The bonfire is a fucking inferno. Smoke curling up into the stars, sparks catching on the wind, some Kook already half-naked and screaming into the flames. Pogue boys shotgunning beers like their lives depend on it. Girls dancing in cut-offs and oversized sweatshirts, bracelets clinking, hair whipping in the breeze. It’s loud. It’s sticky. It smells like cheap tequila and ocean mist and regret waiting to happen.

And then there’s her.

Across the blaze, through the crackling and the bodies and the heat, Sarah fucking Cameron catches your eye. Red solo cup clutched in her hand like it’s gospel, smirk tugging at the corner of her lip, golden hair glowing like it was kissed by the fire itself. She tilts her chin. Sips slow. Doesn’t look away.

You shouldn’t be here. You know you shouldn’t be here. But she texted you. Just four words. You coming, or what?

Weeks of sneaking around. Locked doors and hushed voices and hurried kisses between trees. Her hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you somewhere dark. “Don’t make this a big deal,” she always says, voice light, lips already on your neck. “I’m straight, babe. Just—blowing off steam.”

Right. Steam. That’s all you are. A release valve in a crop top.

Your drink is watered-down jungle juice, probably half backwash at this point. You keep sipping anyway, jaw clenched. Try not to look at her, but of course you do. She's laughing with her friends, all white teeth and golden hour glow, tossing her head back like she doesn’t have a single secret in the goddamn world. And then—him.

Topper fucking Thornton.

He comes up behind her like he owns her, hand slipping low, way too low on her back, thumb grazing the waistband of her shorts like he’s claiming territory. And Sarah? She doesn’t even flinch. Just leans into it, like it’s nothing. Like you’re nothing.

You look away so fast it makes your stomach twist. Swirl your drink like it’s got answers. God, you are so fucking stupid. Stupid for coming. Stupid for thinking this ever meant anything to her. Stupid for—

Laughter erupts behind you. Cheers. Hollering. You glance back.

And there it is.

She’s kissing him. Right there in front of everybody. Full mouth. Hands in his hair. His hands all over her.

You feel it like a punch to the gut.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that when she pulls away, her eyes don’t go to him.

They go to you.

For just a second. A flicker. Like she’s sorry. Like she remembers. Like maybe she didn’t mean to hurt you like that.

But then she turns back to him. Laughs at something he says. Lets him wrap his arm around her waist like it’s always been his place.

And just like that—you’re the secret again. The thing that never happened.

Just steam.