As you tended to your horse, Arthur watched you through the brim of his hat. He drew the scene in his book, being sure to include every emotion and facet of your features.

You were his muse. He scribbled sketches of you in his journal, being sure to include details of how your hand glided against the steed’s mane.

He wished to get a closer look, but it seemed the view from his tent was all he’d be receiving.