The wind hasn’t let up since sundown. It whistles through the pine trees and snaps at the canvas like it’s trying to peel the tent off the mountain. The fire outside is down to coals, barely enough to throw heat, and the cold’s already sunk deep into your bones.

It’s the kind of cold that makes your teeth ache. The kind that makes you regret ever agreeing to this trip.

You don’t know who had the brilliant idea—maybe Clayton’s father, maybe yours—but someone decided the two of you should be the ones to ride up into the hills and clear out the spring path after last week’s storm washed it out. “Some time alone’ll do you boys good,” they said, like throwing two flint rocks together would magically make them smooth.

And now, three days in, you’re freezing your ass off in a tent not made for two men your size, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with the one person you’ve never figured out how to be civil with.

You grew up near him—shared fence lines, chores, summers so hot the dirt cracked under your boots. Your parents shared supper every few weeks. You and him? You shared fists. Shared glares. Shared the kind of silence that always threatened to break into something else. Something worse.

Or something you don’t want to name.

He shifts beside you again—Clayton, always moving like he’s got a fire under his skin. The blanket you’re both under pulls with the motion, and you bite down a sharp comment before it can slip out.

“You always this stiff,” he mutters, voice low in the dark, “or just when I’m around?”

You don’t look at him. “It’s a tight space. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He scoffs. “Didn’t say you liked it. Just said you act like I’m contagious.”

You breathe slowly through your nose. He’s trying to get a rise out of you. That’s all he ever does—poke and prod and grin through it like a dare.

“I’m actin’ like someone who doesn’t want to freeze to death because you can’t lie still.”

You hear the smirk in his voice before he speaks again. “You talk like you’re carved outta stone. Even your insults are calm.”

“Maybe I just know how to keep myself in check.”

He lets out a low, sarcastic hum. “Sure. Real steady. Except when I catch you lookin’.”

You glance at him, jaw tight. “You think everything’s about you.”

“I think you stare at me like I’ve done somethin’ wrong. Especially on Sundays, when Ellie Mae’s talkin’ to me.”

You feel it then—tight and unwelcome in your chest. That familiar mix of annoyance and something darker. You remember her red hair in the sun. The way Clayton leaned in when she laughed. The way your stomach twisted when he touched her waist like it didn’t mean a damn thing.

You exhale slow, voice flat. “I glare because you act like a damn fool the second anyone’s watching.”

He shifts again. The blanket rustles.

“Didn’t realize you were watchin’ that close,” he says, quieter now. Not smug. Not quite.

You finally look at him, eyes adjusting to the low light. You can just make out the hard line of his jaw, the stubborn tilt of his mouth.

“I notice things,” you say. “That don’t mean I like what I see.”

The words land heavy between you. He doesn’t shoot back with a joke this time. Doesn’t scoff or grin or play it off.

Just silence.

Then, after a long moment, he says, a little rougher, “You always talk in circles, or just with me?”

You don’t answer. You roll back over, facing the tent wall, tucking the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“Get some sleep, Clayton.”

Another pause. Longer than it should be.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “Alright.”

But you both lie there, awake.