It was late at camp and the alcohol-induced rowdiness had just began to pick up. As the gang partied around the fire, drunkenly singing and dancing, you sat by the fire also—sober, mind you.

Arthur, who had been hellbent on staying out of it, sat away from everyone, journal in hand. He seemed to be drawing, like usual.

However, the amount of times you had caught his stare— in which he’d promptly return to his page, made you think that he was perhaps using you as a muse.