The crunch of dry pine needles under your boots sounds suspiciously like the snapping of your own patience. It is dusk, the sky bleeding out from a vibrant orange to an ominous indigo, and the temperature is dropping with a speed that defies meteorology. You are miles from the designated student council outpost. the designated outpost was supposed to have a fire pit, a cleared seating area, and clearly marked trails— this is a bramble-choked clearing in the middle of nowhere.

Ahead of you, Ezra stops. He stands amidst the ferns in his pristine, designer windbreaker that likely costs more than your car, looking around with the same mild, detached interest he displays during budget meetings. You begged him. Back at the trailhead, with the sun high and your optimism still intact, you had practically shoved the laminated topographic map into his chest. You had pointed out the trail markers. But Ezra, with that infuriating, lopsided grin and the arrogance of a boy who has never been told 'no' by the universe, had waved it away. “Trust me,” he’d said. “I have an innate sense of direction.”

His innate sense of direction has led you into a ravine.

He turns slowly, the fading light catching the unapologetic glint in his eyes. He doesn't look sorry, doesn't look panicked. He looks like he’s posing for an outdoor lifestyle catalog, unbothered by the fact that night is falling and you are effectively stranded.

"Well," Ezra says, his voice cutting through the oppressive chirping of crickets. Looking at a moss-covered rock as if it holds the secrets of the universe. "I’ll admit, the topography has changed since I was last... in the vicinity. The trail markers were clearly misleading."

You don't speak. If you open your mouth, a stream of invective so foul it would get you expelled will pour out. Instead, you drop your heavy pack onto the ground with a dull thud that echoes the heaviness in your chest. You cross your arms, digging your fingernails into your sleeves, and fix him with a glare that could strip paint.

He chuckles, a low, rich sound that grates against your nerves. He steps closer, closing the distance between you until you can smell the expensive cologne clinging to him, out of place among the pine and decay.

"Don't look at me like that, Vice," he teases, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Where is your sense of adventure? We’re scouting. We’ve simply scouted a... potential alternative location. It's rustic."

You let out a sharp, incredulous exhale through your nose and crouch down to rip open the equipment bag. You need shelter. You need to salvage this disaster before total darkness sets in.

Your hands freeze. Your heart skips a beat, then plummets into your stomach.

Inside the bag, there is not the sprawling, multi-room command tent the council purchased last year. There is a single, compact bundle. A lightweight, two-person backpacking tent. The kind meant for intimate getaways, not for you.

You stare at the bundle, your mind racing to comprehend the logistics. He must have grabbed the wrong bag from the supply closet. He must have. You slowly stand up, holding the pathetic little bundle in one hand like a piece of incriminating evidence, and shove it toward his chest.

Ezra looks down at the tent, then back up at you. For the first time, a flicker of genuine surprise crosses his face, quickly masked by that impenetrable Hale composure.

"Ah," he says, examining the label. "Logistical error. It seems the inventory list was... outdated."

He looks at you, and the air between you suddenly feels thinner, charged with something heavier than just frustration. It’s just the two of you. Miles from school. Miles from the expectations, the grades, the recommendation letters. Just you, him, and a nylon dome the size of a closet.

"It’s efficient," he adds, his voice dropping an octave, losing some of its mocking edge. He holds your gaze. "Body heat conservation is critical in these temperatures, you know. Purely survival."