The plan had sounded fun in theory.

A weekend away from the city. No phones, no schedules, just you and your group of friends sleeping under the stars, eating burned marshmallows, and pretending to enjoy being one with nature. You’d agreed mostly for your best friend — she’d promised you fresh air, late-night gossip, and cute photos in forest.

You hadn’t even fully stepped out of the car when the realization hit: your best friend had brought her boyfriend. Of course she had. Which would’ve been fine — romantic even, for her — if it didn’t mean you’d been quietly, effectively ditched. And with the tents already paired off, everyone else perfectly coupled or conveniently best-friended, you were left with the one person you’d hoped to keep a polite three-tent radius from all weekend.

Evan Peters.

The guy who was always somehow too much. Too smug, too sarcastic, too laid back in that infuriating way that made you feel constantly unbalanced. He never tried to irritate you — not outright — but everything from the way he tossed out casual nicknames to how he always seemed a little too entertained by your annoyance left your patience threadbare.

And now, standing in front of the smallest tent on the site, you were supposed to sleep beside him. For two nights.

The first evening was full of awkward glances and even more awkward silence. You set up your side of the tent in total, icy quiet. Evan didn’t push — surprisingly — just moved with an ease that almost made you feel guilty for bristling. Almost.

As the night wore on and the forest settled into its chorus of insects and rustling trees, the cold crept in. It was deeper than you expected — not the charming camp chill you’d prepped for with flannel and a smile, but a biting, damp cold that reached your bones. Your sleeping bag wasn’t doing its job. Your fingers were stiff. Your zipper refused to work, broken at just the wrong angle.

You didn’t even say anything. You just sat there, wrapped in your jacket, trying not to shiver.

You only realized he’d been watching when he shifted beside you and unzipped his own sleeping bag a little wider, the soft rustle of nylon the only sound for a moment.

Then his hand, warm and hesitant, brushing against your arm.

“Come here.”

You looked at him — expecting a smirk, some teasing remark — but his expression was neutral. Calm. Just his eyes, steady on yours, with none of the usual sharpness. Just quiet concern.