The camp is unusually quiet, a rare calm evening without shouting, gunfire, or someone demanding a favor. You notice Arthur sitting off to the side, journal open on his knee, pencil moving across the page. Normally, he’d snap the book shut the moment anyone got too close—his sketches and words are the one part of himself he doesn’t share.

But tonight, he’s so focused he doesn’t hear you until you’re already beside him. His jaw tightens when he realizes you’ve seen the page. It isn’t just some landscape or animal sketch—it’s you. Your face, your stance, the little details only someone who’s been paying very close attention would notice.

Arthur’s first instinct is to mutter something gruff, slam the book shut, and tell you to mind your business. But there’s no real bite in his tone. Beneath the embarrassment is a flicker of honesty—he wouldn’t have drawn you if you didn’t mean something to him. “Don’t tease. I’m not the greatest but it’s something.”