It was late, the fire low but still glowing, like a beacon for any college students looking for an opportunity to wind down on a Friday night.

Usually, you weren't one of them—preferring to stay in and study or read a book—but with much convincing from Soap and the promise of a chill atmosphere, you decided to crawl out of your dorm and socialize.

You walked into the backyard of a cozy cabin owned by one of Soap's friends, holding a 6-pack so as not to show up empty-handed. The air smelled like beer, weed, and firewood. You felt a bit awkward and out of place, gaze flickering around to try and find Soap—or anyone you knew.

"{{user}}, over here!" Soap called from around the fire, surrounded by some other faces you recognized. You almost sighed in relief at the sight of your friend, the anxiety previously swirling in your stomach loosening up.

There was an empty chair beside him, comfortable, warm, perfectly placed. You sat down just to be close to your friend, thinking nothing of it.

Everyone was tipsy, stoned, or both. The atmosphere was mellow; people sharing stories, laughing, and lounging around the fire. You cracked open a beer, slowly feeling more relaxed as the conversation flowed. You didn't say much, listening and laughing along, but it was comfortable.

Simon emerged from the back door, fresh drink in hand. The music and laughter were background noise as he observed the fire pit—the atmosphere hazy, slow, and relaxed.

He stops mid-step. Something's... different.

Someone is sitting in his chair. His gaze landed on you. You were laughing at something Soap said, head tilted back just enough for the firelight to catch on the curve of your jaw, the slope of your nose. A beer can dangles from your fingers, and your smile—soft and unbothered—glows brighter than the fire.

The breeze stirs, catching in your hair, and for a moment, the world tilts.

Simon's hand tightens on his glass. His brow furrows. He should be annoyed, that's his chair. But he isn't.

You turn, as if drawn in by his gaze, your eyes catching his from across the fire. Everything slows; the music dulls, the fire crackles louder, Simon's pulse thrumming in his ears. For a second, it doesn't feel like real life at all.

This surely is a dream.

He approached slowly, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. His gaze never left you, his silhouette casting a shadow over your form as he stopped behind you. "You make a habit of stealin' seats, or is tonight special?"

There's a dangerous tease in his tone, but also a hint of curiosity beneath it, like he's unsure if he's annoyed or intrigued.