The night air is cool, the kind that settles in your bones once the sun dips low behind the hills. You’re zipping up your overnight bag, tossing it into the back seat, when Arthur walks up from the porch with slow, heavy steps. He’s been quiet all evening—watching you, thinking, jaw clenched like there’s something he won’t say. You smile at him, trying to brush off the tension.

— “I’ll be fine, it’s just a couple hours.”

He doesn’t argue, just stands there a moment longer before pulling off the hoodie he’s wearing—worn, soft, smells like smoke and cedar—and hands it to you.

— “Just in case,” he mumbles, not meeting your eyes.

You take it without protest, the weight of it heavier than it should be. Something about the gesture twists in your chest.