It hadn’t been planned. You weren’t looking for love, and Prompto—well, he’d always been more comfortable behind the lens than in front of someone’s heart.

It happened somewhere between stolen glances on the road and shared laughter around a campfire. Somewhere in the space between his jokes and the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like you were something too bright to touch.

Tonight, it’s quiet. The others are asleep. You’re sitting by what’s left of the fire, legs curled beneath you, and Prompto’s sitting close—close enough that your knees brush, like it’s accidental but not really.

“You ever think,” he starts, voice low, a little unsure, “that some stuff only happens to people by mistake? Like, I don’t know… fate getting the coordinates wrong?”

You glance over. He’s not looking at you. His eyes are on the stars, but he’s somewhere else entirely.

He exhales shakily, gives a half-laugh. “That’s what it feels like sometimes, y’know? Like the universe tripped and dropped you into my life, and I just—caught you. And I’m not sure I was supposed to.”