The nickname slips out before you can stop it.

“Nice one, Flex.”

The second it leaves your mouth, you already know it’s a mistake.

Across the clearing, Travis freezes mid-motion. He’d been hauling a chunk of wood toward the fire pit, jaw set, shoulders tight like always. Now he just… stops.

Slowly, he turns his head toward you.

“What did you just call me?”

There’s no humor in it. None.

You try to shrug it off, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Relax, it’s just a nickname.”

“Don’t,” he snaps immediately. “Don’t call me that.”

The others nearby go quiet, not completely, but enough that you can feel the shift. Like the air’s paying attention now.

You could drop it.

Probably should.

But something about the way he said it, so sharp, so defensive, makes you push, just a little.

“Why not?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “It fits.”

That was the wrong move.

Travis drops the wood with a dull thud and takes a few steps toward you. Not fast, not aggressive exactly, but direct. Intent.

“Because it’s stupid,” he says. “And I’m not your friend like that.”

The words land harder than you expect.

You cross your arms, more out of instinct than confidence. “Didn’t say you were.”

“Then don’t act like it.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Up close, you can see the tension in his face, the way his jaw clenches, the flicker of something behind his eyes that isn’t just anger. Something rawer. Tired. On edge.

You glance away for a second, then back at him.

“Okay,” you say, quieter now. “It was a joke.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Well, I’m not laughing.”

Another pause stretches between you.

The wind cuts through the trees, cold and constant. Somewhere behind you, someone stirs the fire, the crackle filling the space neither of you is speaking in.

You could walk away.

He probably expects you to.