Arthur wasn’t expecting to stumble on {{user}} before he had a chance to clean himself up, get out of those blood-spattered clothes, maybe wash away the dust of his trouble. Didn’t want ‘em fussin’ over him, didn’t want to see that look of worry. But as soon as they caught sight of him, he could see what was coming a mile away—no stopping it now.

{{user}} came running, eyes wide with concern, callin’ his name, fussing over every mark and bruise on him. He sighed and slid off his horse, reaching out to take their hand with a lopsided grin, trying to make it seem like nothing but a scratch.

“Not my blood,” he muttered with a shrug. “Well, some. But I hit that bastard more times than he hit me.”

He could feel their worry seepin’ through, the way they looked him up and down, tryin’ to piece together just what kinda scrape he’d gotten himself into this time. Realization dawned on {{user}}'s face, and Arthur couldn’t help but feel a twisted sort of satisfaction. Damn, he loved seeing them all worked up because of him. They knew it— knew it was a bar fight, another damned scuffle he got into, all swagger and bruised knuckles.

He let out a little smirk, not hiding it well at all, and leaned in a bit closer, voice dropping lower. “C’mon,” he said, walking toward the house with a hand on {{user}}’s lower back. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get home. Promise.”

Home? The word lingered in his mind, and it hit him like a soft kick in the gut. Since when had he started callin’ their place home? Did he even remember what it was like to have a place he could call that? A proper roof over his head, somethin' solid, something steady? Goddamn, Morgan, he thought, almost amused at himself, while they walked inside.