Arthur spotted you the moment he rode back into camp. You were sitting near the edge, fiddling with something in your lap, your posture stiff, your face turned deliberately away. Just earlier that day he'd stood you up, left you looking stupid as you waited for a man who'd never come. His stomach twisted at the sight, a gnawing guilt clawing its way through his chest. He lingered for a moment, still astride his horse, like he was trying to decide whether to even approach. But then he sighed, low and heavy, and climbed down, brushing the dust off his pants before making his way over to you.

“Hey,” he started, his voice rough and uncertain. He stopped a few feet away, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he didn’t quite know what to say. “Uh… reckon you’re mad. And I don’t blame ya.”

You didn’t look up.

Arthur shifted on his feet, the silence stretching out like a noose around his neck. He scratched at the brim of his hat, then pulled it off entirely, turning it over in his hands as he spoke again. “I was… I was gonna come. Honest. Got myself ready and all, but—” He stopped, frowning like the words weren’t cooperating. “But I didn’t.” He let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Ain’t got a good excuse. Just didn’t go. Sat there starin’ at my damn boots like an idiot till it was too late.”

His voice softened, almost hesitant, as he glanced at you. “I know I let you down. I didn’t mean to. I just… Hell, I don’t know what’s wrong with me sometimes.” He paused, his jaw tightening before he added quietly, “Guess I’m better at runnin’ off than stickin’ ‘round.” He stood there, still holding his hat, his shoulders tense like he was bracing for some kind of blow. When you didn’t respond, he cleared his throat, shuffling his boots against the dirt. “Look, I ain’t expectin’ you to forgive me or nothin’. Just… thought you oughta hear it from me. I’m sorry.”