickened, though he barely registered it against the noise in his head. He knew he moved to the table. He knew he sat beside Charles. He knew he was sipping a beer as the others slowly joined them. But it was like he was watching himself from far away, his actions automatic, distant, unreal.And then, just as quickly as Dutch’s spell had taken hold, it broke.Arthur blinked, the world snapping back into focus as if someone had slapped him awake. The hum was gone, replaced by the clatter of plates and the low murmur of voices. They were at the dinner table now, food spread out before them. The smells of warm bread, roasted meat, and something faintly spiced filled the air.He frowned, his hand gripping the edge of the table like an anchor. The whole evening felt disjointed, like pages from a book shuffled out of order. His gaze drifted to Charles beside him. Charles was focused on his plate, his broad shoulders relaxed but his expression guarded, always observing.Arthur’s stomach churned, though not from hunger. Dutch’s voice had that effect lately—like it was meant to soothe, to inspire, but left something hollow in its wake. A knot of unease sat heavy in his chest, one he couldn’t shake.Reaching under the table, Arthur let his hand find Charles’. He needed the contact, needed to remind himself that something in this room was real. Charles didn’t look at him, but his fingers curled around Arthur’s in a steady, grounding grip. That was enough.He rubbed his thumb over the back of Charles’ hand.“Arthur.”Hosea’s voice cut through the haze, soft but firm. Arthur turned toward his father, who gave him a knowing look from across the table.“Eat,” Hosea said simply, his long ears twitching as he stabbed a piece of meat with his fork. “You’ll feel better once you do.”Arthur nodded absently, though his appetite was long gone.As the gang settled at the table, plates were passed around, and Jack—barely able to see over the edge—reached eagerly for a slice of Arthur’s rabbit pot pie. Abigail leaned over to help, but the little boy swatted her hands away.“I can do it!” Jack announced proudly, his fingers fumbling with the fork. Arthur chuckled under his breath, reaching over to steady the plate before it slipped.“Here, kiddo,” Arthur said, his voice warm and low. “Let me help you out.” He cut a piece of pie into manageable bites, nudging the plate back toward Jack.Jack beamed up at him, the little wolf pup’s blue eyes bright with admiration. “Thank you, Uncle Arthur! Did ya make the pie?” he asked. “’Cause it’s so good!”Arthur blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah, reckon I did,” he said softly.Jack was already reaching for another bite, crumbs gathering at the corners of his mouth. Across the table, John nodded, his tail flicking lazily behind him as he spooned out more pie onto his own plate.“Gotta be,” John said, his tone casual. “Think you made this for me a few years back for my birthday. Hell, you could teach Abigail—or even me. We’d all eat better for it.”Abigail chuckled, though her eyes were fixed on her plate. “I’ll admit, I’m no cook,” she said, licking a streak of spiced peach syrup off her lips. “Even the peaches… Lord, Arthur, they’re perfect.”Arthur flushed slightly at the unexpected praise. “Mama’s recipe for the pie,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “And the peaches—well, Bessie taught me how to make those. Learned a lot from her.”At the mention of her name, Hosea’s hand stilled on his fork. His gaze drifted to the jar of peaches in front of him, his shoulders softening. “Lord, how I miss her,” he said quietly, the words carrying a weight that settled over the table like a sigh.The moment was broken by the sharp clatter of silverware.Dutch’s fork hit his plate, loud and deliberate. His hands spread flat on the tablecloth as he surveyed the group with a calm that didn’t reach his eyes.“Well,” Dutch began, his voice smooth as honey, “ain’t that sweet, Jack.” He leaned back in his chair, his cigar smoldering in one hand. “Arthur’s got himself a little talent. Never thought I’d see the day.”Talent, huh? Arthur thought bitterly. Popping vaults and safes with three flicks of his wrist. Almost outshooting everyone at this table. His knack for sketching things most folks couldn’t see if it was right in front of them. The way animals seemed to trust him without a second thought. Sure, what talent?He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to his plate. Jack, oblivious to the tension, clambered out of his chair and into Arthur’s lap, tugging at his shirt.“Can you make pie again tomorrow?” Jack asked, his small hands resting on Arthur’s arm.Arthur laughed softly, brushing a hand over the boy’s messy hair. “Guess I could, if your mama doesn’t mind.”He glanced toward Abigail, who opened her mouth to respond, but Dutch cut in before she could speak.“Now, Jack,” Dutch said, leaning forward and tapping ash from his cigar with a deliberate flick, “you oughta remember who built this house you’re sittin’ in. None of this would be here if it weren’t for your Uncle Dutch.”The table froze for half a beat after Jack’s innocent declaration: “Uncle Dutch don’t make pie.”Sadie snorted loudly, hiding her grin behind her glass of whiskey. Molly, flushed from the drink, giggled behind her hand and leaned toward Sadie to whisper something that made her bark out another laugh. Even Charles coughed, his shoulders shaking with barely suppressed amusement.Dutch’s smile thinned, his fingers tightening around his cigar. Before he could speak again, Micah Bell leaned back in his chair, boots propped on the edge of the table.“Well, now, ain’t this just heartwarmin’?” Micah drawled, his crooked grin spreading wide. “Arthur Morgan, the domestic goddess of the gang. Next thing we know, he’ll be darnin’ socks and kissin’ skinned knees while blowin’—”“Finish that sentence, Bell,” Arthur growled, his voice low and cold, as he reached up to cover Jack’s ears.Micah’s grin widened, enjoying the rise he’d gotten. “Just sayin’, is all. All this fuss over a damn pie. Guess some of us got time for hobbies while the rest of us are out doin’ the real man’s work.”“Which you do none of,” Arthur shot back, his jaw tightening.Micah tipped his hat back, unbothered. “Got plenty of folks like you to do it for me.”“That’s enough,” Bill cut in, his boar-like snout wrinkling as he frowned at John and Arthur. “Dutch’s got a point, y’know. Ain’t like this place just built itself. We wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for him. A little respect wouldn’t kill ya.”Javier, seated a few chairs down, shifted uncomfortably. His fox-like ears flicked back as he glanced between Dutch and John. “Bill’s right,” he said cautiously, though his tone lacked conviction. “But maybe… maybe we could all pitch in a little more, eh? Teachin’ Abigail and John to cook—that sounds like a good idea, huh?”John gave Javier a sharp look but said nothing, spooning more pie onto his plate with exaggerated nonchalance.Susan Grimshaw’s voice cut through the tension like a whip. “Arthur doesn’t need to teach anyone a damn thing,” she said sharply, her birdlike eyes narrowing as she stared down the table. Her pheasant plumage shifted slightly as she straightened in her chair. “He’s already done plenty, and I won’t hear otherwise. Pie or no pie, this gang would fall apart without him.”Arthur froze, stunned by the unexpected praise, but Susan didn’t wait for thanks. She turned her attention to Dutch, her wings twitching slightly as if daring him to argue.Leopold Strauss cleared his throat, his thin, weasel-like features pinched with concern. “If I may,” he began, his voice nasal and deliberate, “the focus on pie and talents is… charming, yes, but there are larger issues to consider. The ledger remains unbalanced, Dutch. Our finances are still precarious at best.”Dutch shot Strauss a sharp look, silencing him with a flick of his cigar. “We’ll deal with the finances, Strauss,” he said smoothly, though his tone carried an edge.Tilly Jackson let out an exasperated sigh, crossing her arms as she leaned back in her chair. Her sleek black cat tail flicked irritably. “Lord, y’all are like squabbling chickens,” she muttered. “Can’t we just eat in peace for once?”