The last few weeks had changed so gradually that neither of you had truly noticed it.

At first, it was only little things. You would yawn halfway through breakfast, blame it on staying up too late the night before, then laugh it off. Then came the mornings when the smell of Pearson's cooking made your stomach turn for no reason at all. You assumed you'd eaten something that hadn't agreed with you the night before and thought nothing more of it. Camp life didn't really leave much room for listening to your own body. There were clothes to wash, garments to mend, horses to groom, buckets of water to carry, and there was always someone who needed an extra pair of hands. You had never been very good at saying "no." By the time the sun disappeared behind the trees, you were too exhausted to stay on your feet. Most nights, you had already fallen asleep before Arthur had even taken off his gun belt.

Arthur noticed all of it.

Not the reason—he couldn't possibly have known that. But he noticed the change. You no longer fixed your hair before supper the way you used to. The little ribbons Arthur occasionally brought you back from town remained untouched in the wooden box beside your bedroll. The dresses you used to wear simply because Arthur liked seeing you in them had stayed folded beneath the blankets for weeks. You had stopped meeting him at the edge of camp whenever he returned from a job. Not because you didn't want to see him, but because you were either hurrying from one chore to another with buckets of water in your hands or too exhausted to even notice how late it had gotten. When Arthur came back, you still smiled, still asked whether he'd been hurt, and if you could manage to keep your eyes open, you'd press a small kiss to his cheek. But lately, that had become the hardest part—keeping your eyes open.

One evening, Arthur returned to camp after spending two days away on a job, covered in mud from head to toe. He expected to find you near the fire or waiting outside the tent, just like you used to. Instead, he found you kneeling beside a wash basin, trying to scrub the bloodstains out of Javier's shirt. Your shoulders sagged with exhaustion. Loose strands of hair clung to your face, your sleeves had been hastily rolled up to your elbows, and the tiredness beneath your eyes was more obvious than Arthur had ever seen before. "Can't it wait 'til tomorrow?" he asked quietly. Without even looking up, you gave him a tired smile. "I'm almost done." Arthur washed the dirt from his hands, and when he stepped back into the tent a few minutes later, you were already asleep. You hadn't even had the strength to change your clothes. You'd simply curled up on top of the blankets, as though you'd only meant to sit down for a minute. One of your hands rested absentmindedly over your stomach.

Arthur stood at the entrance of the tent for a long time without moving. Quietly, he knelt beside you, brushed the loose strands of hair behind your ear, and pulled the blanket up over your shoulders so you wouldn't get cold. You didn't stir. Not even when he pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead. Arthur watched you sleep for several more minutes, trying to convince himself it was only exhaustion. But somewhere in the back of his mind, another thought had already taken root. Maybe it wasn't just exhaustion. Maybe the problem was him. Maybe the weight of camp life, the life of an outlaw, and a husband who came home covered in mud, blood, or fresh wounds every time had slowly worn away the excitement you once felt. Arthur didn't ask you. He was afraid of hearing the answer. Instead, after making sure you were covered one last time, he reached beneath his bedroll for his journal. By the dim light of the lantern, while you slept peacefully only a few feet away, he began to write. 𓂃🪶

"October... Hell if I know the day.

I haven't been paying much attention to the dates lately.

She fell asleep again tonight.

She didn't even make it into bed this time. She sat down for what was probably meant to be only a minute, and by the time I came back into the tent, she was already asleep. Still wearing the same dress she'd been working in all day. Her hair had fallen loose, and her hands looked rough from washing clothes and carrying water around camp.

She looks exhausted. Not just tired. Exhausted. I've asked her if she's feeling alright more than once now. Every time she smiles and tells me she's fine. Says she's just been helping around camp. I suppose that's true. She's always doing something for somebody. Carrying water, mending shirts, helping Pearson, cleaning rifles, patching blankets, feeding horses. I don't think I've ever heard her tell anyone no. I don't even think she remembers how.

Still... something feels different.

She used to hear my horse before I even reached camp. I'd look up and she'd already be walking toward me. Sometimes she'd fix her hair before supper. Sometimes she'd wear that blue dress I always liked. I'd bring home ribbons from town just because I knew she'd smile when she saw them. They're still sitting in that little wooden box. Untouched.

Most evenings she's asleep before I finish taking my gun belt off. I miss talking to her. Hell, I miss hearing her laugh.

I've been trying to figure out when things changed. I keep thinking back, looking for something I might've said. Something I forgot. Something I should've noticed. I can't find anything. Maybe there isn't anything to find. Maybe this is just what happens after enough time passes. Maybe people stop trying once they're married.

Or maybe... maybe she's simply tired of looking after a man like me.

I'm not exactly easy to live with. I leave for days without warning. I come home dirty more often than clean. Sometimes bloody. Sometimes carrying more trouble than I should. Maybe she's finally realized she deserves better than waiting around for an outlaw who can't promise he'll make it home.

I couldn't blame her if that's the truth.

Sometimes I get tired of myself too.

The strange part is... she still kisses me goodnight. At least on the nights she's still awake. She still asks if I'm hurt every time I come back. She still reaches for my hand in her sleep.

None of that has changed. It's everything else that has. I suppose that's why I can't stop thinking about it. She's lying a few feet away from me while I'm writing this. I've never felt farther away from someone sitting so close.

I hope I'm wrong. I hope she's just tired.

I'd much rather find out I've been imagining all of this than hear her tell me she doesn't look at me the way she used to.

Maybe tomorrow will be different. I hope it is."

The thing neither of you knew yet was that the reason you were growing more exhausted with each passing day wasn't Arthur. It was the tiny life, quietly growing inside your womb.

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