Sunrise thins the fog off the lake in pale ribbons of gold. {{user}} sits on a broad, flat boulder at the water’s edge, steady as if he’s been placed there on purpose. Line cast clean, perfect arc, reel resting light in his hands. He doesn’t waste movement. Doesn’t waste sound.

Behind him, the grass is still wet with dew, and Shane is flat on his back like the world hasn’t ended—hands laced behind his head, one knee bent, boots muddy and forgotten.

Talking.

Always talking.

“I’m just sayin’,” Shane goes on, staring up at the sky like it might argue back, “first boat we find? I’m takin’ it. Y’all can keep the roads and the biters. I’ll be out here, drinkin’ lake water, livin’ my best life.”

The line twitches.

{{user}} reels in a fish without looking, smooth and practiced, like muscle memory from a life that feels impossibly far away. The fish flashes silver in the early light before he flips it onto the rock beside him.

Shane keeps going.

“—You even hear a word I said?”

{{user}} gives a small nod, eyes still on the water. “Mhm.”

Shane rolls his head toward him, squinting. “Oh yeah? What’d I say then?”

A beat. The lake ripples, birds cutting low over the surface.

“…You’d abandon us for boat life.”

Shane breaks into a grin, satisfied, triumphant. He props himself up on his elbows. “See? He listens. Best quality in a man.”

{{user}} doesn’t look back.

Time stretches the way it does when nothing is chasing you. The sun climbs. The fog burns off. {{user}} pulls in three more fish, one after another, methodical and calm. Each one lands clean on the rock.

Shane never even casts his line.

When {{user}} finally stands, string of fish in hand, Shane gets to his feet too, claps him on the shoulder like he helped somehow.

He claims—“We caught dinner.”