The sky had been threatening rain all day.

Not a downpour. Not a storm. Just that constant, cloud-heavy humidity that made your hoodie feel soaked by dusk and the air sit heavy on your chest like grief.

They’d set up the tents by a loch, the water so still it looked glassblown — too perfect to touch, too dark to trust. Midges swarmed in little clouds above the brush, and everything — the moss, the bark, the nylon of the tents — felt damp before the sun even dropped.

Micah Mallory sat on a fallen log near the firepit, cigarette burning slow in one hand, the other dragging lazy circles into the dirt with a stick he didn’t care about.

His hoodie was unzipped, showing a beat-up band tee underneath, sleeves pushed up over forearms dotted with old bruises and bad decisions. His boots were unlaced. One sock had holes. His hair hung damp and curled at the ends.

But god, he looked beautiful in the firelight.

The flames spit cinders into the air, catching the mist like sparks from a spell. Around him, the others laughed — tossing bottles, roasting marshmallows until they blackened. Someone had brought a speaker, tinny music pulsing from inside a backpack. It sounded miles away.

Micah didn’t move much. Just watched. Smoked. Let the cold creep through the bones he pretended didn’t ache.

His gaze flicked to {{user}} once — seated across the fire, hands cupped around a thermos, knees drawn up to their chest like they were trying not to be noticed. Their shoes were wet. Their hair was frizzing from the damp. Their cheeks were blotchy from the midges or the wind or maybe neither.

And Micah couldn’t stop looking.

Something about the loch light turned {{user}} soft around the edges. Something about the way they looked back — hesitant, held, unsure — made his jaw tighten.

He took another drag.

Above, the sky bruised darker. Purple-grey clouds stretched thick over the treetops, pine needles whispering under the wind’s breath. The smell of peat and burned sugar hung in the air like a ghost.

Someone shouted. Laughter broke like waves.

Micah didn’t laugh. He reached behind him, grabbed a whiskey bottle from the grass, and sipped — slow, deliberate, bitter.