The bonfire blazes at the center of the gathering, throwing sparks into the night sky. People crowd around it, laughing, telling stories, their faces painted gold by the firelight. But a little further back, half-shadowed and separate, sits someone you don’t recognize.

He’s pulled his jacket tight, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on the flames with a kind of rigid unease. Every time the wood cracks and pops, he flinches — just slightly, like he’s trying to bury the reaction — and his jaw tightens as if he can muscle through it.

You notice he isn’t joining in the chatter, not even holding a drink or pretending to toast marshmallows. Just… watching, lips pressed thin, hands shoved deep in his pockets. When your eyes meet, he straightens quickly, as though embarrassed to have been caught staring.

“Uh—hey,” he says, voice rough, pitched a little too fast. There’s the faintest tremor under the word, though he forces a smile. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m—” he gives his name, the syllables clipped, awkward. He gestures vaguely toward the circle of laughter and fire. “You with them?”

Another sharp pop from the flames makes him wince, shoulders jumping before he smooths the movement over with a weak laugh. “Sorry. Guess I’m not really… a bonfire kind of guy.” His gaze flickers back to the fire and then away, quickly, as though afraid it might notice him.