Hey y'all! I think this is what you've been waiting for?

RESPONSES TO REVIEWS:

Almj31 : Slow progress? Have a look at this!

SincerelyyYourss: 1800 husbands were all dickheads. Except Arthur, obvi.

Spikely: TENSION?! Did someone say tension? Thank you so much!

Aurora: Thank you so much! It's so heartwarming to have people actually like my story!

bennettnasagirl: more angst for you girl! Arthur would definitely get on one knee and be so traditional, you'd lose your mind. Enjoy!

Lovebird: OMG, thank you! Thank you a million times, you! Love!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: REAL

You're my sunshine in the darkest days
My better half, my saving grace
You make me who I wanna be
You make it easy

Day three

It was a slight tug that pulled Arya from sleep. She twisted in the sheets, groaning. The tug was a like a reminder that something was missing. The empty bed responded to her, creaking under her weight. She stuffed her face into the pillow, and when silence answered her ears, she rose her head off the bed.

Surely, the room was silent. Arthur's perch by the window was empty. An ache opened up in Arya's chest as she rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

Was he still mad with her? Had a rift been driven between the two over one little kiss?

Sunlight streamed through the window, and Arya was now restless to get out of bed. She dreaded the moment she'd have to slip into another corset and tight dress, so she called for the errand boy and asked him to bring her a cup of coffee. She waited by the window, letting the cool morning air wash over her face through the slight opening she'd made. The day was beautiful, and despite the early hour, many people roamed the streets.

The errand boy brought her a mug of coffee. "Have you seen my husband?" she asked before he could scurry away. The boy – not much older than ten with dark blond hair – was nervous in front of her. He seemed distracted by the fact that she was only in her shift.

"He left early this mornin', madam," the boy stuttered.

"Where to?"

The boy shrugged. "I didn't follow him."

Arya smiled. "Thank you for the coffee."

She closed the door and headed back to her perch on the window. She drank her cup, savoring the sweet warmth as it slid down to her stomach.

She almost choked on her drink when she saw Arthur stepping out of the saloon doors, making his merry way across the street to the hotel. Her heart sprang in her chest. As she waited for him, she tried to settle her breathing and pretend that all was calm in her head.

He walked in slowly and quietly, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. When he saw that she was awake, he gave her a sly smile and mumbled, "Mornin'."

"Hi."

By the dry tone of her voice, she could see that he understood. She was still walking on eggshells with him.

He sighed, "I didn't think you'd be awake at this time."

She remembered the wrongness of waking up to an empty room, an empty bed. She clenched her teeth, remembering also that he might not feel the same way towards her. "Where did you go?" she asked. Her voice came out surprisingly normal.

Arthur seemed to untense, his smile easy, his blue eyes bright in the morning sunlight drifting in through the window. "It would seem our boys are takin' the day off," he said, exposing white teeth behind his grin. "They had a rough night, and Sam, the only one awake at the saloon, told me Neil has been retching his guts up all mornin'."

"How lovely," Arya sighed. After a beat, she asked, "So what do we do now?"

Arthur smiled, and behind that goofy grin was a wickedness she'd never seen before. Curiosity bloomed inside her, at the shy redness of his cheeks and the weird fidgeting from one foot to the other. Was he… nervous?

"Let's go to Saint Denis," he blurted. "You and me."

Arya's eyes went round as she put her cup down on the table and stood. "I thought you hated the city," she said, a raised brow curved perfectly over her eye.

"We can't go anywhere in these little towns because travelers might recognize us if they come up here," he answered. "And Saint Denis is so vast. There's no chance of someone recognizin' us."

Arya heard the little hitch in his voice. Somehow, it planted a seed of doubt in her mind about how he felt, and made heat spread viciously in her chest. Anticipation crawled up her spine. "What are we going to do in Saint Denis?" she asked, each word and syllable accentuated by the curve of her mouth. She saw his eyes dart to her lips for a half second.

"Let's just go and…" he said, spreading his arms, "explore. And eat."

Arya's stomach growled in response, and she bit back a laugh. Arthur grinned wolfishly at her. "Alright, cowboy," she drawled. "Let's go."

