Arthur and his neighbor

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Arthur Morgan was supposed to die.

The doctors said it. The mountain in Beaver Hollow said it. Even the goddamn vultures said it, circling like fussy landlords waiting for him to vacate his own corpse.

But death, like every other authority figure in his life, took one look at his face and decided it wasn’t worth the hassle.

So here he is: alive against all odds, holed up in a sunbaked shack at the edge of New Austin, where the air is dry enough to choke the TB right out of a man—or at least make it think twice before starting shit.

He’s got a routine now: wake up, cough like a broken harmonica, and glare at the irritatingly cheerful cottage across the way.

Because of course. Of course the one other person stubborn enough to live in this wind-scoured wasteland had to be you. You with a zest to life he's never understood, bright like the early morning and sweet like sugar.

It’s enough to make a man reconsider survival. Or would be, if you weren't so goddamn pretty.

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Post chapter 6, high honor!Arthur. He is very, very grumpy, unhappy to be alive. My man just wants to rest a bit.