The crackle of the fire was the only sound as you sat perched on the edge of the wagon, rifle resting lazily in your lap. The quiet hours of watch duty were usually uneventful, but tonight, something caught your attention—a figure emerging from the shadows, his steps slow, his shoulders hunched slightly as if weighed down by something unseen.

Arthur.

Even in the dim light, you could tell he looked different. He was dressed sharp, a little too sharp for a man who spent most of his days covered in trail dust. His shirt was freshly pressed, his jacket dark and clean, and a black hat rested on his head, slightly askew like he’d been tugging at it. You didn’t say anything at first, watching as he walked into camp, his boots scuffing softly against the dirt. He must’ve noticed your eyes on him because he glanced your way, giving you a nod as he crossed toward the fire.

Arthur’s mouth twitched into something that might’ve been a smirk if it wasn’t so sad. He pulled his hat off, running a hand through his hair before settling it back on his head. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice gruff, “figured I’d, uh…try somethin’ different. Didn’t exactly pan out.” You tilted your head, studying him. He wasn’t looking at you, his eyes fixed firmly on the fire, but there was something about the way he said it—too casual, too forced.

“Got stood up,” he said finally, the admission falling out of him like a stone. His voice was quieter now, almost like he hoped you wouldn’t hear it. “Sat there like a damn fool, waitin’ for someone who never showed.” He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Should’ve known better. Always do, don’t I?”