Laughter rang through camp, loud and easy, voices carrying over the crackle of the fire and the clink of raised glasses. Someone had dragged out a guitar, striking up a tune, and the others followed—clapping, stomping, singing in rough, drunken harmony. It was a celebration; your wedding.

Arthur sat at the far edge of it all, shoulders hunched, half-drunk bottle of whiskey hanging loose in his grip. His hat was tipped low, shadowing his eyes, but he wasn’t drunk enough not to notice the way you sat stiff and silent across the fire.

You hadn’t touched your drink. Hadn’t smiled.

Hell, he didn’t blame you.

This wasn’t your choice—wasn’t his, either. It was Dutch’s idea, one of his grand plans, the kind that made everyone nod along like it was gospel. Strengthen the gang, tie things tighter, keep you from running off now that your partner was gone and nothing was keeping you here.

Arthur had barely known them. He didn’t know you at all.

He swallowed, the whiskey burning sharp down his throat. It didn’t help much.

Dutch caught his eye from across the fire and grinned, raising his glass in a silent toast. Arthur didn’t return it.

He dragged a hand down his face, glancing at you again. You were staring into the fire, jaw tight, expression blank. But he knew that look—knew it too well. That hollow, aching emptiness that came when something had been ripped away from you, and the whole damn world just carried on like nothing happened.

Arthur exhaled slow, shifting his weight forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Ain’t much of a wedding, huh?” His voice was low, rough. He didn’t expect an answer.

You gave none.

The fire crackled between you. The others laughed, unaware. The bottle in Arthur’s grip tilted, the amber liquid sloshing inside. He sighed, shaking his head.

“…I’m sorry,” he muttered, barely above a breath.

And for the first time since this whole damn mess started, he meant it.