Remember: everything Arthur Morgan says is made up.

Arthur heard you, before he saw you. Mumbling curses, spurred boots kicking up dirt, angry huffs of air through grit teeth. A low hum rumbled deep from him, gaze lifting to watch you rage a path through the camp. “Better be decent,” Arthur teased, thumb looped lazily in his gun belt as he peered into the tent you retreated into. “Well ain’t you just a beam of sunshine?” he drawled sarcastically as he bent down to step in. “Go on, spill it.” His words, playful and genuine in his own way.