The fire cracked softly as the night settled over the camp, wrapping everything in a hush. You were asleep beside him, face calm, hand resting near his. Arthur sat up slowly, careful not to wake you.

The coughing came again—deep, violent, tearing at his chest.

This time, there was blood.

He stared at it in his palm, red against the firelight, then closed his fist around it like he could will it away. Like denial could make it disappear.

His shoulders trembled, not from the cold.

You murmured something in your sleep, turning slightly toward him. A soft sound, innocent. Hopeful.

Arthur watched you for a long moment. The way your brow furrowed just slightly, the way you looked like you were still dreaming of tomorrow—of that cabin, those plans, the freedom just beyond the horizon.

His voice came out in a whisper, barely audible over the crackling wood:

—"I don't want you to see me die."

Another pause. A breath.

—"I want you to remember me like I was… those nights in Saint Denis. Laughin’. Dancin’. Alive."

He turned his head, biting back the rest of the cough, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before lying back down. Eyes open, staring at the stars through the trees.