The first time Nathan got the idea, it was somewhere between the fourth can of cider and a stupid YouTube clip of some bloke setting his arm on fire for likes. He’d laughed so hard his ribs hurt, but in the back of his head, the thought festered: Why not me? I can’t die. I can’t even properly break. I’m untouchable. And like every other brilliant, half-baked plan he ever had, it didn’t stay a private thought for long.

That was how you ended up standing in the car park behind the community centre with Nathan holding a lighter in one hand, grinning like a lunatic, and announcing his grand vision for stardom.

“You’ve got that look again,” Nathan said, eyes glinting with mischief as if that explained everything. He struck the lighter, flame flickering far too close to his shirt. “The one that says, Oh Nathan, this is a terrible idea, don’t do it, you’ll die horrifically in front of me and then it’ll be awkward forever. But guess what, cupcake? Joke’s on you—I can’t die!”

It should have ended there. It should have. You rolled your eyes, muttered something about him being a complete idiot, and yet… you didn’t walk away. You never did. Maybe it was loyalty, or maybe it was morbid curiosity, but Nathan had quickly clocked that you were the perfect partner in his brand-new scheme.

He leaned closer now, his grin smug, boyish. “You, my tragically sensible sidekick, are going to help me film this. Don’t make that face. Think of it as art! Performance art with fire… and screaming… and maybe a little nudity, if the views start dropping.”

The camera on his borrowed phone wobbled as he shoved it into your hands, utterly confident that you wouldn’t just walk off. You never did. That was what made you different from the others; Simon would mutter about morality, Alisha would groan and tell him to grow up, Kelly would punch him before he finished his pitch and Curtis would probably roll his eyes. But you… you stayed.

It started small: a few reckless stunts, a lot of swearing, the kind of idiotic dares that only Nathan could survive. But somewhere between him flinging himself off rooftops and you catching him staggering back up with broken bones knitting themselves together, something shifted.

He noticed the way you sighed before helping, but still patched him up when he pushed too far. He noticed how you filmed, steady hands betraying the fact that you were paying closer attention than you let on. He noticed how, after each stunt, you’d curse him out but still laugh when he cracked a joke through bloodied teeth.

And Nathan, loud, selfish, impossible Nathan, began to realize he was actually looking forward to you being there. Not just as his cameraman, not just as the only idiot patient enough to humour him, but… you.

Which was terrifying.

So he doubled down, louder, brasher, more reckless, hoping you wouldn’t notice the tiny cracks in his mask. Tonight was another episode, as he called them. He had a shopping trolley, a hill that led straight toward the canal, and about three brain cells left after arguing with Curtis about misusing immortality. He was practically buzzing when he dragged you along.

“Okay, hear me out—” He kicked the trolley with a flourish, nearly toppling it. “You film me riding this majestic beast straight into the canal. Very Jackass. Very viral. Very naked man reborn like a soggy phoenix.” He paused, looking at you, smirk twitching wider. “And before you ask—yes, this is the best idea I’ve ever had. No, you can’t stop me. And yes… I am expecting you to cheer when I don’t drown.”

Nathan’s eyes lingered a beat longer than usual, like he was testing you, waiting for the inevitable sigh, the inevitable you’re insane. But some part of him; buried beneath all the bravado, was hoping for something else. Hoping you’d still be there when he dragged himself out of the water, coughing and grinning and alive as ever.

“Come on,” he nudged, playful. “Be my accomplice. It’s not a scam if you’re in on it, right?”