Saint Denis was a crawling mess. Arthur seemed to hate industrialization as he spewed heinous words towards factories they passed along the way.

The pair had dressed in their normal attire; pants and matching black union shirts. They'd slipped out of the hotel in a hurry, jumped into the wagon, and raced down to the big city. Half way there, Arthur pulled out his beloved hat and placed it where it belonged. Arya found comfort in her jeans and suspenders pressed over her breasts, in the lightweight feeling of a union shirt instead of a corset. She'd drawn her hair back into a simple braid and felt more at ease than she'd had in the past two days.

With Arthur at her side commandeering the wagon, she felt at peace. It was almost lunch time when they rolled onto the first muddy streets of Saint Denis, the small houses facing the sun greeting them with somber silence. The sounds and smells of the city reached them; shouting and feces. She had not missed that at all.

They had talked about everything standing on neutral ground, and Arya was pleased with that. She didn't think she'd be able to talk about it in the light of day and sober. She just wanted to forget. She'd been drunk, the music and the people around had created some sort of bubble, which inside, anything was permitted.

"We should eat," Arthur said as he steered the wagon towards a building. The horse whinnied as Arthur hitched it.

He'd brought her to a place called Grillings, which was a three-story building facing the bright midday sun. Around them, merchants of every kind called out, the sound of machinery a persistent echo. They weren't even in the heart of the big city and already, it lay heavy on their shoulders.

Arthur used a cautious hand to guide Arya inside. Air that smelled of meat and booze greeted them. Grillings was packed with men and women, laughing and eating and clinking glasses. Arya was mesmerized by the amount of people, by the bright colors of the walls, and the utter busyness of the place.

"Too crowded?" Arthur asked, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

A shiver sprang down her spine. She looked up at him and gave a tight smile. "I've seen worse."

"In Delaware?" he quipped, gesturing to an empty table. "They got big cities like this in Delaware?"

Arya's face reddened as she took a seat across from him, watching him spread his hands on the broken wood. She studied his fingers, the callouses and the dirty nails. The breath rasped in her lungs, and suddenly, she was imagining those hands on her, and fire erupted under her skin.

"Arya?"

Her eyes snapped up, meeting the cerulean blue of Arthur's, brows knit and concerned look on his face.

"Yeah," she breathed. "Delaware has cities too."

He looked her over, studying her, watching her smile timidly. "We should get some food in you," he concluded, gesturing for the waitress. He ordered two plates of meat and the finest bourbon, and then settled back across from her. The sunlight streaming in through the high windows made his skin appear golden.

God, he was a handsome man.

"Quit starin' at me, woman," he groaned, ducking under his hat, avoiding her eyes.

At first, Arya felt a pang of embarrassment. She had been staring, and he caught her. However, seeing him hiding under the rim of his hat, made a sly smirk tug at her lips.

"Are you insecure, Mr. Morgan?" she teased.

He grazed his eyes up to her slowly. "Well," he sighed, "I am an ugly feller. Have you even seen me?"

Arya's perplexed look must have been very excessive because Arthur threw his hands up and gestured to himself, as if to emphasize what he'd said.

The young woman sighed. "Don't talk about yourself like that."

"It's the truth," he answered, ducking back under his hat to examine the room around him. Across the floor, a rowdy group of men and women shouted and laughed and clinked their drinks.

Their plates of meat arrived, and they dug in. Arya's stomach was satisfied in an instant. The meat was tender and juicy, and the bourbon helped bring it all down. Even Arthur kept to himself as he cleaned off his plate and chugged the rest of his drink.

After Arthur gallantly paid off the food and drinks, he directed Arya to the docks. They lined the glistening river, which was bright and dark all at once, catching and reflecting the light. The calls of seagulls and fishermen alike echoed off the waves, the smell of algae and fish and sweat clinging to her nostrils. Far ahead, on the straight blue line of the horizon, birds were painted like quick strokes of wandering brushes against the pastel colors of the sky.

