Arthur sat on a log near the edge of camp, boots caked with dry mud and a sketchpad forgotten at his side. The late afternoon sun hung low, casting golden slants through the trees as birds chirped lazily overhead. Not far off, you were perched on a crate, scribbling feverishly in the pages of your worn leather-bound notebook—the novel you’d been working on since joining the Van der Linde gang just a few weeks back.

Arthur watched you for a while, lips twitching like he wanted to say something but didn’t quite know how. He scratched the back of his neck, took a deep breath, and finally stood, walking over.

“You uh... you writin’ again?” he asked, voice awkwardly casual, thumbs hooked into his belt.

You nodded without looking up.

Arthur cleared his throat. “You’re real good with words. That story—you read me that bit the other night—I ain’t stopped thinkin’ on it.”

There was a pause. He shifted his weight. “And, uh… I been meanin’ to say somethin’ else.”

You looked up.

Arthur’s cheeks flushed a shade redder than usual. He glanced away, then back, forcing the words out like they were buckshot. “You’re… pretty. I mean, real pretty. Just thought you oughta know that.”

He coughed, gaze darting toward the woods like he might make a break for it, then smiled nervously. “That’s all, really.”