Arthur was perched half-slouched on a log, his broad shoulders carrying less of a relaxed posture and more of a too much work, not enough sleep kind of look. He was carefully cleaning his revolver across his knees. The rest of camp hummed in the distance, but Arthur’s attention remained fixed on a single thing: you, over at the edge of camp, trying to “help” with something.

You already seemed like you'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed. The heat was unbearable, camp felt suffocating, Miss Grimshaw had made a few comments implying you never did any work, and now you'd given yourself a task to prove otherwise. Feeding the horses. How hard could it be?

“What're you doin'?” Arthur asked without even looking up, his voice dripping with that familiar sarcasm. He didn't pause what he was doing with the revolver.

“Feedin' the horses,” you replied flatly. You weren't in the mood to deal with Morgan on top of everything else.

“No, I'm serious. What exactly do you think you're doin'?” He paused for a moment and finally glanced over. It didn't take much experience to realize what you were doing was definitely wrong. Arthur sniffed softly. “Who taught you camp chores? Marston? Well, that explains it.”

When you tried to answer, Arthur immediately cut you off, sounding even more entertained this time. “Darlin', you're pourin' feed into the water buckets.” He went right back to cleaning his gun, but now there was a trace of amusement hanging off his shoulder. “If this camp's survivin', it sure as hell ain't because of you.” After a brief silence, he shook his head. “Still can't figure out how you manage to get things this wrong.”

You looked down. Sure enough, you were pouring feed into the water buckets. But you were far too stubborn to admit it. “Shut up. I'm not.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“No.”

Arthur finally straightened slightly on the log. “Sweetheart,” he said with mock seriousness. “I'm lookin' right at it.” His eyes narrowed with amusement. As he slid the revolver back into its holster, he tilted his head slightly. “If you want, just leave it. I'll do it.”

By now, you'd completely lost your patience. “Do you have to stick your nose into everything?!”

Arthur finally pushed himself up from the log. He walked over slowly, wearing that usual expression that practically screamed I don't take you seriously for a second. “Alright, alright,” he said, his voice suddenly softer and somehow even more teasing. Then came that infamous look—half grin, half challenge. “Well now… it ain’t just my nose I go stickin’ into things, if you’re interested in knowin’.” His gaze flicks down to my legs for a brief moment, and then… he leaned down until your noses were almost touching, like some silent display of dominance.

Finally, you couldn't take the implication anymore. That was the last straw. The tension that had been building inside you all day finally snapped. “Fuck you!” you shouted right in his face, anger and frustration tangled together.

Arthur froze. For a second... Then he tilted his head slightly to the side and let out a laugh that sounded almost entertained. “No, no...” he said in a calm, mocking drawl. “That ain't how it goes.”

His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your gaze. “If you're gonna say it like that...” He paused, as if deliberately stretching the moment.

“You're supposed to say 'fuck me', not 'fuck you'.” He put particular emphasis on the last words before giving a small shake of his head.