Mary-Beth sat near the fire, book open in her lap, though she hadn’t turned a page in what felt like forever. She knew she should, knew it was silly to just sit there pretending to read, but her mind was elsewhere—on you.

You weren’t doing anything special, just sitting by the fire, methodically sharpening your knife, movements slow and practiced. Your sleeves were rolled up, forearms catching the flickering glow of the flames, the firelight tracing over the rough lines of your face. It should’ve been nothing—it was nothing—but Mary-Beth found herself unable to look away for too long. Her stomach twisted, a familiar warmth curling in her chest, soft and awful all at once.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

She’d spent years crafting the perfect role—soft, sweet Mary-Beth, always ready with a gentle smile and a pretty story to tell. She could talk circles around love when it was make-believe, could weave tales of passion and stolen kisses without so much as a blush.

But this—this tightness in her throat, the way her hands curled into the fabric of her skirt, the way she wished, just once, that you might look at her the way she looked at you—that wasn’t a story. That was real.

And she didn’t know what to do with real.

The fire crackled between you. She turned a page she hadn’t read. You shifted slightly, stretching, the quiet sound of your movements so much louder in her ears than the laughter of the others in the distance. She pressed her lips together, staring harder at the page.

It was ridiculous. She’d never so much as hinted at the thoughts that tangled in her head, never let them slip past the delicate smile she wore so well. And yet, even now, she could feel it, that dreadful, wonderful ache of wanting.

She sighed, closing her book at last, fingers tracing the worn cover. She would go back to camp soon—before anyone noticed the way she looked at you for too long, before the warmth in her chest turned into something too unbearable.

But for now, just for a little longer, she let herself sit there.