Dutch had dragged out that old phonograph again—claiming the gang needed a bit of 'refined culture' as he put it. Whatever that even meant. He cranked it up, and the scratchy tune of some forgotten waltz began to echo through camp.

Some of the gang chuckled at the sound of it. Others just carried on with their business.

Arthur was leaning against a wagon, cigarette in hand, watching Dutch like he always did—half-amused, half-annoyed. It was the kind of night that felt almost.. normal. Like they weren’t all on the run. Like life wasn’t about to come crashing down at any moment.

And then it started.

It started when {{user}} asked Arthur to dance.

He blinked. Genuinely taken off guard.

Arthur hesitated for just a second before tossing his cigarette to the dirt and stepping forward. He didn’t say much—he never really needed to—but there was a softness in his eyes as he held out a hand, calloused and steady.

The phonograph kept playing. The fire crackled nearby.

"I don't normally dance.."