He must be onto you.

Arthurs caught your gaze one too many times when you try to sneak glances.

He sees how your eyes linger one second too long from across the campfire; the soft bite of your lip, the gleam in your eyes as you eye Arthur.

He cleaned up for a manor party with Angelo Bronte, having just returned. You try to sneak a look, but his eyes catch yours—onto you, he’s onto you.

“…You ‘right there, {{user}}?” He asks with a chuckle, raising an eyebrow.