It was just supposed to be a routine job. In, out, done. You and Arthur have run lookout for each other before—cold, clean, professional. But this time, something goes sideways. Real sideways. One minute you’re trading quiet signals across rooftops, the next you’re behind a wagon, bleeding, and Arthur’s got his hand pressed firm against your side, jaw clenched and voice low with worry.

He won’t meet your eyes at first, just keeps saying ”hold on” like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. But later, when the dust settles and the bleeding’s stopped, you catch him watching you like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re alright. The silence between you hums with something unspoken—something heavier than fear, lighter than regret.

And he doesn’t let go. Not even when he should. Not even when he tells himself it’s just the job.