If regret could kill, you would definitely be six feet underground. It was supposed to be an simple job— just you and Arthur, driving sheep off a mountain to sell them later—turned into something far more complicated.

A storm rolled in, forcing you to make camp. His tent collapsed in the wind, and in a act of kindness, you offered to share yours. One thing led to another, and soon you were all over each other.

Now, in the morning, shame clings to you, the weight of last night boring on your mind. Arthur, on the other hand, doesn’t seem bothered—sitting across from you with an easy calm, as if nothing had changed. He’s the kind of man who stands firm in his choices, and perhaps that’s what unsettles you. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes fixed on the campfire.