“Arthur’s pie is worth fightin’ over,” Mary-Beth interjected brightly, her droopy Highland lop ears twitching as she offered Arthur a warm smile. “You’re full of surprises, Arthur. Writing, drawing, cookin’—is there anything you can’t do?”Karen, halfway through her third drink, grinned mischievously. “Yeah, Arthur, you’ve got all the talents. But the real question is, you up for raisin’ some hell after dinner?” She leaned toward Molly and Sadie, her eyes glinting with mischief. “C’mon, ladies, what d’you say?Let’s tear up the town.”Arthur held up his hands. “I’m gonna pass this time. Tired as can be—was diggin’ a well with Charles before supper.””don't be like that! come play Arthur, bring Charles too!” Karen whined, she was a mink and always in some trouble. “Now that sounds like a plan,” Sadie said, tipping her glass toward Karen with a grin. Molly hesitated, glancing nervously toward Dutch, but Sadie nudged her shoulder. “Don’t let him keep you tied up, darlin’. We’ll show you a good time.”“Here we go again,” Sean chimed in, waving his fork for attention. “Tearin’ up the town’s all well and good, but the real fun’s in the bunkhouse me and Lenny fixed up. Got ourselves a proper card table now—ain’t that right, Lenny?”Lenny, seated beside him, smiled faintly but shook his head. “I’ll pass on the cards tonight,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “Got some reading to catch up on. College work, y’know.”Micah barked out a laugh. “College work? What the hell are you doin’ wasting your time with books? Ain’t like they’ll help you out here.”Lenny’s smile didn’t waver, though his dark eyes flashed. “Books teach you to think, Micah,” he said calmly. “You oughta try it sometime. Dutch wanted a lawyer in the gang, remember?”The gang erupted into laughter, the tension at the table briefly broken. But as Arthur glanced toward Dutch, he saw the man’s golden eyes fixed on him, sharp and calculating, his smile tight.Dutch leaned back, taking another long drag from his cigar. “Well,” he said at last, his voice smooth and practiced, “I suppose it’s good to see everyone in such high spirits. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Keeping the family together.”The words hung heavy in the air, their weight pressing down like a storm cloud. Arthur met Dutch’s gaze, his jaw tight, but he said nothing.Charles shifted beside him, his hand brushing Arthur’s under the table in a subtle gesture of support. Sadie caught Arthur’s eye from across the table, raising her glass in a silent toast.Arthur let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping to Jack, who was squirming in Abigail’s arms, trying to reach for more pie.“Uncle Arthur makes the best food,” Jack declared again, his voice bright and innocent, breaking through the tension like a beam of sunlight.Arthur smiled faintly, ruffling the boy’s hair. But as he glanced around the table, the unspoken truth lingered in his mind. Dutch weren’t just unhappy about the pies.The dinner wound down slowly, the gang scattering to their corners of the house or heading out to the bunkhouse. The apple box Arthur had carried in earlier sat on the counter, its cast iron Dutch ovens practically licked clean. The mason jars that once held spiced peaches had been wiped out, too, their golden syrup clinging faintly to the glass like a memory.Arthur shifted the weight of the box in his arms as he and Charles stepped outside. The night air was cool and quiet, the faint rustle of leaves and the hum of crickets filling the space where Dutch’s voice had loomed only minutes before. They walked in silence for a while, side by side, the dirt path crunching softly beneath their boots.It wasn’t a long walk back to their cabin, but it felt necessary.Charles reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flask, unscrewing the cap with a practiced motion. He tipped it back, taking a slow sip, before holding it out toward Arthur.“You’ve earned this,” Charles said with a long sigh, his breath visible in the cool air.Arthur hesitated for a moment before taking the flask, the warm metal cool against his fingers. He took a swig, the burn of whiskey sharp on his tongue, and let out a quiet breath as it settled in his chest.“Don’t feel like I earned nothin’,” Arthur muttered, passing the flask back.Charles gave him a sideways glance, his expression calm but steady. “You held your own tonight. Like always.”Arthur huffed softly, shaking his head. “Didn’t feel like much of a win. Dutch’s mood… it’s like a storm waitin’ to break.” he shook his head. “feels like…it’s getting worse.”Charles took another sip from the flask, then capped it and tucked it back into his coat. “Maybe. But he can’t touch what’s ours, Arthur.” His voice was low and sure, the kind of reassurance that didn’t need embellishment. “Not us. Not this.”Arthur glanced at him, the weight of the evening still pressing against his chest. But Charles’s words settled there too, steady and grounding, like a foundation beneath the ache.For a moment, Arthur let himself imagine the future again—just a flicker of it, like a match lit in the dark. The cabin standing strong, its roof sturdy against storms. The barn, full of horses they’d trained together. Mischievous goats bleating for attention. The fields dotted with chickens scratching at the dirt, a dog racing through the grass, and Jack with cousins, their laughter ringing out like wind chimes. A life not built on schemes and running, but on love and hard work.Charles’s voice broke through the image, soft and careful. “You all right?” His dark eyes searched Arthur’s face, his panther ears flicking slightly in the silver glow of the moonlight.Arthur exhaled, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Just tired, is all.”Then, with a quiet certainty, he leaned closer, his forehead brushing Charles’s as their breath mingled in the cool night air. “You know I love you, right?” he murmured, his voice low but steady.Charles stilled, then let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, his fangs catching the light as he smiled. “No, I had no idea,” he teased, his tone warm and light. “Hell, I didn’t even know you liked me.”“Smartass,” Arthur growled, though there was no heat in his voice, just a quiet affection that softened the edges of his words.Charles grinned and kissed him, slow and unhurried, as if to answer a question that hadn’t been asked. When they broke apart, he lingered close, his voice barely above a whisper. “I love you too, Arthur. Always.”Arthur didn’t reply—not in words, anyway. He just leaned his head against Charles’s shoulder for a moment, letting the quiet stretch between them like an embrace.As they reached the edge of their cabin, the warm glow of the lantern in the window spilled out onto the ground, its light pooling like a promise against the dark. The worn wood of the door creaked softly as Charles pushed it open, stepping inside first. Arthur paused for a moment, looking back over the path they’d walked, his breath clouding faintly in the cold air.The storm was still out there, swirling on the horizon, but for now, it felt distant. Arthur followed Charles inside, the door closing behind them with a quiet finality. The cabin felt warm, alive, the smell of pine and the faint, lingering scent of peaches wrapping around him like a memory of home.Charles had already set the flask on the table, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on the chair. He turned to Arthur, his expression soft but steady, and held out a hand.Arthur took it, his rough fingers threading through Charles’s. “This,” Arthur murmured, his voice low and certain, “this is enough.”Charles pulled him close, resting his forehead against Arthur’s. “It’s more than enough.”And for tonight, at least, the storm could wait.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Arthur woke to find a note on the pillow beside his head. Charles had gone with Javier to check out something for Dutch. The message made Arthur frown, his lips pressing into a pout before he could stop himself. Sure, Charles could handle himself, Not like Arthur had to keep tabs on him. but damn it—Arthur missed him the second he was out of sight.
