ᴍᴜʟᴛɪғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ | ᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴡ ғɪᴄs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ɴᴏᴛᴇs

Teh and Cowboy Boots (A. Morgan x female! Malaysian! Reader)

Summary: A Malaysian girl meeting a cowboy

Warning; ARTHUR MORGAN MEETING SOUTHEAST ASIAN LET'S GOOO, i imagine reader is me because I'm from Malaysia🇲🇾, fluff, first time meeting and become a friend, Arthur trying spicy food, Malaysian dialect here, this is so exciting to write btw!

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The rain had just stopped when you stepped out of the tiny bookstore-café tucked between an antique shop and a post office that still used paper stamps. You hugged your shawl closer around your shoulders, the tropical cotton thin but enough for early spring. The scent of old books and coffee beans still clung to your sleeves, but it was the sharp smell of wet soil that made you pause.

You had arrived in this little Southern town just three days ago for a short writing retreat. A break from KL's endless traffic, noise, and tight deadlines. You’d picked the place on a whim, drawn in by photos of rolling hills and quiet lakes. You expected to write, to be alone, to enjoy the solitude.

You didn’t expect him.

You first noticed him at the gas station when you went looking for snacks—standing by an old Ford truck, sleeves rolled up, filling the tank with one hand and holding a black coffee with the other. Cowboy boots. Beat-up jeans. A flannel that looked like it had seen a hundred winters.

And the most serious face you had ever seen.

He noticed you too. Gave you a glance. Just that. No nod. No smile. Just a look that said “I see you, but I ain’t sure what to make of you yet.”

You didn’t know his name. Not then.

But fate, as always, liked its tricks.

That night, the power flickered out in your rental cabin during a storm. You had no idea how to restart the heater, and the cold began to bite deeper than you'd expected. After wrapping yourself in two layers of batik cloth and a hoodie, you walked outside to try your phone. No signal. Of course.

You didn't notice the truck approaching until headlights swept across your legs.

The truck stopped.

The driver’s window rolled down.

And there he was again.

"You lost?"

You blinked. His voice was rough, low, and oddly calm, like thunder just before it rumbled.

You explained the blackout, how you weren't from here, how the cabin felt like a fridge now, and you were trying to call the rental agent.

He frowned, scratched his beard, then sighed.

"Get in. Ain’t safe out here alone. You can wait at my place. Just up the road."

Every instinct said this was a terrible idea. But your gut? It said something else.

Maybe it was the way he looked away when you hesitated, like he knew how he must’ve seemed. Maybe it was the tired kindness in his eyes, not the fake kind people put on to sell something. The storm cracked above again, and your teeth were already starting to chatter.

So you got in.

His name, you learned, was Arthur Morgan.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

His cabin was warm. Smelled faintly of leather and cedarwood. A dog named Copper wagged his tail lazily at your feet. Arthur made you tea, awkwardly pushing sugar toward you without asking if you took it. He sat across the room while you curled up on his couch, both of you half-listening to the wind screech against the windows.

“You talk different,” he said after a long pause.

You smiled. “I’m from Malaysia.”

He gave a small nod. “Didn’t wanna assume. You speak real good, though.”

“I should hope so. English is our second languages.”

Another pause.

“You here for work or runnin’ away?”

You laughed. “Bit of both.”

He smiled, barely. “Fair enough.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Over the next week, you kept running into him. At the café, at the trail near the lake, at the farmer’s market where he helped an old lady lift three bags of potatoes without being asked. You started learning his habits—he liked his coffee black, always bought a paper even though he barely read it, and he had a soft spot for quiet dogs and older music.

He started learning yours—you took your tea with condensed milk, hated being cold, loved Kaya toast (bread and coconut jams) and missed spicy food terribly, always carried two notebooks: one for writing, one for drawing.

One day, when you were walking back from the lake with your flip-flops soaked and your jeans rolled to the knee, he offered you a ride.

“You ever get tired of being so nice?” you teased as you climbed into the truck.

“I ain’t nice,” he muttered. “I just got manners.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It happened slow, then all at once.

You talked more. Shared stories. He showed you how to split wood, how to ride a four-wheeler without killing yourself. You told him about growing up with thunderstorms in the monsoon season, about the smell of durian (he winced at that), about your grandmother’s endless warnings about men with crooked smiles and hard hands.

Arthur listened like no one else ever had. Like your words mattered. Like they didn’t need decoration.

And when you looked at him—really looked—you saw someone who’d fought his whole life to be gentle. Someone tired of violence, but still shaped by it. Someone who never thought he deserved softness.

But he was soft with you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

On your last evening in town, you invited him for dinner at your cabin. You cooked rice and sambal tumis ikan bilis (anchovies chili paste) with whatever you could find in the local store. He struggled with the spice but tried not to show it. His face turned red. He coughed into his napkin.

“This,” he wheezed, “is an ambush.”

You laughed so hard you cried.

After the dishes were done, you sat on the porch, watching the sky turn bruised orange and purple.

“You leaving soon?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.”

He nodded once.

You looked at him then. The way his jaw clenched like he was bracing himself.

“I’ll miss you,” you said honestly.

He didn’t speak at first.

Then. “You ever come back this way… you’ll always have a place here.”

“Is that an offer?”

“It’s a promise.”

You reached out, laced your fingers with his.

His hand was rough. Yours were not.

But they fit.