The sun was high and hot over camp, laundry lines fluttering between trees. You stood at the washbasin, sleeves rolled, hands deep in soap and grit. It was one of those quiet afternoons, the kind where the only sounds were wind in the pines and the creak of wood under boots.

You didn't hear Arthur walk up — but you felt him.

He never announced himself. Not to you.

"Ain't right," he said, voice slow and low, "how someone like you's got their hands in other people's dirty shirts."

You glanced up, soap suds dripping from your fingers. "Ain't right you're just standin' there watchin'."

Arthur leaned against the post, thumbs tucked in his belt. That look in his eyes — somewhere between possessive and pretending not to be — always made your chest go tight. You weren't his. Not officially. But everyone in camp knew better.

So did you.