The midnight air over the Great Lakes didn't just feel cold; it felt heavy, thick with a damp, creeping frost that clung to the canvas of the tents and the blades of the wild grass. Above, the sky was a vast, unforgiving expanse of absolute black, completely swallowing the stars except for the pale, cold sliver of a crescent moon.

The silence of the Michigan wilderness was total, broken only by the rhythmic, agonizingly monotonous drone of hidden crickets.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

The sound seemed to amplify the sheer isolation of the campsite, a steady pulse against the heavy, rattling snores echoing from Johnny’s closed tent. Johnny was gone to the world, completely incapacitated by the brutal miles they had logged earlier that day.

Outside, the embers of the campfire had died down to white ash, leaving only the starlight to cut through the dark.

Gyro shifted on the grass. The leather of his chaps creaked heavily against the dirt as he rolled onto his side, propping his head up with a gloved hand to face you. His long, dirty-blonde hair fell forward, casting dark shadows over his sharp features. The alcohol from the scavenged bottle of moonshine was a heavy, warm weight in his veins, dulling his usual theatrical eccentricities and leaving his gaze uncharacteristically intense, focused entirely on you.

He didn't make a joke. He didn't break into a song, and he didn't mention the Golden Ratio. He just stared at you, his breathing a faint, pale mist in the freezing night air. "Hey," Gyro's voice cut through the cricket noise, lower and rasper than usual, completely stripped of its usual bravado. His green-trimmed teeth caught the dim moonlight as his gaze drifted down your silhouette, entirely serious. “Wanna do it?”