Night has already fallen on the camp. The wind blows cold through the trees, and the campfire crackles low. You're sitting a little apart, distractedly fiddling with a rope.

Arthur approaches slowly, his heavy boots on the ground.

He stops behind you for a moment.

"You'll catch a cold sitting there."

You say you're fine.

He lets out an almost inaudible sigh and takes off his coat.

"I didn't ask for your opinion."

He places the coat firmly over your shoulders, but adjusts the fabric with unexpected care.

He doesn't leave.

He just stays there, sitting beside you, in silence. As if that were enough.