You’d noticed it in bits and pieces, the way Arthur’s hand drifted to his satchel when the camp got quiet, the soft rasp of pencil when he thought no one was listening. He never showed anything. If you came near, he’d close the book with a thumb and change the subject like the weather had just turned.

So you let it be. You figured everyone’s got a small room inside themselves they keep locked.

One night, rain stitched along the tent seams, soft and steady. The two of you shared the same canvas, bedrolls side by side, boots by the flap, his hat hooked on a peg. He fell asleep first, breathing slow, the deep kind that settles after a long ride. The lantern was down to a coal, hardly there. You should’ve slept.

Instead, you shifted to make room for your elbow and your hand brushed something on the ground by his bedroll: the corner of that leather notebook, half-open where it must’ve slipped from his satchel. You froze, intending to tuck it back without a look.

But the page was already turned toward you.

A face stared up in graphite, yours. Not a careful portrait meant to flatter, but the you he saw when the day had your shoulders heavy and your mouth half-brave, half-tired. The curve of your jaw. The nick at your eyebrow he’d teased you about. The way your hair always wins that fight with the wind. He’d darkened the shadow under your cheek with his thumb and softened the edges like he couldn’t stand to leave anything harsh.

In the margin, small and crooked: “quiet after the rain. safe.” You didn’t breathe for a long beat. Then you glanced at him.

Arthur lay on his side facing you, eyes closed, lashes making faint shadows on his cheek. He looked younger in sleep, the lines around his mouth eased, the hurt he carried set down for once. His hand was half-curled near the book, calluses smudged with graphite. He hadn’t hidden this on purpose; he’d just drifted off before the gates could swing shut again.

You should’ve closed it. You should’ve pretended you never saw. Instead you let yourself look, once, like touching cool water and pulling back.

You eased the notebook closed and set it near his satchel. Then you lay down and stared at the tent roof until the rain smoothed your thoughts. Sleep almost took you before his voice came, rough with drowsy gravel “You saw it.”