HIGHWAYS & BYWAYS ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ xiii

"Thought 'doing one's worst' was your job." You shoot back cheekily, and don't have to look at him to know that his previously gentle smile is growing mischievous. You let your pants drop on the shore, just beside your discarded shirt and shoes, but decide to keep on your underwear.

You can practically feel Arthur's presence looming behind you as he rushes to do the same. The temptation to turn around and peek at him is barely containable, but you remind yourself that you have a mini-contest to win and your pride to defend.

So you sprint towards the lake, wading through the water until it reaches your waist, ignoring the shivers its temperature sends crawling up your spine, and dive. The rain was definitely warmer than the lake, but it's by far less divine.

You couldn't have claimed you'd missed hearing that dull, signature splashing of water only after you're below the surface. You look up, seeing a distorted version of yourself reflected in the surface, and take a moment to admire every small circle a falling raindrop causes on the waterline. Time seems to be slowing down and you're the only one that knows it. You don't want to emerge, but unfortunately, air exists and you need it.

When you reach the surface and brush your slick hair out of your face, Arthur is nowhere to be found. You realize you've swam quite the distance already, and that you can just barely still feel the sand under your feet.

It's quite the ego boost to catch sight of Arthur still at the shore, only waist deep in the water.

"What's wrong?" You tease. "Scared of the corpses you mentioned?"

You know that's not the reason. (Hopefully not.) But you remember the warmth he irradiates, especially while you were sleeping and there was less than a few centimeters between the two of you. Arthur is a walking heater, so the fact that it takes him a while to get used to lower temperatures doesn't come as too much of a surprise.

"Not my fault the water's so cold!" A string of gibberish that can be interpreted as curse words follows his sentence when he takes another step into the lake.

Smiling only to yourself (as to not discourage him from progressing into the water), you swim back, stopping about half a meter away from Arthur. He has made little to no advance, as the water now reaches just above his hips.

His face, neck and arms are sun-kissed, unlike his chest and abdomen, which are pasty, further bringing out the light blond hair that dusts them. Well-defined muscles flex under his skin with every move. To say he looks lovely like this — all damp and highlighted by the cold, full morning sun is an understatement. You decide not to show the effect he's having on you.

"And here I was, thinking I actually had some competition."

Arthur looks at you, something smart to say at the ready, but his clever response seems to get caught somewhere between his brain and his tongue. He looks downwards after a second or two of silence, then mumbles a borderline bashful "Shut up." as a substitute for his lack of words.

A mischievous thought flashes through your mind when you realize what power your current surroundings offer.

The face you pull doesn't go by unnoticed.

"I swear, if you're thinkin' what I'm thinkin' you are, then don't. Even. Try. Splashing. Me." He warns, but you see through the act he puts up. He is kindly asking you not to do what you're certainly about to do.

"I'm trembling in fear, Arthur." You splay your hand on your collarbone. "I truly am."

He hums sarcastically enough to match your tone — it's obvious his pride (or what he still has of it) doesn't take kindly to your jabs. You wade a bit closer, fully able to reach the riverbank yourself now, and he shoots you a glare.