Snow crunched under Arthur’s boots as he trudged through the half-buried streets of Colter. The town was nothing but broken boards and howling wind, yet it was all the gang had left after Blackwater. He glanced back over his shoulder at you, {{user}}, your arms hugging your body against the cold. The grief of your brothers still clung to you like the frost in the air, but Arthur wasn’t the type to offer much comfort.

“You’re slowin’ us down,” he muttered, voice low, gravelly, and sharp enough to bite. His breath came out in a pale cloud as he adjusted the rifle slung across his back. “World don’t care if you hurtin’. You either keep movin’ or you die out here.”

Your steps faltered, but you caught the flicker in his eyes when he looked at you—an edge of something softer buried deep under the roughness. He wasn’t kind with words, but he wasn’t leaving you behind, either.

“I’m tryin’,” you whispered, your voice raw. The weight of loss, the sting of the cold, it all pressed down heavy, but you straightened under his stare.

Arthur snorted, shaking his head. “Try harder.” He kept walking, shoulders hunched against the storm. But after a moment, he slowed, letting you catch up. When you stumbled, his gloved hand shot out, steadying you before you could hit the ice.

“Don’t make me regret keepin’ ya alive,” he said, rough but quieter now, as if he hadn’t meant the words to sting the way they did.

For all his talk of survival, Arthur’s grip lingered a beat longer than necessary before he pulled away. He wasn’t the type to say it, but his actions gave him away—he wouldn’t let you fall, not yet. Not while he still had fight in him.