They spent most of the afternoon exchanging polite conversation with the citizens of Saint Denis. A ways off the docks, a woman with ebony skin and a glowing golden gown was rushing down the boardwalk. Her hair was in a mess, black strands wickedly sticking up on her head, chocolate eyes spread wide in agony.

"Mon sac!" she yelled.

Arya frowned, breaking away from Arthur to jog towards the woman.

"Non, mon sac!" She was looking around wildly, clutching her empty hands to her stomach.

"Madame!" Arya called out. Arthur's attention turned to the women from where he'd been conversing about fishing with a raggedy-looking man.

"Mon sac, mademoiselle!" the woman cried, grasping Arya by the shoulders. The brunette came face-to-face with agonizing eyes and a twisted mouth. "Quel qu'un a volé mon sac!"

Arya's breath hitched as she held the woman by the elbows. "Où est-il allé?"

The woman was shaking when Arthur came to their side, extending a warm and comforting hand to her. Arya and him exchanged a look, the man holding both amusement and curiosity in his eyes.

"What is it?" he asked lowly.

"Je ne sais pas!" the woman exclaimed. Arthur gave Arya another weird look. "Il est partie par là!"

Arya nodded and swallowed hard, looking to where the woman had pointed; a series of alleyways and stairs leading to the shady backways of Saint Denis.

She turned to Arthur. "This woman got her bag stolen," she explained. "She said the thief went into those alleyways. You mind going to take a look while I stay with her?"

Arthur sighed deeply, staring between the panicking woman and the darkening alleyways. With the shortening daylight, he knew he'd have a hard time finding a thief in the somber alleys.

"What does her bag look like?" he asked, tucking his thumbs into the loops of his belt.

"Votre sac ressemble à quoi?" Arya asked the woman, who was breathing so hard that her chest heaved heavily. "De quel couleur est-il?"

The woman swallowed, desperate and wild eyes zigzagging between the alleyways, Arthur, and Arya. "Il est de couleur argent," she answered breathlessly. "Il y a de petit diamands sur la broderie."

Arya turned quickly to Arthur. "It's silver with diamonds on the embroidery."

Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Fine," he sighed. "I'll go take a look."

"Oh!" the woman gasped, fawning over Arthur, laying open palms onto his chest. Arya's hands clenched involuntarily. "Merci, oh Dieu merci à vous!"

Arthur scurried off across the cobblestone street, the clang of his holster belt echoing in Arya's ears. She watched him go, powerful back etched under the thin fabric of his union shirt. The sway of his shoulders as he walked rapidly to the alleys edge, and the crisp crystal color of his eyes as he took a glance back at her.

Arya bit her nails, leaning on the edge of the railing, until he came back. Her heart was a stuttering mess, the sky was a deep bruise purple, and the panicking woman beside her was a breathless mess by the time Arthur came back. He strode out of the shadows like he was walking into the best day of his life; a shit-eating grin on his lips and glistening eyes. Darkness pooled all around him, onto his shirt and onto his face, but he glowed like candle light as he reached the two women by the docks.

"Here," he said, handing a shiny, glittering bag to the woman. "Ain't nothin' left inside, but this is it, right?"

"Oui, oh!" the woman grabbed the bag and jumped into Arthur's arms, wrapping her own around his neck. "Merci, merci, merci!" she chanted continuously, breathless, tears glistening on her cheeks.

Awkwardly, Arthur tapped her back and settled her onto her feet, giving the tightest smiles in the history of tight smiles. He gave Arya a low look from beneath his hat. "How do you say 'have a good day' in… French?"

Arya's smile was kind and sweet, but inside, jealousy pressed hot hands against the ridges of her ribs. "Just say 'bonne journée'," she answered.

Arthur repeated what she'd said, albeit with the thickest accent. "Shouldn't we accompany her home or somethin'?" he asked Arya.

The girl shrugged, then turning to the woman, she asked, "Avez-vous quel qu'un qui vous attend?"

The woman nodded dramatically, pointing to the tavern doors on the corner of the street. "Mon mari m'attend," she answered.

Arya nodded, jutting her chin to the tavern. "Her husband's in there," she told Arthur. "I think she'll be alright."

