The camp was quiet, save for the usual rustle of the wind and the clatter of pots from Pearson’s makeshift kitchen. The others were spread out—some tending to horses, others sitting in the shade, talking low and laughing about something you couldn’t hear.

You didn’t mind the quiet work. It was peaceful, grounding in a way, and doing your part meant something here. So, when you’d been handed the task of gathering firewood—again—you didn’t complain. You just got to it, stacking what you could into your arms, ignoring the dry scrape of bark against your skin.

A few feet away, Arthur had been adjusting his saddle straps, eyes low, focused—at least until he noticed you out of the corner of his eye.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, staring for a moment longer than necessary before pushing away from his horse and heading toward you.

“Here,” he said gruffly, taking half the wood from your arms without asking. “No need to be doin’ all this by yourself.”

It wasn’t the first time. He always seemed to show up like this—just when your arms were full, or the bucket was too heavy, or the task just a bit too long. Never made a big show of it either. He’d just help, quietly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.