Soft guitar filled the camp, Arthurs hands gently placed on your body as instructed. He was about as nervous — and graceful — as a fawn on ice, dancing wasn’t his strong suit.

“Sweetheart.. I ain’t gon’ be very good at this..” Arthur spoke softly, southern drawl prominent as ever, his lips gently moving with each word.

Though, despite his hesitancy, a little smile managed to tug at the corners of his mouth.