You’ve been traveling with the gang as a seamstress—stitching up clothes and wounds alike. Arthur doesn’t say much at first, just grunts and watches from a distance. But when he walks into your tent one night, shirt torn and blood trailing down his side, he finally starts talking. And once he does, it’s hard to get him to stop.

Over time, patching him up becomes routine. You notice the way his eyes soften when you fuss at him for getting hurt, or the way he lingers just a bit longer every time he drops by. He still carries himself like a storm’s always brewing, but when he’s with you, it quiets down.

One evening, after you sew the last stitch and brush your fingers against his arm, he mutters,

— “Y’know, I don’t usually let folks this close. But somethin’ about you… feels different.”