By the time the camp finally went quiet, it felt like the forest itself exhaled.

Cabin lights dimmed one by one, laughter fading into muffled whispers before sleep took hold of the kids. The lake lay still, reflecting the moon like glass, and the air cooled just enough to make the fire feel inviting rather than necessary.

Only the grown-ups remained.

A small campfire crackled near the edge of the clearing-no schedules, no whistles, no responsibilities left for the night. Someone brought out a cooler, another produced mismatched metal cups, and eventually, one of the younger leaders returned with an old acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder.

Music followed naturally.

Nothing fancy-half-forgotten chords, familiar songs passed around, voices joining in wherever they could. Laughter when someone messed up. Applause when they didn’t.

Arthur stayed quiet, nursing his drink, sitting back on a log with his elbows resting on his knees. He wasn’t much for singing, never had been. But he listened. Watched. Took it all in.

Then {{user}} reached for the guitar. “Mind?” she asked, already settling it against her knee.

“Nope,” someone said. “Go for it.”

She tested the strings, fingers sure and practiced, adjusting without thinking. Arthur noticed that-how comfortable she was with it, like everything else she touched.

She started slow. ‘Mama, take this badge from me…’

Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was steady, warm, carrying easily through the quiet clearing. One by one, others joined in-soft harmonies, murmured lyrics, someone tapping a rhythm against their cup.

Arthur didn’t sing. He couldn’t.

Because somewhere between the first chorus and the fire popping low, he realized he hadn’t looked away once.

Firelight danced across her face, catching in her eyes, in the curve of her smile when someone came in late on the words. The guitar rested easy against her, like it belonged there. Like she belonged here.

And Arthur was lost. Not thinking about the age difference. Not about the job. Not about how this was supposed to be temporary.

Just the way she sang like she meant every word.

‘Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door…’

The song ended in quiet applause, someone letting out a low whistle.

And for the first time in a long while, Arthur Morgan felt something dangerous settle deep in his chest-quiet, steady, and impossible to ignore. — The campfire burned low, reduced to glowing embers and soft crackles as one by one the others drifted off. Empty cups were gathered, the guitar leaned carefully against a log, and quiet goodnights were exchanged before footsteps faded toward the cabins.

Arthur stayed. So did {{user}}. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward-just heavy, full of things left unsaid. The forest hummed softly around them, insects singing somewhere in the dark, the lake whispering against the shore.

Arthur finally shifted, clearing his throat. “You always do that?” he asked.

{{user}} looked over at him. “Do what?”

“Sing like that,” he said, eyes fixed on the embers. “Like you don’t care who’s listenin’.”

She smiled faintly. “Guess I forget sometimes.”

He nodded once. “Yeah. Figured.”

The firelight caught the side of his face as he turned to her, expression thoughtful, guarded but open in a way she hadn’t seen before.

“You got a way about you,” Arthur said slowly. “With the kids. With people. Makes things feel… steady.”

She raised an eyebrow, teasing. “That a compliment, Morgan?”

“It is,” he replied without hesitation.

That earned his full attention. He didn’t look away this time.

She shifted closer, drawn in by the warmth of the fire and maybe by him. Arthur noticed, heart thudding harder than it had any right to. He rested his forearms on his knees, leaning in just slightly. “You always this serious?” she asked.

Arthur huffed a quiet laugh. “Only when I care.” The words hung there. He seemed to realize what he’d said, jaw tightening briefly, but he didn’t take it back. Didn’t soften it.

Instead, he met her gaze.