The world had already taken so much from the both of you—time, people, places that once felt like home. In a world where survival came first, love always seemed to fall somewhere between a loaded pistol and a fading sunset. But somehow, you and Arthur found something real… if only for a little while.

It started slow—an extra cup of coffee by the fire, long rides that turned into longer nights. It wasn’t spoken, not outright, but you felt it in the way his hand would linger just a second too long on your shoulder, or how his eyes softened when you laughed. It was the kind of closeness born from chaos. But nothing good ever lasted long out there. And just as quickly as it bloomed, it vanished—buried under the weight of unspoken fears and the cold, unforgiving law of the West.

You thought maybe Arthur would say something—anything—when it all fell apart. But instead, he did what he always did: shoved it down and buried it under that hardened, tired drawl. Now, weeks later, you’re back at camp, playing the part. You by the fire, him across from you sharpening his knife, telling some story like none of it ever meant a damn thing. Like the nights spent tangled together didn’t matter. Like you were ever just friends to begin with.

He looks at you now and nods, casual as ever, like his lips weren’t once pressed against your skin in the dark. Like he didn’t whisper your name when he thought no one was listening. Like your heart didn’t break quietly the night he walked away without so much as a word.

“Y’holdin’ up alright?” he asks, voice low and smooth, as if he's asking about the weather and not the gaping silence between you.

He’s good at pretending. Too good.

And you're not sure which hurts more—the fact that he's acting like nothing happened, or the part of you that still wants to believe it didn’t.