Arthur sat slumped on his couch, the glow of the television casting flickering shadows across his small Bohan apartment. Another day, another bloodbath.
So he turned on the TV.
And of course, it was some goddamn western.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," he muttered as some clean-shaven actor in a pristine duster fired a six-shooter twelve times in a row without reloading.
Then came the bar fight scene—tables flipping, punches landing with exaggerated thwacks, and not a single broken nose or shattered tooth in sight. Back in his day, a saloon brawl meant someone died, or at least lost an eye.
By the time the hero rode off into the sunset with his untouched hat and spotless shirt, Arthur was laughing so hard a tear rolled down his cheek.
"Christ alive," he wheezed, wiping his face. "No wonder people think we were all idiots."
The screen cut to commercials. Arthur pushed himself up, stretching his stiff limbs, and wandered into the kitchen. He rummaged through the cabinets before pulling out a crinkly bag—Sour Cream & Onion Potato Chips.
Now this—this was a goddamn miracle of the modern world.
He tore it open, shoved a handful into his mouth, and groaned. "Goddamn delicious."
His phone buzzed on the counter.
Packie: So? You ever call that girl from the bar or what?
Arthur froze, chip halfway to his mouth.
Marisol.
He hadn't.
Not because he didn't want to. But because—well, what the hell was he supposed to say?
Still. Packie's message nagged at him.
With a sigh, he wiped his fingers on his jeans and picked up the damn phone. Typing was still a nightmare—each button press deliberate, clumsy.
Arthur: You free for a drink?
He stared at the screen. Too blunt? Too boring?
Before he could overthink it, he hit send.
Then came the waiting.
He exhaled, rubbing his jaw. When was the last time he'd even been on a date?
Mary Linton? No, that was—Christ—over a decade ago. And Eliza? She wasn't a date, she was… well, the mother of his son. A son who never got to grow up.
Arthur's chest tightened. He shoved another chip in his mouth, forcing the thought away.
Bzzzt.
His phone lit up.
Marisol: Took you long enough. Yeah, I'm free. My place in Bohan—7 PM. Don't be late, cowboy.
Then a second later came her address.
Arthur blinked. Then, despite himself, he smirked.
Well.
Guess he was going on a date.
First—teeth.
Elizabeta had literally smacked him upside the head the first time she saw his neglected molars. "Dios mío, Arthur, you look like a vagabundo! Brush your fucking teeth!"
Now, he did it every damn day. And, grudgingly, he had to admit—it felt good.
The shower came next. Hot water pounding his shoulders, washing away the grime of the city, the blood, the sweat. He still marveled at how easy it was. Back in his time, a proper bath was a luxury. Now? Just turn a knob.
He toweled off, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at his meager wardrobe. Nothing fancy—just jeans, boots, and a few button-ups. He picked the least-wrinkled shirt, a dark blue one, and shrugged it on. Plus his hat, of course.
Marisol didn't seem the type to care about fancy clothes. Hell, she'd flirted with him in a supermarket vest.
Good enough.
He grabbed his keys, his wallet, and—after a second's hesitation—his Glock.
Just in case.
Arthur's motorcycle rumbled beneath him as he pulled up to Marisol's apartment building—a weathered brick complex with flickering streetlights casting long shadows. He killed the engine, pulled out his phone, and thumbed out a message with the patience of a man still wrestling with modern technology.
Arthur: I'm outside.
He didn't have to wait long.
The door swung open, and there she was—Marisol, dressed in a snug black tank top that showed off toned arms, dark jeans that hugged her hips, and ankle boots with just enough heel to give her a confident stride. A red flannel was tied loosely around her waist, and silver hoop earrings caught the dim light as she tossed her hair over one shoulder. She looked effortless.
Arthur swallowed.
"Took you long enough," she said, smirking as she approached. "Nice bike."
"It gets me where I need to go," Arthur grunted.
She swung a leg over the seat behind him, sliding close enough that her chest pressed against his back. Her arms wrapped around his waist, fingers locking just above his belt buckle.
"Well? Let's go, cowboy."
Arthur cleared his throat, kicked the bike to life, and tried to ignore the warmth of her against him.
******
The bar was loud, crowded, but not the kind of place where people asked questions. Neon signs buzzed overhead, casting the pool tables in a hazy glow. Arthur ordered two whiskeys—neat—while Marisol leaned against the bar, watching him with those sharp, knowing eyes.
"So," she said, taking her glass. "You any good at pool?"
Arthur sipped his drink. "I've played."
She grinned. "That a yes or a no?"
"It's a 'we'll see.'"
She laughed, loud and unguarded, and dragged him to the nearest table.
Arthur broke—solid hit, but nothing sank.
Marisol didn't waste time. She circled the table like a shark, lining up her shot with practiced ease. "You know," she said, leaning low, cue steady, "most guys try to impress me on a first date."
Crack. The 9-ball dropped cleanly into the corner pocket.
Arthur grunted. "Ain't most guys."
"No," she agreed, straightening. "You're not."
He missed his next shot. Badly.
She raised an eyebrow. "That was tragic."
"Told you I've played. Didn't say I was good."
She laughed again, shaking her head. "At least you're honest."
As the game went on, Arthur's pride took a beating. Marisol ran the table twice before he even sank a second ball.
"You're hustling me," he accused, nursing his whiskey.
She smirked. "Nah. If I was hustling, I'd have let you win first."
Arthur exhaled through his nose. "Christ."
She leaned on her cue, studying him. "Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Act like you don't deserve to be here."
Arthur stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You're smart. You're funny when you wanna be. And you've got this whole mysterious cowboy thing going on." She poked his chest. "But you act like you're some kinda ghost."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Maybe I am."
She rolled her eyes. "Dramatic and self-pitying. Cute."
He should've been annoyed. But the way she said it—teasing, not cruel—made something in his chest loosen.
They left the bar hours later, the whiskey warm in Arthur's veins, Marisol's arm hooked through his.
"You're not as bad as you think you are," she said, bumping his shoulder.
Arthur huffed. "You don't know me."
"I know enough." She stopped, turning to face him. "You gonna kiss me goodnight or what?"
Arthur froze.
She sighed. "Jesus, Arthur. It's not a trick question."
He cupped her face, rough fingers against smooth skin, and kissed her—slow, hesitant at first, then deeper when she tugged him closer by his shirt collar.
When they pulled apart, she grinned. "See? Not so hard."
Arthur didn't know what to say.
So he just nodded.