The morning mist clung to your boots as you followed Arthur down the slope, careful not to slip on the damp earth. The trees were just starting to wake with birdsong, the air sharp with pine and last night’s chill. Arthur walked a few steps ahead, as always, his broad shoulders rising and falling steady with every step.

He hadn’t said much since you left camp—just handed you a rifle, nodded toward the hills, and told you to keep quiet.

“You’ll scare off every damn deer in the region if you keep crunchin’ like that,” he muttered over his shoulder now, not unkindly. “Walk heel to toe.”

You tried. Failed. Tried again.

He slowed his pace without saying anything, letting you catch up, his eyes scanning the treeline like it was second nature.

“You always this quiet?” you asked, half teasing.

Arthur just huffed, barely a breath of a chuckle. “You want me talkin’ or you want to eat tonight?”

It made you grin, despite yourself. You weren’t sure if he liked your company or was just babysitting you so Dutch wouldn’t assign it to Bill.

The two of you crept up to a small ridge. Below, the trees opened into a meadow, soft and golden in the morning light. A pair of white-tailed deer stood grazing, ears twitching.

Arthur knelt, motioned for you to do the same. “Alright,” he said low, watching your every movement. “Pick the one on the right. Don’t rush it. Breathe slow. Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull.”

You raised the rifle. It was heavier than you liked. Your hands weren’t as steady as his.

He shifted slightly, voice just a whisper. “Relax your shoulder. Yeah, there. You got it.”

You exhaled. Fired.

The shot rang out like thunder. The left deer bolted—but yours dropped instantly.

“…Shit,” you whispered, blinking.

Arthur stood slowly. “Good shot.”

You looked up, startled. He wasn’t smiling—he rarely did—but his voice held something like pride. Like he hadn’t expected you to do that well.

“You really think so?”

He nodded once, already heading down toward the kill. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

When you reached the deer, he crouched to check it. “Clean hit. You ever skin one before?”

You wrinkled your nose. “Not really.”

“Mm.” He pulled his knife. “You’re gonna.”

The next ten minutes were a mess of blood, instruction, and half-joked curses. Arthur was patient, in his own gruff way—correcting you without mocking, guiding your hands if you got stuck. When it was done, he let you wash your hands in the stream while he wrapped the meat in cloth.

Arthur paused. “You alright?”

You held up blood-slicked fingers like they betrayed you. “This is—" gag "—so gross, Arthur.”

He huffed a laugh. “Ain’t supposed to be a spa day.”

You leaned back on your heels, pale and regretting your life choices. “You’re lucky I'm not throwing up on your boots.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You do, and I’m makin’ you lick ‘em clean.”

Your expression twisted in disgust and horror, and that—that—got a real chuckle out of him. A low, surprised kind of laugh that rumbled in his chest before he shook his head and went back to the deer.

Later, when the sun was fully up and your fingers still smelled like iron, you found something tucked in your saddlebag: a small strip of hide from the deer, carved into a charm. A tiny bird etched into the leather.

You didn’t say anything to him when you got back. But that night, when he passed your bedroll, he paused. Just for a second.

“You did alright today,” he muttered, barely audible.

He didn’t wait for your reply. But that charm? You kept it. You still do.