With a groggy sigh, Arthur swung his legs out of bed and slipped on the soft moccasins Charles had gifted him last winter. They were well-worn now, molded perfectly to his feet. He yawned loudly, stretching as he shuffled out of the house toward the outhouse, the cold morning air nipping at his skin. They were still working on the latrine and water closet. Arthur couldn’t wait for that kinda luxury.
He was just about to pass the freshly dug well when something caught his eye. Blinking, he rubbed at his face and squinted again. Two figures were down in the hole.
“Sadie? Molly?” His voice came out low and husky with sleep, and he blinked like an owl. “What in the hell are y’all doing in the damn well?”
Molly groaned, sitting up slowly. Her hair was a tangled mess, and red lipstick smeared across her face like she’d lost a fight with it—or been kissed half to death. She cradled her head in her hands. “Ya are so loud, Morgan,” she muttered, her voice rough and scratchy. Her shirt hung askew, exposing more than Arthur cared to see, but he kept his eyes firmly on her face. Her fox-like ears drooped low, quivering faintly as though the sound of her own voice was too much to bear.
Sadie, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content with their situation. She let out a deep, exaggerated yawn, stretching her arms above her head in a way that reminded Arthur of a big, smug cat. Smears of Molly’s lipstick were all over Sadie’s face, but she didn’t seem to notice—or care. In fact, she looked downright pleased with herself.
“In our defense, we got into Javier’s tequila stash,” Sadie said with a lazy grin. “Good stuff. Real good stuff.” She gave Molly’s shoulder a playful nudge before reaching over to tug Molly’s shirt back into place, covering her up. “Why we’re in the well, though? Hell if I know.”
Arthur ran a hand down his face, too tired for whatever this was. “Sadie—”
“Don’t look at me like that, Buttercup,” she interrupted, her tone sugary sweet. “You act like you’ve never seen a couple of ladies get into a little trouble before.”
Arthur sighed. “Buttercup?”
Sadie smirked, leaning her chin on her hand. “Oh, I’m just getting started, Sweet Pea. Now, be a gentleman and help us out of here before Molly faints like a damsel in distress.”
Molly groaned louder at that. “Kill me now,” she muttered, rubbing her temples.
Arthur crouched down and held out his hands, bracing himself to pull them up. “You two better not make a habit of this. I ain’t spending my mornings haulin’ y’all outta holes.”
Sadie grinned even wider as Arthur hauled her up with ease, steadying her as she climbed out of the well. “Oh, come on, Darlin’ Biscuit. You love us.”
Arthur’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a faint twitch in the corner of his mouth. “Go sit at the kitchen table before I drop you back in.”
Sadie laughed, sauntering toward the house like she owned the place. Molly was slower to follow, still clutching her head as Arthur helped her up with a firm grip.
“Coffee,” Sadie called over her shoulder. “Strong coffee, Honeybun. And maybe a little hair of the dog while you’re at it.”
Arthur shook his head, watching her walk away. “One day,” he muttered under his breath, “I’m gonna stop letting her talk.”
Inside, it was strange to see Sadie and Molly sitting at his kitchen table, wiping their faces clean with wet cloths. Molly had already set up her beauty supplies—her compact mirror propped open, a small collection of powders and brushes laid neatly in front of her. She worked with the precision of someone used to turning rough mornings into presentable afternoons, patting powder onto her face with steady hands.
“You’re such a pretty woman, you know. No need for all that makeup. I like those freckles,” Sadie teased, her voice low and sweet like molasses.
Molly rolled her eyes and flicked her powder puff toward Sadie’s face, leaving a fine dusting of powder on her nose. Sadie coughed dramatically, waving the air in front of her like she’d been attacked.
“Shut it, Sadie. A little cosmetics go a long way,” Molly snapped, her temper frayed by the hangover.
Sadie grinned, leaning back in her chair and watching Molly with open amusement. “Whatever you say, darlin’.”
Both women jumped when Arthur set down two Bloody Marys in front of them. Each glass was garnished with a slice of crispy bacon sticking out of the top like a flag.
“Bottoms up,” Arthur said simply, sliding into the seat across from them.
Sadie blinked, then gave him an approving smile. “Well, look at you, Sugar Bear. Didn’t know you had such fine hospitality in you.” She grabbed her glass and took a hearty sip, licking a bit of tomato juice from her lip.
Molly, meanwhile, looked down at her drink with visible skepticism. “A Bloody Mary? Really?”
“Tequila got you in the well,” Arthur replied with a shrug. “This’ll get you back on your feet.”
Molly groaned but took a tentative sip anyway, her face scrunching up as the strong, savory flavor hit her tongue.
Sadie, already halfway through her drink, smirked at her. “Don’t be such a baby, freckles. Arthur here went to the trouble of playing bartender for us.”
Arthur leaned back in his chair, giving Sadie a flat look. “Call me Sugar Bear again, and you’re both gettin’ your drinks poured in the dirt next time.”
Sadie just laughed, raising her glass in a mock toast. “To Sugar Bear—best damn bartender this side of camp.”
Arthur groaned, shaking his head. “You got that right.” He grumbled while starting to make his own breakfast.
Finishing her makeup, retightening her corset as well. Well as best she could by herself. Molly, with the help of the Tabasco, vodka and tomato juice mixture, really looked at Arthur.
Arthur had just taken a seat, his plate in front of him—thin slices of salted pork lightly fried in butter, laid over buttered toast—when Molly fixed him with an appraising look, her vixen ears flicking forward.
“…Arthur Morgan, what have you been doing to your skin lately?” she mused, her voice carrying an air of suspicion. Maybe even a hint of envy.
Arthur, mid-bite, froze. His ears twitched. Making the earring jingle from the twitch. He glanced between her and Sadie, as if checking to see if this was some kind of setup.
Sadie, who had been tipping the last of her Bloody Mary into her mouth, smacked her lips and frowned. “Whatcha mean, Doll? He looks the same as always.”
Molly let out a long-suffering sigh, twirling her brush through the end of her tail before fixing Sadie with a knowing look. “No, he does not. His skin looks… I don’t know—fuller, smoother. Almost youthful.” She tilted her head, studying Arthur like he was a specimen under glass. “Not that he was ever porcine pale, but if I’m honest, I don’t think that would suit him anyway.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes, chewing slower now, like he had to process being scrutinized over breakfast. “Ya’ll are just seein’ things.” he muttered around his toothpick.
Sadie, finally catching on, leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table. “Wait, wait, wait—are you sayin’ Arthur’s pretty now?”
Arthur groaned, already regretting every decision that led to this conversation. “Don’t start.”
Molly, however, had no intention of stopping. She gestured with her tail brush, her fox ears twitching with amusement. “It’s not just that. You ever notice how men in real high society all got that pale, porcelain look? Even when they spend their days ridin’ through town, somehow they stay soft and white like they’ve never seen a day’s labor in their lives.”
Arthur snorted, finally setting his toast down. “That’s ‘cause they ain’t seen a day’s labor in their lives.”
Molly nodded, undeterred. “Exactly. Porcelain skin, no scars, no sun. It’s considered refined. Now, you—” she gestured at him, trailing her gaze from his face to his broad hands, to the rough callouses there, “—you’re not that. And you shouldn’t be. Too much color would look garish on some men, but on you?” She smiled slyly, like she was letting him in on a well-kept secret. “It suits you.”
Arthur blinked, caught between suspicion and confusion. “So what, now I’m fashionable?”
