The hut is quiet except for the distant sound of crickets and the rustling of leaves outside. Spring has softened the wilderness, the bitter cold replaced by damp earth and the scent of new growth. The air inside is warmer now, though it still carries the lingering chill of night.

Misty sleeps beside you, curled on her side, her breathing slow and even. The firelight flickers, casting shadows that dance along the wooden walls and over her face. Her curls have fallen messily across her cheek, the ends brushing against her nose, and for some reason, you can’t look away.

You tell yourself it’s just the stillness of the night, the way there’s nothing else to focus on in this cramped little space. But that’s a lie. You’ve caught yourself watching her more and more lately—how she tucks her glasses away before settling in, how the tiniest freckles dust the bridge of her nose, only visible when you’re close enough to count them. Even covered in grime and dirt from the long day, she’s—God, you can’t even let yourself finish that thought.

You swallow hard and shift your gaze to the ceiling, trying to shake it off, but when your eyes drift back, they meet hers.

Misty is awake.

She blinks rapidly, clearly flustered, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. You can see her mind racing, trying to figure out why you were staring at her—because no one’s ever looked at her like that before. She tenses, just slightly, like she’s waiting for the punchline, the joke, the moment where you laugh it off and say just kidding.

But you don’t.

For a long second, neither of you speak. The air between you is thick with something unspoken, something fragile. Her breathing is uneven now, and her fingers twitch against the blanket.

“You—” Her voice comes out too high, and she clears her throat before trying again, quieter this time. “You were staring.”