The fire crackled low, struggling against the bite of the wind. Most of the camp had turned in for the night, voices fading into the rustling trees, but Arthur sat hunched near the dying flames, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He wasn’t tired.

His eyes drifted toward your tent. The flap was pulled shut, but he could still picture you inside—curled up in whatever old blanket someone had tossed your way, fast asleep. You trusted this place, trusted him, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why.

What the hell was Dutch thinking, taking you in? What the hell were you thinking, latching onto him of all people? Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He was no damn father. He knew that much.

Sure, he kept an eye on you—made sure you ate, made sure you weren’t running off somewhere dangerous, made sure no one in camp so much as looked at you the wrong way. But that didn’t make him a good man. It sure as hell didn’t make him fit to raise a kid.

He saw how you watched him, though. How you followed after him when you thought he wouldn’t notice. Like you actually wanted to be around him. Maybe that was what scared him the most.

“Damn fool,” he muttered, flicking his cigarette into the fire.

Something shifted behind him. He turned, half-expecting trouble, but it was only you, standing near the wagon, eyes drowsy with sleep.

Arthur stiffened. “You oughta be restin’,” he said gruffly.

You didn’t answer, just rubbed at your eyes and sat down beside him without a word, pulling your blanket tighter around your shoulders. Arthur exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. He should’ve told you to go back to bed. Should’ve reminded you that sticking close to him would do you no favors in life. But he didn’t.

Instead, he sighed and pulled his own coat tighter, letting the fire warm the both of you in silence.