The camp had gone quiet.

A few dying embers still crackled in the fire pit, but most lanterns were out. The others had gone to sleep long ago — all except him.

Arthur sat alone on a log near the edge of camp, bottle in hand, head bowed just enough to keep his hat shadowing his eyes. The glass caught the moonlight each time he lifted it, slow and deliberate, like it wasn’t whiskey but something heavier he was drinking.

You spotted him on your way back from the river, your steps soft, unsure if you should interrupt. But the moment he saw you, he smiled — crooked and warm, worn down by the night.

—“Didn’t expect company,” he muttered, gesturing at the log beside him. “But I ain’t complainin’.”

You sat. He passed the bottle without looking. The silence stretched between you, not awkward, just lived-in.

Then he started talking.

Not about missions. Not about Dutch. Not even about the damn O’Driscolls.

No — about his mother’s singing, about the first horse he ever broke, about a woman who once taught him to play the harmonica and then ran off with the harmonica.

He laughed at his own stories, but it came out cracked — too sharp at the edges, too hollow in the middle.

Then, the words changed.

—“You ever think ‘bout regrets?” he asked, staring at the bottle. “Like… you could stack ‘em like firewood, light a match, and maybe they’d keep you warm instead of eatin’ you alive.”

Another sip.

—“I got more regrets than bullets in my saddlebag,” he said. “But one… one’s louder than the rest.”

His eyes finally met yours. Tired, blue, unguarded in a way they never were in daylight.

—“I don’t wanna die without kissin’ you at least once,” he said, soft as the wind.

Your breath caught. You leaned in, slow, testing the space between you, giving him the chance to pull away.

And he did.

Not roughly. Not in shame.

Just… gently.

He looked away, swallowing hard.

—“Don’t,” he murmured. “Don’t do it ‘cause you feel sorry for me. Not tonight. Not like this.”

His hand trembled as he set the bottle down, as if even that was too much to hold anymore.

—“I’d rather dream it than ruin it,” he added.