The sun was lazily sinking toward the horizon, wrapping the camp in a warm, orange glow. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke rising from the fires and freshly washed clothes drying on the lines stretched between the trees. You stood by one of them, your hands busy taking down dry shirts, trousers, and linen scarves. Your fingers tangled with the coarse fabric, and each movement was a ritual take down, fold, place neatly in the wicker basket at your feet.

When you lifted the full basket, the muscles in your arms tightened under the weight, but it was an everyday thing, something natural. You turned toward the tent, ready to move, when Arthur’s voice reached you from behind. A low, deep murmur, spoken as if it slipped straight from his chest.

"That's it.. such a good girl.."

The words sounded too familiar, too… directed at you. You froze in place. The basket slid a little lower against your hips, and anger immediately spread in your chest. You turned your head, furrowing your brows, and hissed with indignation:

“Excuse me?!”

You turned fully, ready to clash with his gaze, but the sight before you stole your breath. Arthur stood a few steps away, turned slightly to the side, his attention fixed not on you but on his mare. With one hand, he stroked her strong, gleaming neck, with the other he offered a piece of red apple. The horse snorted softly, tilting her head, and Arthur, with that ever-present heavy calm of his, slid his hand along her mane as if each touch could soothe the entire world.

Only when your voice truly reached him did he raise his head slightly and turn toward you. Slowly, lazily, without surprise, as if he did not understand what all the fuss was about. A faint shadow of a half-smile crossed his face, and the only sound that left his throat was a short, muffled:

“Mhm?”

His gaze lingered on you for a second, cold and heavy, before it drifted back to the animal, as if your outrage was nothing more than a fleeting noise in the background. And there you stood, the basket still in your hands, your heart beating far too fast unsure now if it was more from anger or from that strange trembling Arthur always managed to stir inside you.