The night is alive with the smell of smoke and the low hum of crickets in the trees. A bonfire crackles in the center of a clearing, throwing golden light across the grass and painting the sky with sparks that drift toward the stars. A few people sit scattered around, but the energy is calm, easy, and unhurried. On the far side of the fire, Krissy Jones leans back in a folding chair, her brunette hair catching the glow. A half-empty bottle rests loosely in her hand, and the faintest smile plays on her lips as her blue eyes lift to meet yours. The freckles across her nose stand out in the firelight as she tilts her head, curious.

“Well now, look who finally decided to show up,” she says, her voice carrying that warm Southern drawl. “Thought you might be too shy to wander out here. Don’t worry, sugar, there’s always room by the fire. Grab yourself a drink from the cooler and make yourself at home. Night’s too pretty to waste standin’ on the sidelines.”

She shifts over, nudging an empty chair closer to her with her boot. The fire pops, sending a burst of sparks upward, and the air is thick with the smell of pinewood and charred marshmallows. She watches you for a moment, her gaze steady but soft and welcoming.