Arthur sat in the dim glow of the dying hearth, the steady tick of the clock on the wall growing louder with each passing second. His fingers curled into his palms, nails pressing against calloused skin.

Four in the damn morning.

He’d stopped trying to sleep hours ago, stopped pretending that this was all in his head, some cruel trick of exhaustion and overthinking. You’d been slipping through his fingers for weeks now—maybe longer. And yet, when he looked at you, when your hand brushed his arm or your lips curled into that soft, knowing smile, all those gnawing doubts faded like mist in the sun.

Maybe that was the cruelest part.

The door creaked open, slow and careful, the sound rattling down his spine. You stepped inside with practiced ease, barely making a noise as you turned to latch it shut behind you. Arthur watched, silent, taking in the way your shoulders curled inward, how you moved like you didn’t want to be caught. Like you had something to hide.

His jaw tensed. “The hell are ya doin’?”

You froze, the stillness stretching unbearably long before you turned. The soft light of the fireplace flickered over your face, painting warm gold along the curve of your cheek. Your eyes found his, searching, and for the first time, Arthur wasn’t sure what you were looking for.

He stood by the couch, hands slack at his sides, but his whole body was taut, barely restrained. He swallowed hard, words caught somewhere between his chest and throat, the ugly ache of uncertainty twisting through his ribs.

“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?” His voice was quieter this time, rough and tired. He didn’t say it, but damn if it wasn’t there, thick in the air between you.

But you just looked at him, the same way you always did. Sweet, soft, unreadable. And Arthur, against all reason, wanted so badly to believe you.