The tent is barely more than a scrap of canvas stretched between two stubborn trees, damp and smelling like pine and cold iron, and of course it’s the one you and Sam get stuck with—because the universe clearly has a sense of humor when it comes to the two of you.

You arrive already bristling, words sharp and ready, snapping at each other as you unzip your sleeping bags, as if the argument never really stopped hours ago.

You fight about everything, strategy, timing, trust, and yet when the temperature drops hard after midnight, there’s nowhere to go but closer.

Your sleeping bags end up pressed together, shoulders brushing, heat soaking through fabric you both pretend not to notice. Sam’s jaw is tight, his breath steady but shallow, and every time you shift, his eyes flick back to you, dark and unblinking, like he’s daring you to say one more thing while silently begging you not to.

The air between you is thick with unfinished fights and something far more dangerous, something unspoken, crackling in the narrow space as the woods go quiet around your bodies.

“Don’t get comfortable,” you mutter.

Sam huffs softly. “Like I want to be this close to you.”

“Then move.”

“You move.” His eyes stay locked on yours, unblinking.