Arms crossed over their chests, the pair watched the dark-haired woman scurry off towards the tavern, clutching her bag to her chest like a lifeboat. Darkness had spread shadows along the cobblestones, and soon, she'd merged into the languid darkness, only to reappear as a silhouette in the lighting of the open tavern door.

"How do you know French?" Arthur asked.

Arya realized all at once that they were utterly alone. With the day coming to an end, all the fishermen and merchants had either gone home or to a bar, the docks empty. She could hear the rocking of the boats against the soft lull of the waves, the creaking and groaning of wood. Chains rattled in the distance, a chilling wind picking up along the shore.

"My mother taught me," she answered tightly, memories of the past, of the future, and the present, playing like a never-ending cycle in her mind. Oh, how things could have been.

Arthur frowned, turning to face her. He calmly took his hat off, staring down at her from his impressive height. "Your mother was French?"

Arya's tight smile turned into a scoff. "Of course not," she chuckled, swaying awkwardly. "She was from… Canada."

Arthur's confusion wrote itself clearly on his face. "Canada?"

"Yes, like, the country."

"You never told you was Canadian," he grumbled, emphasizing the word as if it was the worst thing to ever be.

"That's because I-I'm not," she stuttered, avoiding his gaze. "I was born here."

There was a long, silent moment where Arya stared at the rusty and moldy floorboards of the docks, listening to the rocking of the boats and the whooshing of the waves. Then a delicate hand found home under her chin, calloused fingers such a contrast against the softness of her flesh. Fire spread across her stomach like crawling ants, and ironically, goosebumps erupted on her skin.

"Why do you keep such secrets?" he rasped, bringing her swan eyes to meet the blue of his eyes, now almost ocean black in the darkness.

Her lower lip trembled. He was still so far away. She wanted him closer. "I don't…" she trailed off, too preoccupied by the curve of his mouth and the tender way he looked down at her. "I don't want to hurt anybody."

His eyes briefly fell to her mouth before meeting her eyes again. Then he smiled sweetly. "You can't hurt me," he whispered. He took a small step closer and her world spun, tipping, the fire inside her raging to such an extent, she thought she'd explode.

"But the things that – that I've done," she murmured, shaking her head slowly, but still unable to take her eyes off of his.

He huffed, full mouth pulling into a slow grin. Again, a step forward until her blood was roaring in her ears, and she couldn't even hear her own breathing. She could feel his breath on her face as he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers.

"I've done worse, Arya." The way he said her name sent electricity zapping through her nerves. Her breath hitched and all doubts left her mind. Her heart beat was erratic and all she wished, as her fingers flexed, was to pass them through the soft strands of his hair. "This is how it should have been," he whispered, but before she could ask what he meant, he pressed his mouth to hers.

It was nothing like yesterday; surrounded by drunk people, screaming and shouting. The smell of sweat and the oozing of her own state of drunkenness swaying through her mind. The feeling of a forced, crammed moment.

It was just them; him and his hands on her waist, holding her close, his hat forgotten on the rotting floorboards. His smell and the feel of his strong arms around her. The scrape of his beard on her chin, the soft wetness of his mouth opening onto hers. He held her so close that she didn't know where she began and where she ended. All she knew was the feeling of him, her fingers somehow tangled in the soft mess of his hair. Under her biceps, the feel of his shoulders. On her breasts, the press of his solid chest. All around her, his warmth. It was just him and him and him.

Finally, she thought, impressed that she could even have a coherent thought as he slid his tongue along her lower lip. She melted against him, a soft moan swallowed by his lips as he deepened the kiss. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers clutching to her union shirt as he pulled her flush against his chest.

He tasted of bourbon and him, and Arya wanted all of him.

His hands left her waist and slid up her arms, almost not touching her, which made her even more crazy. He pressed the flat of his palms against her cheeks and held her, delving onto her mouth expertly. Her own hands gripped his waist, and suddenly, the kiss was something more. More aggressive, faster, as if they didn't have all the time in the world. As if something would rip them apart.

