Arthur hadn’t meant to walk in. He never did, really. It was just that they were late to the stables, and when someone didn’t show up on time, it usually meant an injury—or worse.

He pushed open the door with a soft creak, calling your name once, twice. No answer.

The room was dim, lit only by the slant of morning sun cutting through the high window. He caught sight of your back, hunched slightly, tunic half-pulled over your head. You froze.

Arthur blinked, eyes catching on the pale lines of bandage wrapped tight across your chest. At first, he thought you'd been wounded—maybe fallen, maybe attacked. His voice came low, alarmed. “Are you hurt?”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, stiff as a post, fingers clutching your shirt like it was armor.

And then it hit him.

Not wounds. Not bruises.

Just… hidden things. Deliberately so.

Arthur’s mouth opened, then closed again. A dozen thoughts flew behind his eyes, but none landed cleanly. His brow furrowed—not in anger, not in disgust, but in something closer to confusion. Concern. Maybe even a touch of guilt.

“I didn’t know,” he said, quieter this time.

He looked away. Gave you the grace of a turned back, even though curiosity burned at the edges of his thoughts. He’d never seen anyone do that before. Never even imagined someone might. Not unless they were hiding from someone. Or something.

And yet… it didn’t feel like a lie.

It felt like truth, in a strange, quiet sort of way.

Arthur cleared his throat and took a step back toward the door. “I’ll wait outside.”

He paused with his hand on the frame.

“You don’t have to explain anything.”

And he meant it.