Sadie cackled, slapping the table. “Oh hell, Arthur, I think Molly just called you handsome in about fifteen different ways!”
Arthur groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “I ain’t got time for this.”
Molly, clearly pleased with herself, turned back to fixing her corset. “Oh, hush, I’m just making an observation.”
Then, casually, as she reached for her tail brush again, she added, “Maybe Charles is takin’ real good care of you, then.”
Arthur choked.
Full-on, nearly inhaled his own bloody mary. He coughed violently, thumping a fist against his chest, his deer ears flicking wildly as he tried to recover. The jingling from the peach flower charm from his earring caught his attention.
….the hell was that? Damn thing never made a sound but randomly it seemed like.
Sadie went deathly still, her golden eyes widening. Then, as the realization hit, her mouth curled into the slowest, most wicked grin Arthur had ever seen.
“Oh,” she drawled, dragging out the word like it was something sweet and dangerous on her tongue. “Ohhh, Molly, honey, you have no idea what you just said.” It was times like this, that Sadie really slipped into her secondary animal. Like a wild cougar, Sadie smelt blood.
Arthur shot her a glare so sharp it could’ve cut steel. “Don’t.” His voice was a warning, low and hoarse from the coughing fit.
Molly, completely oblivious to the sudden tension, arched a delicate brow. “What?” She looked between them, confused. “It’s just a thought—he’s been living with Charles, after all. He’s always been the responsible one. Makes sense he’d be feeding Arthur something better than whiskey and bullets.”
Sadie pressed a fist to her mouth, her shoulders shaking with the effort to hold back laughter.
Arthur, still trying to regain composure, forced his voice into something steady. “Molly,” the deer said, slow and careful, “I don’t know what kinda ideas you got, but I ain’t lettin’ Charles mother me, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”
Molly gave an unimpressed hum, flicking a bit of powder off her brush. “Mmm. If you say so.”
Sadie lost it.
She smacked the table with the flat of her hand, bursting into uncontrollable laughter, rocking back in her chair. “Oh, Arthur,” she wheezed. “I—I gotta step outside. I need air. Heheh ya’ll are gonna make me piss myself. I need air!”
Arthur’s face burned hotter than a midday sun. “You’re impossible, Adler.”
Sadie, wiping at her eyes, gasped for breath. “Oh, I know.” She staggered up, clutching the door frame as she laughed her way onto the porch.
Molly, still confused, just shook her head. “I swear, the both of you are insufferable.”
Arthur exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face. Disaster averted.
Or so he thought.
From the porch, Sadie’s voice rang out, loud and clear, full of mischief:
“Arthur, your SKIN positively GLOWS!”
Arthur shot up from the table so fast his chair nearly toppled over. “ADLER!”
Sadie’s cackling was the only response, already retreating down the road, her laughter ringing through the crisp morning air like a victory bell.
Molly, now truly lost, just sighed and picked up her drink again. “You people are exhausting.”
Arthur groaned, rubbing his temples. “You got no idea.” He took a sip of his Bloody Mary, letting the heat of the Tabasco cut through his lingering embarrassment, then looked at Molly again. “What happened to Karen? Wasn’t she gonna drink with y’all?”
Molly, finally seeming to settle into wakefulness, flicked her tail idly before answering. “Karen got to cryin’ halfway through. She and Sean are working through a rough patch at the moment. Turns out livin’ in an actual home brings forth expectations, you know?”
Arthur grunted, finishing off his breakfast. “Marriage, then?”
Molly let out a soft, humorless chuckle, swirling what was left of her drink. “I wouldn’t say that. More of a… commitment question, I suppose. Are we sweethearts, or are we just comfort?” She reached for her powder puff again, but Arthur didn’t miss the way her ears twitched, like the thought had struck a little too close to home.
She didn’t say it outright, but Arthur knew when someone was looking at their own reflection in someone else’s troubles. He’d seen it plenty.
“Anyway,” Molly continued, pushing the thought aside with practiced ease. “Karen turned in after a few drinks. Probably for the best.”
Arthur nodded, gathering up the empty plates and glasses. The dishes were mismatched but unchipped, a collection of blue willow, white and gold, green with pink flowers—fragments of fine china lost to the West. Most folks never thought to look, but Arthur had an eye for things like that.
“It’s for the best, then,” he said, carrying everything to the basin. He pumped the handle, the water splashing against metal. “Glad she knew when to call it quits.”
He heard the soft scrape of a chair as Molly stood, but when she didn’t immediately speak, he glanced over his shoulder. She was looking around the kitchen now, her keen eyes taking in the space like she was seeing it for the first time.
“…Oh, Arthur,” she murmured, and this time, there was no teasing in her voice—just something quiet and surprised.
Arthur frowned, glancing at her over his shoulder. “What?”
Molly stepped closer, running her fingertips along the edge of the table. The wood had been worn smooth by time and careful hands. On the windowsill, a few sprigs of lavender sat in a repurposed whiskey bottle, filling the air with a faint, clean scent. Everything about the place—though simple—was tended to with quiet care.
She turned back to him, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “You and Charles really made yourselves a home here, didn’t you?”
Arthur hesitated. The word home wasn’t one he used much. Camp had always been something in motion, shifting, never meant to last. But here…
Here, he and Charles had picked the plates they liked. They’d built the chairs with their own hands. They’d planted the lavender because Charles said it kept the bugs away, and Arthur liked the way it smelled.
That realization sat heavy in his chest.
“…Reckon so,” he admitted finally, voice softer than before.
Molly just hummed, casting him one last knowing glance before returning to her seat, a smirk playing at her lips. “Dutch says our home will be worked into shape in time. Might give ya a run for your money, Mr. Morgan.” She teased, flicking open her fan with a lazy snap.
Arthur snorted, rolling his sleeves up as he started washing the dishes. “Better tie up your hair and grab a hammer. You and Hosea got a lotta work ahead of ya.”
The screen door swung open with a charming squeak of its springs, and Sadie stepped back inside, her grin still sharp from whatever amusement she’d found outside.
Molly faltered mid-fan, blinking as if Arthur had just suggested the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “…Me?”
Arthur glanced at her over his shoulder, deadpan. “Yes, you. Ain’t nobody gonna do it for ya.”
Sadie let out a low chuckle, dropping into the seat beside the vixen with an easy sprawl. “He’s right, y’know. You wanna call someplace home, best put your back into it.”
Molly scoffed, folding her arms, but Arthur didn’t miss the way her tail flicked—uncertain. Maybe even considering it.
Arthur just shook his head, smirking to himself as he went back to the dishes. Hell, miracles happened every day. Charles had married him, after all—that was proof enough.
Like always, Arthur started his chores with or without the two women trailing behind him. Chickens fed and watered, horses tended to and spoiled rotten. Porch swept, windows thrown open to let in the crisp morning air. Charles and Arthur were like Sadie and her husband. They shared the work. Arthur didn’t mind the housework, he had a home for the first time in his life.
By the time Arthur gathered up the bedding, clothes, and washing soap, he figured he might as well put to use the little luxury he’d picked up the other day.
He had just started filling the basin with water from the pump when a sudden outburst nearly made him drop the bucket. Thinking about making a new batch of that rosemary soap..
“You got a washing machine with a ringer on it?!”
Molly and Sadie stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief, like he’d just pulled a whole steam engine out of thin air.
