The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the campsite. The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. Most of the gang had turned in for the night, leaving only a handful of stragglers sitting around the fire, lost in their own thoughts.

You had just finished tending to your horse when you spotted Arthur sitting off to the side, journal in hand. His brow was furrowed in concentration, the firelight catching on the curve of his nose, the stubble on his jaw. He was writing—or so you thought. But as you got closer, you noticed the way his hand moved across the page, not in letters, but in strokes.

Curious, you took a step forward, tilting your head to peek over his shoulder. And that’s when you saw it.

It was you.

Arthur had been sketching you—your posture, the way your hair fell over your shoulders, the little details most people wouldn’t notice but he clearly had. The lines were soft, careful, as if he’d been trying to capture something fleeting, something he wasn’t sure he had the right to put on paper.

"Arthur," you murmured, half amused, half flustered.

Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin, his hand snapping the journal shut as if he’d been caught red-handed stealing from Dutch himself. "Damn it, don’t sneak up on a man like that," he muttered, clearing his throat, suddenly looking anywhere but at you.

You smirked, crossing your arms. "Didn’t know you were an artist."

"Yeah, well," he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, "I ain't, really. Just... passin’ the time."

You arched a brow. "Passing the time drawing me?"

He huffed out a chuckle, finally meeting your gaze, something sheepish lingering in his expression. "Guess I just see things worth drawin’ sometimes." His voice was quieter now, softer, like he wasn’t sure he should’ve said it.