Teeth and tongues, the gnashing of the kiss became feral as delicate fingers turned into claws. A groan caught in his throat, his fingers digging into the caramel mane of the young woman. He stepped forward, too close, and she took a step back, bringing him with her. Breathing became ragged and almost impossible as they tried to keep up with each other, kiss after kiss after kiss. His tongue was warm and wet and so delicious against the inside of her lower lip.

She needed to breathe. As much as she would cling to his mouth for the rest of eternity, her lungs burned as she pressed her palms against his neck and pulled back slightly.

Breathless, he asked, "Did I overstep?"

She smiled. Oh, the ever gallant man. "No," she breathed. "No not at all." She reached up on her toes to give his mouth a hard kiss, reveling in his smell, in the scrape of his beard against her chin, in the way he immediately clung to her. "I just need to breathe," she said as she pulled back.

He laughed lowly, something between a chuckle and a gasp as he, too, searched for air. She settled her forehead against the warmth of his neck, his chin on the top of her head. The solidity of his arms around her shoulders was something like an anchor, reminding her that this was real. He was real. The feel his back against the delicateness of her palms just made the moment sturdier.

"This is how it should have been," he said, the rumble of his voice against her ear like music. She frowned, remembering she had wanted to ask him what he meant. His voice dropped down to a whisper. "This is how I should have kissed you the first time."

"Arthur…" she whined lowly. But she smiled against his skin, the smell of him so real that it troubled her. He was real. He was real.

"This is how you deserve to be kissed," he muttered. "Every time."

She savored the moment, pressed up against him, only the stars to bring them company. His steady breathing rocked her, and she stood there, listening.

"We should get back," he said after a while. She didn't know how long she stood there, safely tucked in his arms. She didn't care. She'd stay there forever. "It's getting late."

The ride back was a daze; a silent daze. She was content of sitting beside him, watching the night swirl over and around her, as if she was in a gigantic glittering globe. The wind was soft and chilly, but her flesh still radiated so much heat that it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered but him.

In their room – their room – the darkness enveloped them. Arya confidently strode behind the dressing screen and changed, listening to Arthur shuffling around. He lit a candle with a match he struck under his boot. He took them off. He sighed. Arya smiled as she passed her shift over her head, leaving her trousers folded behind.

When she emerged, she almost laughed at Arthur perched by the window, leaning against it, hands clutching the wood. Nervously – and she never got nervous – she pressed a loose strand behind her ear and headed to the bed.

Once she was sat, she looked up at him. "You – uh – don't have to sleep on the floor you know," she rasped, gaging his every move, watching him like a hawk.

It reminded him of the first night they met.

"I don't want to be… invasive," he sighed, gesturing to her with a strong hand.

"Arthur, I don't…" she trailed off, folding herself under the covers. "I don't want to be alone."

There was a long beat. Then he took of his hat, clipped off his suspenders, and folded them on the window seat. The clang of metal made Arya's head buzz. She crawled to the edge, until the wall was at her back, and she faced him as he walked to the bed. His lips were in a tight line as he sat, extinguishing the light in one harsh blow.

The bed dipped as he slowly lowered himself, eyes staring straight at the ceiling. When Arya's eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out his outline by the moonlight washing through the window. She examined his face from his profile; his forehead, his nose, his full mouth. His neck and his chest. Only when she got to his hands that she saw the slight trembling of his fingers.

The bed was warm. Not cold. Not empty. Something like fullness spread across her as she slowly inched her hand towards his and enlaced her fingers with his. They were warm and strong and calloused. Pulling it towards her, she pressed her lips against his knuckles, then pressed his hand against her heart.

"Good night," she murmured, her voice like a breathy noise in her throat.

His fingers clenched in response, comfortably laced with hers, pressed against the steady beating of her heart.

Isn't it romantic? Thoughts?

REFERENCE GUIDE (even though you don't need it for this chapter):

- Neil and Summer Crawford

- Clyde and Arabetha Thompson

- Loyd and Clementine Sweeney

- Jules and Anna-Rose Bailey

- Sam Mulroney (Significant other unknown)