Arthur frowned, glancing between them. Why the hell were they hollering? His deer ears flicked back and forth in confusion. “Yeah,” he said, unfazed, pouring more water into the tub. “Seven dollars from Sears and Roebuck.”
Sadie let out a low whistle, running a hand along the metal frame like it was some kind of marvel. “Well, ain’t you just a fancy housewife, Morgan.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Since we’re here for the long haul, it didn't seem like a waste of money. Ain’t like we got the ladies at camp washin’ our stuff anymore.” He shrugged. “And if we ever gotta run, it won’t be left behind.”
Molly crossed her arms, still looking at the machine like it was sorcery. “Ain’t never seen a man buy somethin’ to make laundry easier.”
Arthur snorted, tossing a bar of soap into the water. “That’s ‘cause most men ain’t the ones washin’ their own damn clothes.”
Sadie barked a laugh, giving the washing machine an approving pat. “Y’know, Arthur, you’re full of surprises.”
Arthur just huffed, rolling up his sleeves as he set to work. “Yeah, yeah. Now, are you two just gonna stand there gawkin’, or are you actually gonna help?”
The barrel was full—clean water, soap suds, and a few sprigs of rosemary floating on top. Arthur tossed in the laundry, shut the lid, and pulled the lever back and forth, spinning the clothes inside.
Molly watched the whole thing, eyes narrowed like she wasn’t sure if she should be impressed or afraid. “Witchcraft,” she mumbled under her breath, before quickly adding, “At least… almost.” Her gaze flicked to Arthur’s arms as he worked, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each pull of the lever.
Sadie smirked. “Naw, you’re right, Doll. Might as well be.” Then, turning to Arthur, she jerked a thumb at the machine. “You’re gonna have to hide this. If the other ladies see?”
Arthur didn’t even look up. “They can buy their own.”
He pulled a shirt from the barrel, ran it through the wringer twice, then gave it a sharp shake—Charles’ shirt, crisp and clean, the faint scent of rosemary rising from the damp fabric. He pinned it up on the long clothesline, watching it sway in the breeze before reaching for the next.
“The days of me payin’ for everyone are long over.”
His voice was steady, matter-of-fact, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. It wasn’t just about money—it was about leaving behind the old expectations, the old obligations.
Molly tilted her head slightly at that, flicking open her fan in a slow, thoughtful motion. Sadie, on the other hand, grinned like a fox sniffing out trouble.
“Damn right,” she said, tipping her hat back. “’Bout time.”
Then, her smirk deepened. Not done yet.
“Now… ya gonna be ironin’ all this too?”
Arthur froze mid-wring, turning his head just enough to give her a look that could’ve dropped a man dead.
“Adler…”
Sadie cackled, flashing her fangs in a wild grin, her laughter loud and shameless. Molly, far more refined but no less amused, let out a quiet giggle behind her fan.
Arthur exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he finished up. Women.
By the time the last of the laundry was hung and the garden watered, the sun had climbed high, warming the wooden porch beneath Arthur’s boots. He scrubbed his face and hands in the washbasin, letting the cool water chase away the sweat and dust clinging to his skin.Then—hoofbeats.
The familiar rhythm of approaching horses drifted through the quiet morning, followed closely by Jack’s laughter—bright, breathless, and full of mischief.
Arthur straightened, shaking off the water before wiping his face dry with a rough cotton towel.
Right. Cooking lessons. He’d damn near forgotten.
He glanced toward the house, already picturing the mess waiting for him—flour on the floor, a tipped-over pot, Jack staring up at him wide-eyed like he didn’t know how the hell that happened.
Arthur sighed but smiled a little, draping the towel over his shoulder as he turned toward the sound of hoofbeats and laughter.
Time to teach the kid how not to burn a pot of beans.
Well, mostly his mama and John, but as far as Arthur was concerned, he’d trust Jack with cooking far before those two wolves.
He had barely stepped onto the porch when John spoke up.
John took a slow drag from his cigarette, squinting at the house like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. He exhaled through his nose, smoke curling in the crisp morning air.
“Jesus, Arthur, you sure this is your house?” he asked, his voice carrying that usual mix of amusement and incredulity. His wolf ears twitched as he gave the place a once-over—the sturdy porch, the neat clothesline swaying with freshly washed laundry, the damn lavender on the windowsill. Hell, even the boots by the door looked well-placed, like someone had set them there with care.
John scoffed, flicking his cigarette before gesturing vaguely. “All that’s missin’ is a white picket fence and a herd of youngin’s.”
The moment the words left his mouth, he froze. His shoulders went rigid, and his hand stalled mid-air like he’d just touched a burning stove.
Arthur didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t move, didn’t breathe. But something in the air changed—something subtle but sharp, like the sudden stillness before a gunfight.
John’s ears flattened. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and forced a sheepish, “Oh—oh, fuck… I’mma—I’mma sorry.” His voice came quieter now, edged with real regret. “Didn’t mean ta—”
The silence that followed was thick, pressing in like the walls of a storm.
Arthur inhaled sharply through his nose, slow and deliberate, before exhaling just as steady. When he finally spoke, his voice came out low, rough as dry gravel.
“John, shut the hell up.”
John flinched.
Arthur wasn’t one for sore spots. He let most things roll off him, let the world callous him over until nothing could cut too deep. But this?
Damn it, John knew better.
Arthur’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling against the rough wood of the porch railing. His deer ears flicked once, then settled back, half-hidden in his messy hair. He stared out at the yard, at the sun rising over the treetops, at the horses grazing in the pasture—anything but John.
“Just ‘cause you ain’t never had hopes and dreams,” he muttered, voice flat, “don’t mean you got the right to remind me ‘bout mine.”
John sucked in a breath, looking like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to say something—but for once, he didn’t. His mouth opened, then shut. He just looked away, took another slow drag of his cigarette like it might burn away the guilt settling in his gut.
Molly glanced over at Sadie, brows raised in silent question. Sadie only shook her head, her golden eyes softer than usual. That wasn’t her story to tell.
The weight of the moment stretched, thick and heavy—until a small tug at Arthur’s pant leg broke it clean in two.
Arthur blinked, thrown off balance. He looked down.
“Uncle Arthur?” Jack peered up at him, all wide eyes and messy curls. “We gonna make pie?”
His voice was sweet, expectant, blissfully unaware of the tension still hanging in the air.
Arthur swallowed, forcing himself to let go of the sharp coil of anger wound tight in his chest. He pushed it down, tucked it away where it wouldn’t touch the kid.
He looked at Jack for a moment, then let out a slow breath.
Finally, his lips quirked into a small, lopsided smirk.
“Yeah, kid.” He reached down, ruffling Jack’s hair. His voice was softer now, the sharp edges smoothed out. “We’re gonna make pie.”
From the doorway, Abigail watched them quietly, her she-wolf tail swishing behind her. Her eyes flicked between Arthur and John, lingering on the tension still humming in the air before settling on Arthur.
She sighed.
Nature was cruel. A man who wanted children so desperately couldn’t have any of his own. And John—damn fool should’ve known better than to bring it up.
She didn’t say a word. Just shook her head at John as she guided Jack inside, her expression making it clear—he needed to watch his damn mouth. Abigail had figured it out on her own the night she had little Jack. when Arthur and Charles quietly disappeared into the woods.
The rest of the day moved on, the sharp sting of the morning lingering in the background but not quite stealing the warmth of what came after.
