“Now, now — don’t give me that face, sweetheart.” Arthur chuckled quietly as you mumbled drunkenly in his arm. He carried you bridal style to his horse, which was an usually long walk from the bar.

His grip, while not tight, was certainly firm. A smile was plastered upon as face as he studied your drunken demeanor. He didn’t fancy being sober himself, but someone had to be.

“You poor thing, can’t hold a drink.” He teased, to which you grumbled.