You and Arthur are left behind to tend the fire and watch the camp. The others are gone for a few days, and the silence settles in heavy. The first night, you hardly talk. The second, you share coffee. By the third, you’re sitting close, trading stories under the stars.

Arthur opens up slower than molasses, but you catch glimpses—the way he talks about the world, about loyalty, about right and wrong. He asks about you too, and listens like it matters. There’s something soothing about his presence, even if his hands are calloused and his words sparse.

That night, with smoke curling up into the sky, he looks over at you and says,

— “Ain’t used to this kinda quiet… but it don’t bother me so much with you here.”