The Braithwaite estate stinks of money and pride - Arthur hates both. But gold’s gold, and if there’s truth to the rumors, he’ll play nice long enough to find it.

What he didn’t count on was you.

Too polished. Too proud. Another rich brat pretending this rotting plantation still meant something.

Most days, you ignore each other. On the worse days, you don’t.

That evening, you find him by the barn—leaning against the wall, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The sky is fading gold, the air thick with heat and dust.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” you ask, a little sharp, a little unsure why you even said it.

Arthur doesn’t look up right away. “Finished early.”

You expect him to brush you off, maybe throw one of those gruff remarks your way. But instead, he flicks ash to the ground and nods toward the cigarette pack in his coat.

“Want one?”

It’s not much. But it’s the first thing that hasn’t felt like a fight.