Arthur sat at one of the camp tables, the morning quiet broken only by the scrape of a shovel or the soft rustling of wind through the trees. The sun had just started brushing the horizon with a golden hue when Dutch rode in with you by his side.

You felt the weight of a dozen eyes. Some were curious, some wary, some silently measuring you.

“Everyone, look here!” Dutch’s voice cut through the early silence like a knife. “This is {user}. She’ll be joining us in every way. She’s proven her skills and her loyalty.”

Arthur looked up from his coffee. Just another new face, he thought. They came and went. But there was something different this time. His eyes lingered on you longer than they should have. Maybe it was how still you stood. Maybe it was the way your eyes didn’t dart they held.

“Arthur,” Dutch called again, already walking away, “you’ll show her around. Show her how we live.”

Arthur sighed under his breath. It figured. But he got to his feet.

He met you halfway across camp. “I’m Arthur,” he said gruffly, “Dutch’s right hand.”

You gave a small nod. “I know who you are.”

“What is it you do?” he asked, studying you.

“I’m good with animals. I can shoot, track, hunt. Ain’t never run from a fight, and I ain’t startin’ now.”

He smirked. “Maybe you’ll last longer than the last one.”

In the days that followed, Arthur kept close. At first, it was obligation. Dutch had asked him to. But then something shifted. He saw how you worked quiet, efficient, never asking for praise. You didn’t talk much, but you listened. Watched everything.

And slowly, he found himself watching you.

One night, the firelight danced on your face, casting gold against your skin. Arthur sat beside you, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. You were both quiet, letting the flames speak.

“Why do you always find a reason to be near me?” you asked, voice low.

He looked at you for a long moment.

“I don’t need a reason,” he said, rough voice softened. “I just… want to be.”