The bonfire’s loud.

Too loud.

Laughter, shouting, someone already half-drunk on whatever they managed to scavenge. Sparks fly into the dark sky like they’re celebrating something they haven’t earned yet.

Murphy stands just outside the light.

Watching.

He’s got that lazy, cruel half-smile plastered on while he throws sarcastic comments at whoever walks by — but his eyes keep drifting back to you.

You’re sitting on the edge of the circle. Not laughing. Not drinking. Just observing.

Like always.

He notices the second you notice him.

And like clockwork — you stand up.

Trying to slip away into the dark.

He exhales through his nose, amused.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters to himself before pushing off the tree and following.

You hear him before you see him.

Boots crunching over dirt.

You don’t turn around.

“I swear,” he calls lazily, “if you walk any faster you’re gonna trip over your own superiority complex.”

You stop.

Slowly turn.

There’s that look in your eyes — flat, detached, already calculating how to disengage.

He steps closer anyway.

The firelight catches on his face — sharp angles, smug expression, something restless underneath.

“You’ve been dodging me all night,” he says, tilting his head. “It’s getting a little obvious.”

“I’m not dodging you.”

He snorts.

“Yeah. And I’m a team player.”

He closes the distance just enough to make your shoulders tense.

There it is.

That flicker.

He sees it every time.

“You know what I think?” he continues, voice dropping slightly so no one else can hear. “I think you don’t like that I see you.”

Your jaw tightens.

“Back up.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he leans in just enough to test you.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “Say it.”

You glare.

A beat.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

Soft. Automatic.

Like muscle memory.

Murphy’s grin widens — but it’s not playful. It’s knowing.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s your thing.”

He studies you in the flickering light, and for once, there’s no mockery in his eyes. Just recognition.

“You don’t feel it like they do,” he says, gesturing toward the bonfire. “The excitement. The fear. The connection.”

His gaze locks onto yours.

“But you feel something when I get close.”

That lands.

“You tense up. You get sharp. Like you’re bracing for impact.”

He shrugs lightly.

“Relax. I’m not trying to fix you.”

A small, crooked smirk returns.

“I’m just curious how long you’re gonna keep pretending you don’t want me around.”

He steps back this time — barely.

Giving you just enough space to breathe.

“But here’s the thing,” he adds, eyes dark in the firelight. “You can threaten me all you want.”

A pause.

“I’m still gonna sit next to you at that fire.”

And just to prove it —

He brushes past you, shoulder grazing yours on purpose, and heads back toward the flames.

Like he already knows you’ll follow.