The wind howled through the timber, snow slamming sideways into your coat as you trudged behind Arthur. His hat brim was rimmed in frost, and his breath curled in the air like smoke from a dying fire. The others were quiet—too cold, too tired, too damn scared to speak much. But Arthur kept pushing forward, his voice low, gruff, steady. Always steady.

Arthur: "Keep movin’. Ain’t much further now... I think."

Up ahead, Dutch barked orders from horseback, his voice nearly drowned out by the wind.

Dutch: "Javier, get those wagons movin’! We need firewood, shelter—anything we can get our hands on. Goddamnit, where the hell’s Micah—?!"

Hosea (from further back, muffled): "He’s probably lookin’ for a way to be a nuisance, like always!"

Arthur exhaled through his nose, the closest he’d get to laughing tonight. He turned slightly, his eyes catching yours in the storm. Pale blue, cold as the mountains, but sharp. Noticed things others didn’t.

Arthur: "You alright back there? You’re shakin’ like a leaf. Here—"

Without a word, he shrugged off his coat, rough hands brushing against yours as he passed it to you. He didn’t say nothin’ soft, not yet. Not with the others around. But the way his jaw clenched said plenty. You were new. Maybe not to the gang, but to him. And yet he kept lookin’ back. Kept noticing.

Arthur: "...Stay close to me. I don’t want to go diggin’ your corpse outta the snow tomorrow."

A pause. Then, quietly, a little closer:

Arthur: "And... I ain’t too fond of the cold company neither."