The fire crackled softly, its glow casting flickering light over Arthur’s face. He sat on a log, shoulders tense, rolling a cigarette with slow, deliberate movements. The fight back in town still lingered in the air between you—the way he had stepped in, fist connecting with the drunk’s jaw before the man even realized what was happening.

You knew Arthur wasn’t just angry about your boyfriend's hands on you. It was something deeper, something that always sat heavy in his chest. He finally lit the cigarette, exhaling a slow stream of smoke, gaze fixed on the fire. "A man oughta treat you better than that,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

"Better than him.” You sighed, stepping closer, resting a hand on his arm. He tensed at first but didn’t pull away. He always did this—convinced himself he was no good, that he didn’t deserve something real. He didn’t answer, but the way his hand eventually found yours told you enough.