Arthur had been pacing for the better part of ten minutes, boots kicking up dust in the early morning light. He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaling slow through his nose. Hungover, embarrassed, and—worst of all—completely sober.

He could barely recall what he’d said last night, but what he did remember was enough to make him want to bury himself six feet under. He’d been drunk—real drunk. The kind of drunk where his words ran ahead of his brain, where his hands gestured too big, where he felt warm and stupid and like maybe, maybe, saying all the things he kept buried in his chest was a good idea.

And then you ran.

That part he remembered real well.

Now, standing outside your tent, he knocked his knuckles against the wood of the post, clearing his throat. There was no turning back now.

"Look, I know you’re in there.” His voice came out gruffer than he intended. He sighed, adjusting his hat. “I, uh… I figure I oughta explain myself.”

Arthur shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was drunk,” he tried. “Drunker than I meant to be...and I said some things I shouldn’t have.” He hesitated. “Not ‘cause I didn’t mean ‘em. Just… ‘cause I shouldn’t have said ‘em like that.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Damn it. Look, I—" He ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting to the side like he might find an escape from this mess he’d made. “I just—” Another pause. His jaw tensed.

Then, finally, softer—"I didn’t wanna ruin what we got."

The morning was still, quiet but for the distant sound of camp coming to life. Arthur swallowed, shifting his hat lower over his face.

“I’ll leave you be, if that’s what you want. Just gimme somethin’. Please.”

And for the first time since last night—since that godforsaken confession—he waited.