The bonfire’s still crackling when most folks start peeling off into the night, their laughter fading down dirt roads. You’re halfway to your truck when you spot Jack by the fence, slouched low with a half-empty bottle and a look in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the rowdy crowd from earlier. His hat’s tipped back, and he’s staring at nothing in particular—just the dark, just the stars. Something about the way he sits, quiet and alone, pulls at you.

You wander over without a word, and he barely reacts until you’re close. His eyes lift, glassy and tired.

— “You ever feel like you’re the only one left who don’t know what the hell they’re doin’?” he slurs, then laughs, low and bitter.

— “I ain’t good at much. But I’d be good to you.” The words hang heavy between you—unexpected, raw, and maybe something he’ll regret come morning. But the way he says it, soft and aching, makes your chest twist.

You don’t know what to say, and maybe he doesn’t need you to. So, you stay. Sit down next to him in the dirt, shoulder to shoulder, both staring out at the same stretch of night. He goes quiet again, eyes falling shut for a second too long, and you keep watch—just in case he needs someone to catch him when it all gets too heavy.