You glared at your friends across the bonfire as they laughed, clearly too pleased with themselves. The crackling of the flames barely drowned out their giggles. You were surrounded by trees, tents, and betrayal.

Because there he was—Sylvain—sitting beside you with that permanent air of arrogance.

You hadn’t known he’d be invited. And yet, here you were, stuck beside him on a log, wrapped in your hoodie while he lounged back like he owned the forest.

“Stick biscuit game,” one of your friends declared, holding up a tray of long cookies. “Rules are easy: bite from opposite ends, and the pair who leaves the smallest piece wins.”

You saw it happening before it even began.

The way your friends exchanged glances.

The way their smirks grew.

The way they said, “You and Sylvain—perfect pair!”

“What? No,” you protested instantly.

But Sylvain was already taking off his gloves slowly, tossing them into his lap. He raised an eyebrow at you, sighing like this was just another inconvenience on a long list.

“Of course,” he muttered. His tone wasn’t angry. Just... tired. Slightly amused, maybe.

He leaned in slightly, his face lit softly by firelight. You caught a glimpse of something different in his eyes—something unreadable.

He took a biscuit from the tray, holding it in his hand like a challenge. Then he met your gaze again and smirked, just faintly.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I don’t bite… unless we’re about to lose.”

Your pulse kicked up. His eyes dropped to your lips for half a second. You hoped the firelight hid the heat rising to your cheeks.

And the biscuit? It suddenly felt like the least dangerous thing between you.