Arthur worked through the afternoon, treasuring the small things—the flour dusting Jack’s hands as he stood on a stool beside him, the scent of butter and blueberries thick in the air, the occasional wisecrack from Sadie and Molly as they sat nearby, watching the two of them with bemused smiles.
John, for once, kept his mouth shut. He had found the blueberries as an apology that Arthur quietly accepted.
He’d done enough talking for one afternoon.
The scent of sugar and butter still lingered in the air as Arthur pulled the last of the pies from the oven, setting them on the counter to cool. Jack sat on his stool, hands covered in flour, his little wolf ears twitching as he admired their work.
Arthur leaned against the counter, crossing his arms with a smirk. “Well, kid, reckon we didn’t burn the place down. That’s somethin’.”
Jack beamed, swinging his legs. “Can we have pie before supper?”
Arthur snorted, poking Jack’s belly. “Ask your mama, not me. She’s the one in charge of what goes in that belly.”
Before Jack could run off to try his luck, Arthur’s deer ears flicked at the distant sound of horses. Familiar ones. He straightened, listening closer.
Two riders. Steady pace. Charles and Javier
.
Jack perked up. “They’re back!”
Arthur was wiping flour off his hands when he heard the horses approached
.
Charles and Javier.
Their approach was steady, but something about their posture. Not just a casual return—something was on their mindsArthur sighed, tossing the rag aside before stepping onto the porch. He immediately noticed the game slung across Javier’s saddle—a mess of rabbits, a few wild turkeys, even a very nice fox pelt
Charles, however, was empty-handed.
Arthur frowned.
Sadie was the first to speak, leaning lazily on the porch rail. “What, you gettin’ picky ‘bout what’s worth killin’ now, Charles?”
Javier swung down from his horse, stretching. “Naw, he got a clean shot on a stag,” he said, slapping his saddlebag, coyote tail swinging as he worked . “But we figured we’d save Arthur the trouble of havin’ to pretend he don’t hate it when we cook venison.”
Arthur huffed, crossing his arms. “I ain’t got no problems ya’ll eating’ venison. I just don’t eat it. bein' a deer and all...feels wrong.” he pushed off the porch walking over to the men. “Appreciate it.” He shot a glance at Charles. “You find what Dutch wanted?”
Charles didn’t answer right away
.
Javier, on the other hand, sighed, rubbing his temples. “Oh, we found it alright.”
Sadie grinned. “Yeah? You gonna tell us, or am I supposed to guess?”
Javier flicked his tail once, stepping up onto the porch. “A town. What’s left of it, anyway. Got swallowed up when the government put up a dam. Flooded the whole thing out.”
Arthur’s ears flicked forward, but he stayed quiet.
Javier continued, leaning against the post as he rolled a cigarette. “Here’s the kicker—the dam’s comin’ down.”
That made Sadie’s grin widen. “Oh-ho… so the lake’s about to drain?”
“Exactly.” Javier struck a match, lighting his cigarette with a slow pull. “Dutch thinks there’s
a
vault down there
.
A bank, buried under twenty years of water. And once that dam breaks…”
Arthur sighed. “Let me guess. He wants us there first.”
The coyote smirked. “Now you’re gettin’ it. Brother!”
Arthur exhaled through his nose, staring out at the land, at the golden stretch of trees beyond the porch.
Dutch always had a plan.
“From what I overheard from the foreman.” Charles passed Arthur a turkey, beautifully hunted like always. Charles hunting was a work of art almost. “Here in ten months time, the dam will be blown and the bull snort river will be freed. Something about new mills opening up around blackwater.” Charles shrugged “leaving the bank drained.”
“And the vault full of gold waiting.” Sadie finished rubbing her hands together.
Reaching up and touching the peach flower charm hanging from his antler. Arthur was in thought. “If we know about the dam being blown and the vault that lays waiting, how many others know about it too?”
Clearing her throat and swishing her vixen tail. “Maybe I can help?” Molly offered “I could start talking everyone up as best I can with a little white lie. Saying there is no vault, a lie said enough becomes the truth you know?” she offered
Shaking a finger with a smile. “Yeah Molly, that's a damn good idea. You and the ladies start gabbing in town. Throw everyone off the trail.” Arthur beamed to Molly who actually looked shy behind her.
Sadie patted Molly’s shoulder. “That’s my girl!”
“So in ten months time, we walk in and pop the vault with no trouble at all.” John was holding Jack on his shoulders as he spoke.
Charles chuckled showing his fangs. “My kinda plan.”
Looking at his husband taking in his strong features and mouth full of fangs, Arthur felt his knees go weak for a second.
Christ, he loved Charles.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
A beam of sunlight fell straight onto the sleeping faces of Charles and Arthur Morgan-Smith. Arthur scrunched his nose, shifting, while Charles grumbled and buried his face deeper into Arthur’s pillow. His panther ears flicked, the soft fur brushing against Arthur’s nose, tickling him awake.
With a low, tired groan, Arthur shoved a hand out from beneath the heavy quilt, fumbling blindly on the nightstand for his pocket watch. His fingers found the cool platinum casing, and with practiced ease, he flicked it open, squinting one bleary eye at the time. His gaze lingered a second longer than necessary—on the small, worn picture of him and Charles tucked inside the lid.
"Nine o’clock…" Arthur groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. He felt like he was steaming under the covers. Too damn hot. They were long overdue for some proper summer bedding.
He turned, nudging Charles’ shoulder, his voice low and teasing.
"Sugar…" he drawled, giving him another gentle shake. "Come on, Big Daddy, time ta wake up. We slept in…"
The buck did his best to rouse his panther of a husband, but Charles only grumbled, burrowing deeper into the sheets. Arthur huffed, amused, and gave up—at least for now.
Sitting up, he stretched, a soft little moan escaping as his back arched. His deer tail flicked lazily with the motion. "Guess I’ll get the fries goin’ and the percolator bubblin’," he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. He smirked, slipping on his worn moccasins. "’Bout as useless as I am without coffee."
As he stood, his fingers instinctively reached up, giving the new chain a tug. The ceiling fan above stirred to life, its wooden blades turning in slow, steady circles. Satisfied, Arthur shuffled outside, his hooves clopping lightly against the wooden porch before transitioning to packed dirt.
The latrine was finished—tile work done, the commode installed and plumbed just yesterday. A damn luxury, even if it was still a far cry from the bathtub he dreamed of. Soon.
With his bladder taken care of, Arthur pumped water into the basin and splashed his face. The river-fed water was ice-cold, shocking his overheated skin. He let out a slow breath, running a cool, damp cloth down the back of his neck and over his broad shoulders.
"Christ, it's hot," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
Lifting his head, he met his own gaze in the looking glass, preparing to shave—but something gave him pause. He leaned in, tilting his chin this way and that. Where the hell was his stubble?
Arthur frowned. He’d shaved two days ago, sure, but by now, he should have had at least some roughness. Charles preferred him clean-shaven—stubble was fine, but anything more irritated his husband’s skin—but this? This was strange.
His fingers ran over his jaw, finding it smooth. Not just smooth, but… softer. His freckles stood out more than usual, too, like they had in his younger years.
Arthur shook his head, brushing off the unease. He had things to do, not time to gawk at himself in a mirror. The fire needed lighting, the percolator needed to be bubbling, and the chickens needed feeding.
