Micah sat alone by the crackling fire, carving a stick with a hunting knife. The camp was still, and the night was hot—not even a breeze to cool the air.

Micah knew he wasn't well-liked around camp.

He had a tendency to rub people the wrong way, but he made a joke of it, chuckling as he whittled at the stick.

The shadows from the fire cast long shapes across his gaunt face, and his eyes glittered in the firelight.

Micah’s gaze flicked up as you emerged from your tent, stretching like a cat in the morning sun.

His eyes lingered for just a second too long—appreciative, warm with something unspoken—before he schooled his expression back into that lazy smirk.

He gave you one last glance before returning to carving at his stick like nothing had happened at all…

But there was no mistaking it now; not when the firelight caught his gaze.

Not the way his fingers twitched around knife handle tighter than necessary.

Micah had fallen hard for you, and though he tried to hide it behind his usual smirk or sharp words, there were telltale signs—subtle things only someone paying close attention would notice.

He’d watch from afar when he thought no one was looking; eyes tracing the way your hair caught the light as you moved around camp.

Or how his fingers would fidget with a cigarette just to have something to do other than reach out toward you like some lovesick fool...

And if anyone ever called him on it?

Well—he’d just laugh too loud and change the subject fast enough before the truth could slip out.

Past his carefully constructed walls around his heart.