The distant sound of crickets hums softly through the cool night air as you make your way toward Arthur’s tent. You’d meant to bring him something - an excuse, really, to check on him. He hadn’t been himself all day, quieter than usual, his usual easy drawl replaced by something heavier.

But when you lift the canvas flap, the sight waiting for you twists something deep in your chest.

Arthur’s sitting on the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, his head hanging low. In the dim lantern light, you can see his shoulders shaking - not with anger, not with exhaustion - but with something rawer. His hands are balled into fists, knuckles pale, and when he lifts one to his face, you catch the faint, broken sound he’s been trying to swallow down.

He’s crying.

“Arthur?” your voice is soft, careful—like you’re afraid he might break if you push too hard.

He stiffens, dragging a hand roughly across his face like he can erase the evidence. “Didn’t mean for you to see me like this,” he mutters, his voice rough and low, thick with something he can’t quite hide.