Rolling his shoulders, he made his way back toward the house, buttoning up his union suit. Or at least, trying to. The fabric pulled awkwardly across his chest, the buttons straining in protest.
Refusing to close.
He gritted his teeth, tugging. "Come on now," he muttered under his breath. "I ain’t gained that much weight."
From the bed, Charles cracked open one sleepy eye. A slow, lazy grin stretched across his face as he took in the sight of Arthur wrestling with his own clothes.
"Don’t cover up for my sake," Charles rumbled, his voice thick with sleep and amusement, his panther tail lazily swishing behind him.
Arthur snorted, shaking his head—until Charles added, "They’re worth seein’."
That earned a proper laugh. "You’re impossible."
"Mm." Charles closed his eyes again, stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam. "And yet, you love me."
Arthur just chuckled, finally managing to button his shirt. "Damn right I do. Worth lovin’."
Grabbing his comb, he ran it through his hair, which had grown out a bit longer than usual, the ends curling slightly where they brushed against the nape of his neck. Charles, still half-draped in the blankets, sighed. And then sighed again. And again.
Arthur raised a brow, catching the performance in the mirror before glancing back with an amused smile. "Yes? Mr. Smith?"
Charles grinned lazily. "I have a pretty wife," he declared in a sing-song voice.
Arthur’s response was swift—a well-aimed hat flung directly at Charles’ smug face.
Charles only laughed, catching it with ease. "Guess that means I’m right," he purred.
Arthur rolled his eyes, walking back over to the bed his husband was lounging in casually. "Ain't no winnin’ with you, is there?"
"Not when I’m tellin’ the truth."
Shaking his head, Arthur pulled his hat from Charles' hands, then leaned down and kissed him. "Love ya too," he murmured, pressing a few more kisses to his husband’s lips, lingering just a little longer.
Both men basked in the quiet intimacy for a moment before the pull of the day took over. Arthur finally peeled himself away, heading to the kitchen to get the fires going and the percolator bubbling, while Charles stretched and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing a hand down his face.
With a yawn, he pushed himself up and padded toward the washbasin, catching his reflection in the looking glass. He paused, ears flicking as he studied himself.
Something felt… off.
Charles was always broad, always strong, but he looked more defined than usual. His muscles had thickened, his frame just a bit bulkier. Must be all the work on the house, he reasoned. Hauling lumber, laying tile, hammering nails—it made sense.
Still, there was something else.
His body hair. He swore there was more of it. His chest was fuller with dark fur, his arms just a little more covered than before. He ran a hand down his sternum, fingertips brushing through the dense curls. Was he just noticing it more now, or had it really changed?
Before he could linger too long on the thought, a warm hand snaked around his waist, fingers ruffling through the thick patch of hair on his chest. Charles had a white patch in his chest hair, just like his Raven father had.
“Nice sweater you got there, Mr. Smith,” Arthur teased, voice rich with amusement. He pressed a lazy kiss to Charles’ shoulder, then up the curve of his neck. “Must be hot in this weather.”
Charles snorted, rolling his golden eyes. “Glad you approve.”
Arthur grinned, giving his chest another playful ruffle. “But damn, you look good. Then again, ya could stop traffic in a flour sack.”
Charles huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head as he reached for his shirt. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet ya keep me around!” Arthur stepped back just long enough to press a steaming cup of coffee into Charles’ hand.
Charles accepted it with a nod, taking a slow sip as Arthur leaned against the counter, rubbing his stomach absentmindedly.
"You hungry?" Arthur asked suddenly, brows furrowing. "’Cause I’mma
starving
. Feels like I ain’t ate in a damn week."
Charles arched a brow over the rim of his cup, watching him. "That right?"
Now that Charles thought about it,
he
was pretty hungry too. Which was strange. He wasn’t much for breakfast—never had been, even as a kid. Eating first thing in the morning always felt like a chore, something to put off until midday. But right now? The idea of food didn’t just sound good—it sounded
necessary
.
"I could eat," Charles admitted, setting his cup down.
Arthur nodded, already reaching for the skillet. "Think I’mma fry up somethin’ real good."
And
good
didn’t even begin to cover it.
Their hunger surprised them both. They tore through an entire pack of bacon, a small pot of grits, three eggs each, a large can of those spiced peaches Arthur had put up last week, and finally—
a dozen
buttermilk biscuits.
Arthur let out a satisfied sigh, sopping up the last streak of yolk with the final bit of biscuit before popping it into his mouth.
Charles leaned back in his chair, eyeing the empty plates with something between satisfaction and mild concern. "
That
was… amazing," he admitted, rubbing a hand over his stomach.
Arthur, licking a bit of butter off his thumb, just grinned. "Damn right it was." his free hand resting on his full belly.
But something about it sat strangely with both of them. Not just the food, not just the sheer
amount
they’d eaten—but the fact that even now, sitting back with full bellies, neither of them felt sluggish. No heaviness, no morning fog.
If anything, they felt
good
. Too good.
Charles’ tail flicked absently. Arthur’s ears twitched. That gold cuff earring glittering in the morning light, Catching Charles' attention. Something was happening, it started with that cuff earring that Arthur found. But what was happening wasn’t bad? Then again Charles could be overthinking it.
The raven blood of his father was just fascinated with Arthur’s shinny little bobble.
Neither of them said anything.
Just enjoying the other's quiet company.
Something was in the air. Or maybe it was just the damn heat of summer.
Arthur Morgan was burning up—sweating like a sinner in church, the heat from the wood stove pressing against his back like a brand. Maybe that’s all it was. Maybe it was just the fire, the bread baking inside, the thick summer air settling heavy on his skin. But as he stood in the narrow hallway, staring at the door to the storage room, he knew better.
His fingers lingered on the worn wood before he forced himself to move, pushing the door shut with a quiet click.
No one needed to see inside.
The cradle. The backboard. The things they made back when hope still felt like something real.
Arthur swallowed hard, rolling his shoulders as if he could shrug off the ache in his chest. He ran a hand down his face, his palm coming away damp with sweat. Jesus, he was burning up. He yanked his handkerchief from his pocket, wiping at his forehead before stuffing it back, his movements short, agitated.
He couldn’t bear to hear it. If the gang saw—if they started asking…
you expecting, Morgan?
Didn’t know you and Charles were trying!
When’s the little one comin’ along?
His stomach twisted, the heat of the house suddenly unbearable.
Arthur clenched his jaw, shaking his head as if that could banish the thoughts. He wasn’t shutting the door just to keep the gang from seeing.
He was shutting the door on himself.
On his pain.
No—on their pain.
Arthur took a breath, deep and steady, then turned on his heel and strode back toward the kitchen.
There was work to do.
And that was good—he needed work to do. Anything to keep his hands busy, his mind focused on something other than that closed door.
It was finally his and Charles’ turn to host Family Dinner Night. Dutch had started the tradition months back—said it kept the "family" close, kept them grounded—but in truth, it was just another way for him to pretend everything was fine.
Arthur and Charles hadn’t hosted before. Hell, they’d been skipped more than once, not that either of them had argued. Back then, the gang had taken one look at their half-finished cabin, the leaky roof, the missing windows, and made a decision: Let someone else do it.
Arthur hadn’t cared. Neither had Charles.
They didn’t need company.
But now? Now their name was on the board.
Arthur had a sneaking suspicion about why.
