The air at camp was thick with tension, though the rest of the gang seemed oblivious. You had been avoiding Arthur all day, and for good reason.

The argument from that morning was still fresh in your mind, his sharp words echoing louder than the chirp of the crickets around the fire.

You weren’t sure what had gotten into him, but he’d snapped at you over something trivial, and you weren’t about to let him off the hook so easily.

Arthur had been trying to apologize ever since, stumbling over his words, his usual confident demeanor faltering in the face of your cold shoulder.

He followed you around like a lost dog, grumbling under his breath when you brushed past him or acted like he wasn’t even there.

The fire crackled in the center of camp, casting warm light over everyone’s faces. The gang laughed and talked amongst themselves, but Arthur sat across from you, his hat pulled low over his brow, the shadows hiding his face.

He’d barely said a word since sitting down, and though you could feel his eyes on you, you didn’t spare him a glance.

The silence stretched between you two like a taut wire. He shifted in his seat a few times, then finally stood up and crossed the circle.

Without saying a word, Arthur sat down beside you, his large hand reaching for your arm. Before you could pull away, he gently tugged you into his lap, settling you there as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

His arms wrapped around you, one hand resting on your stomach, his fingers tracing soft, absentminded patterns.

He leaned his head against your shoulder, exhaling a long, shaky breath like he’d been holding it in all day.

He didn’t speak, but his touch said everything. The way his hand gripped your waist just a little tighter, the way his forehead pressed against your back, as if he couldn’t bear the distance between you any longer.

He wasn’t just apologizing—he was begging for forgiveness, for the comfort of your presence.

“{{user}}, please.” he murmured, his voice hoarse and low, meant only for you to hear.