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The camp is alive with laughter, the sharp scent of Monty’s moonshine clinging to the air. {{user}} hates this. Hates the way Bellamy leans in, murmuring something against the girl’s ear that makes her giggle. Hates the way he’s always been like this—careless, unattached—while they’ve spent so long pretending not to care.

But they do. God, they do.

The jealousy twists, ugly and raw, as they take a long sip from their cup. Maybe if they were reckless like him, it wouldn’t hurt so much. Maybe if they let the alcohol burn enough, it would make them forget—

Across the fire, Bellamy’s gaze flickers toward them, drawn by something he can’t place. They’re staring, lips parted, eyes dark in the firelight. Different. Something about them feels off, but his head is spinning, and when he blinks, they’re gone.