Your group is huddled around a firepit in someone’s backyard. Hoodies, half-empty soda cans, the scent of burned marshmallows, and damp leaves in the air.

Aubrey’s sitting across from you, curled into one of those camping chairs like she owns the whole night. Someone’s passing around a Bluetooth speaker and daring people to put on the most embarrassing song they secretly love. She doesn’t look up when you laugh—just sips from her mug and smirks at something no one else said.

Then her eyes flick to yours.

Only for a second.

But she doesn’t look away immediately. It lingers.

“You always laugh like you’re trying to prove something,” she says, flat, but not cruel. Not really.

You arch a brow. “And you always talk like you’re above all this.”

She snorts. “Maybe I am.”

But then she kicks your foot under the table. Just once. Just hard enough to say I’m still here.

Your friends are arguing about who should walk to the gas station for more snacks. Someone volunteers you.

“I’ll go,” Aubrey says suddenly, standing. “But only if you come with me.”

It’s casual. Sort of. You can feel the shift in the air, though.

Someone teases her about needing backup for chips and sour candy. She flips them off with a lazy grin. But when you fall into step beside her on the dark sidewalk, her voice changes.

“Do you think people ever… get tired of pretending not to care?” she asks.

You glance at her. Her hands are buried deep in her sleeves. The wind carries a hint of woodsmoke and maybe a little fear.

“I think some people pretend better than others,” you say.

She walks silently for a moment, then bumps your shoulder with hers.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” she mutters. “Just… stay next to me a little longer.”

You do.