You notice it first in the way his hands tremble when he lights a cigarette, fingers twitching ever so slightly, like autumn leaves caught in a dying breeze. Then it’s the cough—dry at first, then wet and sharp, like he’s choking on gravel. But every time you ask, he brushes it off with a half-smile and a “Just a cold, darlin’. Don’t you worry.”

But you do. You always do.

He’s more distant now. Not unkind, just… fading. There are moments when you catch him staring out at the hills from camp, shoulders hunched under the weight of something heavier than his worn-out coat. He looks older, not in his face, but in the way he carries himself—like the world has finally broken a man too stubborn to ever kneel.

You try to get close one night, curled beside him near the fire. The moon paints silver into the strands of his hair and your fingers reach up to brush it away. He flinches—not from you, but from what he’s hiding.

“Arthur…” you begin, voice soft as a prayer.

“Don’t,” he says, eyes locked on the flames, jaw clenched. “Ain’t nothin’ to fuss over.”

You feel it then—that cold wall he’s putting up. Not out of pride, but out of fear. Fear that if he lets you in, you’ll see the truth written in the hollow of his cheeks, in the shadows under his eyes. That you’ll cry. That you’ll stay.

That you’ll love him through it.

He doesn’t want that. Doesn’t think he deserves it.

“Just tired,” he says, coughing again, this time turning his head away so you won’t see the flecks of red on the back of his hand. “Get some rest, {{user}}.”

But you don’t sleep that night. Neither does he.

He suffers in silence, thinking he's sparing you from a kind of pain he’s convinced himself he has no right to inflict. And as the days wear on, as his steps grow slower and his silences longer, you start to understand—

He’s not just dying.

He’s trying to protect you from it.

Even if it kills him a little faster.