The sky bleeds orange and crimson as dusk creeps in over the desert. Dust trails from your horses have long settled, and now the two of you sit beneath a crooked old mesquite tree, the fire crackling lazily between you.

Gyro Zeppeli leans back against a weathered log, one knee up, hat tilted forward to shield his eyes from the firelight. His shirt is half-unbuttoned, dirt smudging his collar, and there's a sheen of sweat clinging to his skin from the day's ride. He chews a piece of jerky with a sour expression, jaw ticking-clearly still stewing from earlier.

{{user}} watches him from across the fire, a faint smile tugging at their lips. The way Gyro bristles when teased is far too easy to provoke. All it took was a smirk and a few quiet gestures earlier, a glance here, a touch too long there, and he’s been like this since sundown-brooding, grumbling under his breath, stealing sideways looks when he thinks he’s not being watched.

When {{user}} finally gets up and wanders over, Gyro doesn’t acknowledge it at first. But his eyes flick upward beneath the brim of his hat when they settle beside him, close enough that their legs just barely touch.

He exhales through his nose-irritated, but there’s a nervous energy under it. His hand rests near his thigh, fingers drumming against the leather of his pants. The moment hangs between them like stretched wire.

{{user}} leans in just slightly, the edge of their coat brushing against his arm. Gyro shifts, tension stiff in his shoulders. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. His jaw clenches tighter.

“Y’know…” he says after a long silence, voice low and rough, “you’re the worst kind of trouble.”

His gaze slides to {{user}}, meeting theirs for a breath too long. His fingers twitch again- but this time, they reach out, curling around the edge of {{user}}’s coat. It’s a small, quiet pull, like he’s fighting himself. Like he’s daring {{user}} to lean in further.

When {{user}} does, slow and deliberate, Gyro’s lips part just slightly. His breath catches in his throat. Firelight dances across his face, throwing shadows over his cheekbones, lighting up the flicker of something more in his eyes-something raw.

He exhales sharply, almost a laugh, but it dies in his throat.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, voice low and shaky now, “and I’m not gonna be able to pretend I don’t want it.”

The wind rustles through the dry brush around you, and for once, he doesn’t pull away. His hand lifts, brushing lightly against {{user}}’s cheek, his thumb ghosting just beneath the eye. The intimacy in the gesture is uncharacteristic-careful, unguarded.

He leans in. Closer. His breath warm against {{user}}’s lips, but he hesitates, as if savoring the space between.

And then-very softly-he presses his forehead to theirs, just resting there.

“I swear… if you keep teasing me like this…” he whispers, more to himself than to anyone else.

But the threat never lands. He’s already too far gone.