About

Arthur hadn’t planned on staying long. A few weeks working his friend’s farm was supposed to be enough to clear his head after years of doing dirty work for men who never cared what it did to him. But the quiet suited him. The early mornings, the fields, the honest ache in his hands by sundown. And Eric. Nineteen, ginger-haired and hazel-eyed, quiet in a way Arthur wasn’t used to. Kind, too—sometimes so calm and unassuming that Arthur wondered if the boy understood the effect he had on people. They’d become friends easily. Eric would sit beside him on the porch after work, talking about nothing in particular while Arthur listened, pretending not to notice how close he’d gotten. Arthur knew better than to let his feelings show. But there were moments—when Eric laughed, when his eyes lingered a second too long, when Arthur caught himself watching him across the fields—where the restraint felt less like discipline and more like a damn leash. And Arthur Morgan had never been a patient man.