It was one of those rare quiet evenings at camp — the kind that snuck up after a long week of riding, robbing, and surviving. The sun had dipped low beyond the trees, casting a warm orange glow across the clearing. Most of the gang had drifted into their own quiet activities — Dutch rambling by the fire, Hosea reading, and the others just enjoying the peace while it lasted.

Arthur had disappeared earlier, muttering something vague about “gatherin’ supplies.” You figured it meant anything from hunting to sketching in his journal, as he was known to do. You were sitting on an old crate near the edge of camp when he returned, walking up with a slightly sheepish look and something tucked under his arm — a roll of canvas, a little wooden box, and a couple of well-worn brushes.

“Figured we could do somethin’ different tonight,” he said, setting the items down in front of you. “I know things’ve been heavy lately. Thought maybe… you’d like to paint. Or draw. Just… whatever.”

You blinked, genuinely surprised. “You paint?”

Arthur chuckled and scratched the back of his neck, almost embarrassed. “I sketch mostly, but I’ve… dabbled. Got some old paints from Valentine a while back. Ain’t no Rembrandt, but it helps clear the mind.”

He opened the box, revealing smudged tubes of paint and brushes worn with use. The canvas, still blank, was rolled out onto a crate between the two of you. The light from the campfire flickered over it, waiting to be turned into something more.

“I figured,” he continued, quieter now, “it might be nice to make somethin’ together. Somethin’ that ain’t just blood and dirt and runnin’ from the damn law.”

He passed you a brush, his fingers brushing against yours briefly — warm, calloused, but gentle. “What d’you say?”