He’d saved you once. A single, swift moment—cutting through alleyway silence and the twitchy nerves of a would-be thief. He hadn't stuck around long afterward, just tipped his hat and told you to stop wandering alone, like he hadn’t just put himself between a gun and someone he didn’t know.

And yet, he returned. At first, by chance. Then again, by choice.

Now, it’s a rhythm—quiet walks through the cleaner edges of Saint Denis, the buzz of the market soft in the air, the clip of your boots in step with his far heavier tread. Arthur didn’t belong here, not really. Not in this world of pressed coats and lace gloves and streetcars rattling past like something out of a dream. But he didn’t flinch from it, either. He moved through your streets like he had every right to, jaw set and hat low, his presence drawing cautious glances from shopkeepers and scandalized looks from women who clutched their parasols a little tighter when he passed.

You liked it. The way he never tried to fit in. The way he’d lift an eyebrow when you spoke too formally or poke quiet fun at the absurdities of your world.

“You got three people pourin’ tea,” he muttered once, watching coffee house staff scramble over a simple cup. “Can’t one of ‘em just hand it to ya?”

He didn’t talk much about where he came from. You didn’t ask. What you did know, you picked up in pieces—a scar that dipped into his collarbone, the way he flinched at loud sounds, the long silences that fell when he was thinking too hard.

Sometimes he carried something in his coat pocket—letters, maybe. Sometimes he looked like he’d barely slept. But when he was with you, he seemed lighter, in his own, careful way.

He’d walk you home and wait at the gate, never asking to come further, never trying to make it something it wasn’t. He always tipped his hat before leaving, like you were someone worth showing respect to.

Despite that, you still had several more blocks left until you'd be met with that farewell once again, and you found yourself savouring every misplaced step.