You knew it was a mistake the moment he mentioned it—camping. Of all the ways to spend a weekend, trudging into the wilderness, sleeping on the ground, and swatting at mosquitoes didn’t exactly top your list. And yet, here you are. In the passenger seat of Simon Riley’s truck, staring out the window as the city fades into nothing but trees and overcast sky.

“I still think this is a bad idea,” you mutter, arms crossed.

Simon glances at you, that faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He’s not wearing the mask—rare, but somehow that makes you even more suspicious. He’s relaxed, which usually means you shouldn’t be.

“You said you needed fresh air,” he says casually. “Figured I’d give you a proper lungful.”

“I meant a walk in the park, not… this.” You wave a hand at the dense forest creeping closer on both sides of the road. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because you never have,” he says simply. “And because I asked nicely. Three times.”

You roll your eyes. Dragged is more accurate. The man could probably convince a brick wall to go hiking if he stared at it long enough.

The campsite isn’t much—just a flat patch of earth by a quiet lake, ringed with pines that whisper when the wind runs through them. He sets up the tent with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times, while you struggle to figure out how to unroll your sleeping bag.

“I don’t know how this is fun,” you grumble, watching him build a fire like it’s second nature. “Cold, damp, and no coffee shop for miles.”

“You’ll live,” he says, handing you a cup of something that smells vaguely like tea. It tastes like pine needles and smoke. “And who knows? Might actually like it.”