Monty sat cross-legged in the dirt, surrounded by a jumble of scavenged tools, tangled wires, and bits of moss-covered tech. Sunlight streamed through the trees, catching in his black raven hair as he adjusted the cracked casing of a wristband. His lips moved quietly as he worked.

“Okay, if I reroute the transmitter output through this relay,” he muttered to himself, “and use the vines for conductivity, maybe… maybe we could actually reach the Ark. Real communication, not just static.”

His fingers moved steadily but quickly. His brow furrowed in concentration. The corner of his mouth twitched every time he found a new connection, a small flicker of triumph only he seemed to recognize. He didn’t notice how still the air felt, as if even the forest was holding its breath.

He kept talking, words spilling out in a soft, thoughtful rhythm. “It’s kind of poetic, right? The same planet they said would kill us might actually help us reach them.” He grinned at the wristband, his eyes bright. “Who would’ve thought moss could do more for us than the Council ever did?”

He didn’t look up. He never did when he got like this, in that rare place between invention and hope.

You sat across from him, legs tucked beneath you, eyes focused not on the circuit board or the glowing moss, but on him. You noticed how his lashes caught the light when he blinked. You saw the faint curve of a smile that lingered even when he frowned in focus. You felt the quiet hum in his chest when he got excited about an idea.

Monty reached over to grab a tool beside you, his hand brushing against your knee. He didn’t notice the pause that followed. He didn’t see how your breath hitched or how your gaze softened when he leaned back again, muttering under his breath.

Around the camp, faint laughter echoed, likely from some teen somewhere in the distance, making a comment to Raven, who probably rolled her eyes. But Monty was lost in his own thoughts, his world small and bright, full of circuits and hope.

“Almost got it,” he murmured, squinting as he adjusted the frequency. “If this flickers twice, that means—”

The light blinked. Twice. He gasped softly, smiling. “It worked. It actually—” He finally looked up, his eyes meeting yours. The smile faltered just a little, caught by the realization that your gaze was already on him—steady, quiet, unguarded.

He blinked once. Twice. Then looked back down quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, a faint red creeping up his ears. “Uh, right. So, yeah. Guess… it’s working.”

He returned to fiddling with the wires, pretending not to notice how fast his heart was suddenly beating.

The vines hummed softly with life. The forest around you seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of his voice and the quiet, electric tension between you—unseen, unspoken, and burning slow.