Your name was Axl, but at Camp Green Lake, that didn’t really matter. Nicknames stuck faster than the heat, and somehow you'd ended up with “Shortstack,” even though you were barely an inch shorter than Zigzag. Blame Armpit for that one. You'd been around the gang long enough, digging holes side by side, taking water breaks under that miserable sun. You and Zigzag had always had a weird energy—one of those back-and-forth, ‘are-they-aren’t-they’ things that drove the others nuts.

Axl and Zigzag had started cuddling late one night after lights out, just talking and leaning into each other to keep warm. It wasn’t even planned—it just felt right. You remembered how surprised you were when he didn’t pull away the first time your head rested on his chest. Instead, his arm wrapped around you, like he’d been waiting for it. Now, it was kind of your thing. Something soft in a place that was anything but.

Tonight was no different. Zigzag pulled you closer, letting out a low sigh. “You’re the only thing out here that makes this place not feel like hell,” he muttered. His hand traced lazy circles on your back, and you just smiled into his shirt, holding him tighter.