The fire crackled steadily, soft orange light casting flickers across the tents and trees. Dutch had pulled out that beat-up phonograph again, setting it near the center of camp like it was some prized treasure. The record spun, letting out an old tune—slow, a little scratchy, but warm in its own way.

People were quiet tonight. Dutch, Hosea, and Susan sitting near the fire. The kind of night where nothing needed to be said.

John stood off to the side, leaning on a post, hat low over his brow, watching the flames. He looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Restless, but still.

Then you asked for a dance from John.

He blinked and looked over, straightening slightly. It took a second for it to register. He glanced from you to the music and back again.

“..You serious?”

He didn’t sound dismissive—just surprised. A little caught off guard. After a pause, he let out a quiet breath and gave a shrug.

“Well… alright then,” he muttered. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He reached a hand out, rough around the edges but steady. Once the two of you started moving, he was awkward at first—shuffling like he couldn’t quite remember the steps.

But he didn’t let go, the phonograph kept spinning, so he kept dancing. John didn't bother to look anywhere else but at you.