You’d only been in camp a week.

Cooking, watching Jack when Abigail needed rest, patching clothes by the fire. Quiet work — the kind most didn’t notice. Except him.

Arthur kept his distance at first. A nod, maybe a grunt. No eye contact. He’d walk into the kitchen for coffee and leave too fast. Always a step away from saying something, always swallowing it back.

But then he started lingering. Asking if you needed more firewood. Offering to skin the game Hosea brought. Even sitting nearby while you chopped vegetables, cigarette in hand, gaze distant.

It was after a mission went south — a shootout, ambush, the usual chaos — that he walked into the kitchen long after everyone had gone quiet. He dropped his hat on the table, didn’t say a word, just lit a cigarette and sat.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

The smoke curled between you two, slow and lazy, carrying a silence neither of you dared break.

He exhaled.

—“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he muttered, voice rough.

Still, you didn’t speak. Just stirred the stew.

Another drag. Another silence.

—“I ain’t proud of how things ended,” he added.