Arthur sat on the edge of the crate, elbows resting on his knees as he looked out over camp. “Y’ain’t gonna butcher me, are ya?” he muttered, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The scissors in your hand glinted in the light, and as you combed back his hair, he went still—surprisingly still. “Reckon I trust you enough,” he added after a beat, voice low and warm like the breeze through the trees.