Bet it was Molly. She’d been over a handful of times, sipping tea at the table with Mary-Beth, eyeing the place up and down like she was appraising a fine house in Saint Denis. And once Molly had an opinion about something, she made sure Dutch heard about it.
Arthur could just hear her now: “Dutch, you should see it! They’ve got a windmill, a proper latrine, A god damn washing machine!—it’s practically civilized!”
And suddenly, Smith/Morgan had appeared on the chore board, slotted in as the next dinner hosts.
Arthur smirked to himself as he set a loaf of bread on the counter, dusting the flour from his hands.
What Dutch didn’t know was that Arthur had stolen the original name card weeks ago.
……And that he’d hand-carved a new wooden plaque, their names etched in with careful strokes.
……And that he’d added little hearts next to their names.
……And that he’d hung it over their bedroom doorway, right above the frame. Not somewhere the gang would see—not unless they were leaving the room.
Arthur stepped back, glancing toward it. The wood gleamed slightly in the low light, smooth under his fingertips where he’d run his knife over it again and again, making sure the edges were just right.
It was a small thing. A private thing.
A reminder that even in a life like theirs, they’d built something real.
Charles hadn’t said much when he first noticed it. Just looked up at it one morning, running a hand over the carving, his thumb tracing the lines of Arthur’s handiwork.
Then, with a soft smile, he’d murmured, “You really are a sap, Sweet thing.”
Arthur had just rolled his eyes, but Charles knew the truth.
Arthur had done it because it felt right. Because there weren’t many things in this world a man like him could claim, but this—**their home, their life together—**this was his.
And if carving a couple of dumb hearts into a nameplate made him a sap? Then so be it.
Arthur huffed a small laugh to himself, shaking his head as he turned back toward the kitchen.
The sun was getting lower, stretching golden light across the walls. Outside, the windmill creaked faintly, catching the warm summer breeze. He could hear the horses in the pasture, the rhythmic sound of Charles chopping firewood out back—steady, deliberate, strong.
Dinner time was creeping closer, and soon enough, the gang would start showing up.
Arthur grabbed a towel, slinging it over his shoulder as he reached into the wet sand pot.
Charles was so damn smart it hurt Arthur’s head sometimes.
That man could build anything—the latrine, the windmill, the goddamn ceiling fans—but this? This was some kind of genius.
A good-sized clay pot filled with wet sand, nested inside another pot with a lid. Worked like an icebox without the ice. Just needed a little water now and then to keep things cool.
Arthur had two of ‘em.
One for raw meat, wrapped up neat, ready for the stew. The other? Arthur popped the lid, reaching in and pulling out two cool beers. Condensation clung to the bottles, dripping down onto his fingers like morning dew.
Arthur swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead, then poured a little more water into the sand before closing the pot again. His tail flicked absently behind him as he stepped outside, bottle in each hand.
“Goddamn, somethin’ smells good—”
He stopped cold.
The words died on his lips.
A slow, heavy swallow.
His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottles, but he barely noticed.
There he was.
Charles.
His panther of a husband, standing shirtless by the barbacoa pit, checking on the slow-roasted boar. The firelight flickered over golden-brown skin, the curve of his back, the sharp lines of his shoulders. His braids hung loose, a few strands sticking to his neck from sweat.
Arthur hardly noticed the roasted meat—which, sure, looked damn delicious.
But not half as good as the man cooking it.
Charles glanced up, catching sight of him. His golden eyes flickered with something unreadable for a moment before he tilted his head, gesturing Arthur over.
Arthur swallowed.
Something about Charles Smith—the way he moved, the quiet confidence he carried himself with, the sheer presence of him—made Arthur feel like a damn fawn again.
He stepped forward, drawn in without thinking.
By the time he reached Charles, the man was already tearing off a piece of pork, holding it out.
Arthur hesitated—just for a second.
Then he leaned in, taking the bite straight from Charles’ fingers, careful not to graze skin with his teeth. The meat was tender, smoky, perfect. But Arthur hardly had time to appreciate it before his tongue flicked out, slow and deliberate, licking the last bits of juice from Charles' fingertips.
Charles went still.
His fingers twitched slightly, like he hadn't expected that.
Arthur just grinned, licking his lips.
Before he could say something else smart, Charles plucked the hat straight off his head.
Arthur barely had time to scowl before Charles pulled him close, their bodies pressing together, lips meeting like they were made to fit.
Like lightning striking metal.
Arthur made a low, needy sound, arms winding around Charles’ neck, opening his mouth as the kiss deepened—hot, desperate, stealing the breath from his lungs.
His fingers tangled into inky black hair, gripping tight, because Charles kissed like he wasn’t just tasting Arthur—he was claiming him.
And then—
“Christ, it’s hardly passed one! What are y’all, teenagers?! Y’all got goddamn work to do!”
Sadie’s raspy voice boomed across the yard.
Both men jerked apart like they’d been shot. Arthur stumbled back, face burning red, snatching his hat right out of Charles’ hands while Charles just looked entirely too pleased with himself.
Sadie Adler, sitting high on Edmond’s back, a cake plate balanced in her lap, smirked down at them.
Arthur ground his teeth. “Adler.”
Charles, unbothered as ever, casually grabbed his shirt off the fence, buttoning it up like he hadn’t just been ready to devour Arthur whole.
“Whatcha got there, Sadie?” Charles asked, nodding toward the cake plate.
Sadie slipped off Edmond’s back, pulling off the saddle so her horse could go visit the ladies. She hesitated, almost looking sheepish, before uncovering the cake with a sigh.
“Red Velvet Cake.” She cleared her throat. “I am a great goddamn baker.”
Both Charles and Arthur visibly perked up, eyes fixed on the beautifully made cake like it was the second coming of Christ.
“How much?” Charles asked immediately.
Sadie blinked. “For what?”
“How much for two cakes. One for me, one for Arthur.”
Sadie barked out a laugh, shaking her head. “My baking’s too rich for y’all’s blood.” she walked up the stairs of the porch holding the screen door open walking into the kitchen,
“We can make a payment plan!” Arthur added quickly, stepping up onto the porch. He held the door open for Charles, who followed behind with a quiet chuckle, clearly amused by the whole thing.
Sadie snorted. “Ain’t no payment plan in the world that’d make me trust you with one of my cakes, Morgan.”
“Sadie, c’mon—”
“Nope.” She plopped the cake down on the counter, turning to face them with her hands on her hips. “Y’all are hosts tonight. You’re feedin’ people, not gettin’ fat offa my baking.”
Arthur huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, that’s just cruel.”
“No, what’s cruel is me walkin’ in on y’all makin’ out like love-drunk idiots instead of workin’.” She grabbed a knife from the counter, expertly slicing the cake into even squares. “And for that sin, you get one piece each. One. That’s my final offer.”
Arthur and Charles exchanged a glance.
Charles, ever the composed one, nodded solemnly. “We accept these terms.”
Arthur, less composed, grumbled as he grabbed a fork.
Sadie rolled her eyes but slid them each a slice, and for a moment, all was peaceful.
The gang would be arriving soon, the house smelled like good food, and even though they were burning up from the heat, Arthur couldn’t help but feel… content.
He glanced at Charles, who was leaning against the counter, eating his cake like he wasn’t the best damn thing Arthur had ever seen in his life.
Yeah.
This life? It was good.
Arthur took a bite of cake and sighed.
“Hot damn, Adler.”
Sadie grinned. “Told ya.”