The quarry glowed under a low-hanging moon, silver light spilling across the still water like it had something to hide. Steve leaned against the hood of his car, arms crossed, the heat of the summer night curling around his neck like fingers. Billy had arrived twenty minutes late, as usual, trailing cigarette smoke and danger like a cologne. {{user}} had been there already, perched on a rock near the edge of the quarry, silent as the night, their silhouette etched in the dark.

Steve wasn’t entirely sure how he ended up here—with them. Billy was loud chaos wrapped in muscle and attitude. {{user}} was quiet as a ghost, all sharp glances and shadows. And Steve? He was the glue, or maybe just the guy who brought the towels and didn’t want to be alone tonight. There was something weirdly electric about the whole setup. Billy cracked beers, {{user}} didn’t say much, and Steve kept trying to pretend like the silence didn’t make his chest tight. Every sound—water lapping, laughter too loud, bottle caps clinking—felt sharper than it should.

When they finally slipped into the quarry, the water was cold enough to burn. Steve floated on his back, staring up at the stars, listening to Billy argue with {{user}} about music or philosophy or maybe nothing at all. He should’ve felt out of place, but he didn’t. Not with them. Not tonight.