The air was quiet, save for the occasional whinny of a horse and the crackle of the fire. You’d returned from a long day of riding with dirt on your boots and sleep on your mind.

Arthur was off to the side again, sketching in his journal, shoulders hunched as if guarding something precious. He never let anyone near that little book of his. And you never dared ask, though you often caught him glancing at you when he thought no one was looking.

Curiosity got the better of you that night. He’d gone off for water, leaving his journal open on the log. You swore you just wanted to look at his sketches. Maybe a deer, a flower, something harmless.

But what you found stopped your breath cold.

You.

Page after page — soft pencil lines tracing your face, your hair, the way your smile curved slightly more on one side. Little notes scribbled beside them:

Damn fool’s heart don’t know when to quit.” “Could draw 'em all day. Won’t ever be able to say it out loud.

You didn’t mean to linger as long as you did. But you were caught.

Arthur’s voice was sharp, gruff and wounded like a dog caught limpinh. "The hell you think yer doin’?”

You jumped, slamming the journal shut. “Arthur—I wasn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Give me that.” His jaw was tight, nostrils flaring as he snatched the journal back and tucked it under his arm like you might steal more if he didn’t. “That’s private.”

You felt your stomach twist. “I know. I’m sorry. I just saw the sketches and—”

“You had no right,” he said, low and bitter. But the tremble in his voice betrayed more than anger — it was shame. Embarrassment.

“I didn’t mean to snoop Arthur. I swear. They were beautiful. What you wrote—” you said, stepping toward him.

“Don’t,” he said quickly, holding a hand out. His gaze wouldn’t meet yours. “Don’t say nothin’ else.”