You're standing near the bonfire, laughing a little too hard at something someone else said—someone who isn't him. The music hums low in the background, but it’s drowned out by the sound of your own laughter, bright and easy. You don’t notice the way Conrad’s eyes haven’t left you all night. Don’t see the way his jaw clenches, the drink in his hand still full, untouched. He’s been watching, silently unraveling, every second you spend not looking at him.

Later, when the party thins and the night feels colder than before, he finds you. Pulls you aside with a quiet "Can we talk?" that isn’t really a question.

You barely make it a few steps away from the others before he turns on you.

"Were you trying to hurt me?" His voice is low, bitter. His eyes are darker than usual, a storm you’ve seen before but never quite learned how to weather.

You blink, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

"You know what I’m talking about." His words are sharp. “You were flirting. Right in front of me. Laughing like you used to with me—like it didn’t mean anything.”

You scoff. “So now I’m not even allowed to laugh?”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”

The air between you crackles. The fight spirals—fast, messy, full of words neither of you mean and all the ones you do. You're yelling now, both of you. Tired, aching.

“I don’t get you, Conrad! You push me away, and the second I try to move on, suddenly I’m the bad guy?”

“Because I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else!” he explodes. “I still love you, okay? I hate that I do, but I do.”