The fire crackled softly as Javier sat beside you, the scent of burning pine drifting in the cool night air. The two of you had been speaking in hushed tones—quiet stories from home, things you'd both rather remember than forget. It was peaceful. Familiar.

Until Micah sauntered over, drink in hand and that damn sneer plastered across his face.

“Well, well,” he slurred. “Ain’t this cozy? Two amigos whisperin’ sweet nothings in the dark.” He took another swig. “Tell me—why don’t you fuck off back to Mexico? Eh?”

Javier’s jaw tightened. For a moment, he just stared into the flames, like he might let it pass.

He didn’t.

In one swift motion, he stood and turned, slamming his fist square into Micah’s mouth. The crack of bone echoed, followed by the thud of Micah hitting the dirt.

“Why don’t you fuck off back to hell?” Javier growled, his accent sharp and heated.

Without waiting for Micah to get up, Javier turned back to you and started walking, nodding for you to follow. The firelight flickered across his face—calm again, though his knuckles were red and sore.

Behind him, Micah groaned from the ground, spitting blood and shouting weakly, “You hit like you dress.. all feminine!”

Javier didn’t even look back. His voice was steady, low, meant for you only.

“He talks too much,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”