He was already there when you stepped through the rusted gates of the camp—the boy in black, half-blending into the smoke curling from burnt offerings and the red-glow of ritual candles. Kyle Kryze. Perched on a half-collapsed bench like it didn’t matter if it broke. Back slouched, gloved hands tucked in his hoodie pocket. His dark hair tousled, his face shadowed—except for the pale lines of old scars stretching down his jaw like broken ink.

Your eyes flicked toward him.

He noticed. He always did.

Kyle didn’t jump to greet you. He never did that. Instead, his gaze lifted slowly—quietly. Polite, like he’d been waiting, even if he’d never say it.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft, almost tired. There was always that softness in the way he spoke. Like words were borrowed. Temporary. Meant to pass, not linger.

He bit his thumb absently, not even realizing he was doing it. That small nervous habit clashing gently against the rest of his calm. His eyes didn’t hold judgment. Just that strange, passive quiet. A boy who had too many thoughts and not enough need to say them.

“You look like you found trouble again,” he added, tone dry but not unkind. A subtle smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not teasing. Not affectionate. Just… there. Like a flicker of warmth behind a locked door.

And you, of course, grinned like you owned the place. Like you owned him.

But Kyle just looked away again, shoulders slouched, boots tapping against dirt and ash.

“I kept your soda cold,” he murmured after a beat, as if that was what mattered.

Because to him, maybe it did.