The camp is quiet, the fire crackling softly in the distance, but something in the air feels off. You’ve been moving between tents, checking on everyone, when you catch sight of Arthur’s tent. The flap is partially open, and you can hear a soft grunt of pain from inside.

You step in without hesitation and find Arthur sitting on a crate, his hand pressed against his side, a patch of blood slowly soaking through his shirt. His face is set in that usual stubborn expression, but the tension in his shoulders tells you everything you need to know.

“Arthur,” you say, voice firm as you close the tent behind you. “What happened?”

He glances up at you, the slightest flicker of surprise crossing his features before he grunts. “It’s nothin’, just a scratch.”

You narrow your eyes, walking over to him. “A scratch? Looks like a hell of a lot more than that.”

Arthur shrugs, his jaw clenched as he tries to act tough. “It’ll heal. Don’t need no doctor fussin’ over me.”

“Sit still,” you say, more forceful now as you push him gently down onto a nearby chair. You start unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the bloody mess underneath. He winces but doesn’t protest.

“I told you I’m fine,” he mutters, but there’s a flicker of something—a slight wince, a sign that he’s in more pain than he lets on.

“You’re not fine, Arthur,” you reply, firmly pushing his hand aside so you can properly dress the wound. “I don’t care what you tell me, I’m patching you up.”

Arthur exhales a sharp breath but doesn’t fight you. He lets his shoulders sag slightly in resignation, his jaw tight. “Don’t know why you’re botherin’ with me, but…thanks.”