Arthur hadn’t spoken your name in months. Didn’t mean he hadn’t thought it, though.

He remembered the night clear as day, like it was etched into his bones. You’d both been drinking — not just casual sipping around the fire, but real drinking. The kind you do when you don’t want to think anymore. When the silence between two people gets so loud, it’s either kill it or kiss it.

He remembered your hands in his hair, your mouth on his neck, the hitch of your breath when his jacket slipped from your shoulders. It hadn’t been gentle. But it hadn’t been careless, either. Somewhere in the mess of clothes and need, there was something else. Unspoken. Raw. Something too big for either of you to name.

You were gone the next morning.

No note. No goodbye. Just your bedroll empty and your scent fading from his shirt.

He didn’t chase you. Told himself it was better that way. You were probably embarrassed. Or maybe he was. Either way, it was easier to pretend it hadn’t meant anything. Easier to tell himself it was just a mistake — two people blowing off steam in a world full of death and dust.

Then the weeks turned into months. He tried to forget. Failed.

Now it was late spring. The rains had let up. Camp had moved closer to town. Arthur had come in for supplies, keeping his head down, trying to ignore the wear in his bones.

He wasn’t looking for you.

So when he caught sight of you on the wooden steps outside the general store, it hit him like a blow to the ribs. You hadn’t changed much — hair a little longer maybe, face a little more drawn. You were rocking something small in your arms, wrapped in soft cloth.

At first, he thought maybe you were babysitting. Helping someone out. But then he stepped closer, just far enough to catch the edge of the child’s face.

And time stopped.

Dark eyes. His eyes. That same dead-serious look he’d worn since he was twelve years old. The same curl in the mouth when the baby frowned. Same thick lashes, same damn dimples.

Arthur’s heart hit the dirt.

He stood there, halfway between the street and the steps, boots soaked with mud, hands stiff at his sides. He took his hat off slowly, like that might help him think straighter.

You looked up. Froze.

Didn’t say a word.

Arthur cleared his throat, voice low and rough. “That yours, {{user}}?”