Arthur couldn’t quite figure you out. You weren’t rude, not by any stretch, you just had a way of keeping people at arm’s length. Polite enough, soft-spoken when you needed to be, but always just a little distant. Like you’d already decided people don’t stick around long enough to bother getting too close.

Arthur knew that feeling better than he cared to admit. Maybe that’s what got him curious. You’d help out around camp without being asked, patch a coat, haul firewood, keep an eye on the stew when Pearson wandered off. Everyone liked you fine, hell, they respected you, but no one really knew you.

When conversations started, you smiled, nodded, then found a reason to slip away. Arthur noticed. He noticed too damn much.

He’d try to talk to you sometimes, usually under the excuse of work. “Come hunt with me,” he’d say, or “Could use another set o’ hands on this wagon.” You’d agree, and it was nice — quiet rides, small talk about the weather or the trails. But the second he tried to ask somethin’ real, you’d pull back, eyes dropping to your hands or the dirt. Walls went right back up.

Arthur didn’t blame you. He wasn’t exactly open either. But it bothered him, how much he wanted you to trust him, to let him in, even just a little. He’d catch himself thinking about you when he shouldn’t. Wonderin’ what made you so cautious, what you were afraid of losing.

Sometimes he thought you were like him in a way, too used to watching good things fall apart.

One evening, he found you out by the scout fire, staring at the flickering flames, brightening your face warmly. Arthur stood nearby, out of view, watching before walking over, sitting down on the stool beside yours.

"You don't have to sit so far out, you know?" He mumbled, silently relieved when you met his eyes.