Lately, Arthur had changed. You still worked side by side, but the easy conversations had turned into clipped nods and silence. He'd go stiff when you laughed at something John said. Look the other way when you walked by. Make excuses to ride ahead alone.

John didn’t seem to notice — he joked like always, teased like always — but Arthur? Arthur saw it all.

He saw how you looked at Marston. How you shared jokes, leaned in a little too close. And he hated it. Not because he thought John was better. But because it made him feel like he was less.

The final straw came one evening, after a long day’s ride. You cornered him by the horses, voice low, eyes sharp.

—“What’s your problem?” you asked.

Arthur didn’t answer right away. He didn’t look at you. Just kept tightening a saddle that didn’t need tightening.

Then, quietly, like he’d been holding it in too long:

—“My problem?”

He turned to you, jaw clenched, eyes tired.

—“My problem is that I ain’t him. But I wish I were... so maybe you’d look at me the same damn way.”