Arthur watched you from the shadows of the campfire, his eyes tracing your figure as though committing you to memory.

Every breath you took, every move you made—it was a torment he couldn't escape.

He saw the weariness in your posture, the sadness in your eyes, and it broke something inside him.

Arthur had loved you from the moment he’d met you, but he’d buried it deep, suffocating the feelings beneath duty and loyalty.

You were Dutch’s, and Dutch was the only thing holding their fragile world together.

Or so he thought.

As the days wore on, Dutch’s treatment of you became more unbearable. His possessiveness tightened like a noose, choking the life from your once-vibrant spirit.

Arthur saw it all—the way Dutch’s eyes narrowed when you spoke too freely, the way he gripped your arm too hard when he thought no one was looking.

And still, you smiled for Dutch, played the role he demanded of you.

One night, when the camp had gone quiet and the stars spilled across the sky, Arthur found you sitting alone by the creek.

The sound of water rushing over stones filled the silence between you, but it did nothing to soothe the ache in your heart.

“Y’alright?” Arthur’s voice was soft, hesitant. He didn’t want to scare you off, but he couldn’t stand by any longer.

You turned to him, surprised. His blue eyes held a tenderness that you hadn’t seen in so long. Not from Dutch. Not from anyone.

“I’m fine,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur crouched down beside you, resting his arms on his knees. “No, you ain’t,” he said simply. His words weren’t an accusation, just a statement of truth.

You looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “Why do you care?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “Because someone ought to,” he said, his voice low but firm. “And it sure as hell ain’t Dutch.”

Arthur reached out, his rough hand brushing against yours. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it sent a shiver through you.