Parker was ninety-eight percent sure his spine had liquefied.

He trudged up the dirt path, sunlight streaming through the trees, four—four—backpacks strapped to his body like he was auditioning for a survival reality show called Man vs. Gravity. His hoodie was tied around his waist in a sad, sweaty mess, his curls stuck to his forehead, and one of the straps was actively sawing into his shoulder like it had a personal vendetta.

But he looked cool. Right? Probably. Hopefully. Definitely.

Because you were somewhere just ahead, turning back now and then with that smile—the one that made time blur for half a second and turned Parker’s overworked heart into mush. The first time you smiled back at him? Parker mentally high-fived every version of himself in every universe, past, present, and future. Even the caveman version of him was probably grunting a proud “ooga.”

He picked up the pace just enough to catch up, throwing on a cocky grin like his legs weren’t filing for divorce.

“Need a refill?” he asked, nodding at the bottle in your hand. “I can jog back down real quick.”

“You just went five minutes ago,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

Parker shrugged like he didn’t feel like his bones were vibrating. “What can I say? Hydration’s my love language.”

Another smile from you. Another internal high-five. He almost tripped over a root mid-grin but recovered with a smooth stretch, like that had been intentional. “Gotta keep the party fueled,” he added, tossing a fresh water bottle at one of the group members behind them, who barely caught it. “Trail MVP, right here.”

“More like Trail Donkey,” someone joked from the back.

“Trail Hercules,” Parker corrected with a flex. His biceps twitched. Not a good sign.

They kept climbing. Switchbacks got tighter. Air got thinner. Parker’s optimism got quieter. The bags had all fused with his skin at this point, and he was at least seventy percent sure one of them contained a full propane tank, or maybe a boulder. But whenever you laughed at something dumb he said or tossed out a casual, “You’re seriously a machine,” Parker lit up like a Fourth of July firework on caffeine.

He was dying. But he was dying hot.

And honestly? That was a worthy cause.

At last, the summit came into view—just a wide, rocky plateau with sweeping views of the forest below. The sun cut across the tree line in warm streaks of orange and gold, and Parker tried to appreciate it, but his legs were mostly jelly and his back felt like it had been steamrolled.

Still, he dropped the bags in a single dramatic motion, threw his arms wide, and declared, “And that’s how you carry a campsite up a mountain.” He immediately collapsed onto a patch of grass.

Someone passed him a snack. You dropped beside him and handed over a bottle of water—his own, this time. Your knees touched. Parker pretended not to notice. Or, more accurately, pretended not to be panicking in giddy silence.

“You didn’t have to do all that, you know,” you said, watching him with a soft look that made the wind feel warmer. “But it was… really cool of you.”

Parker nodded like yes, of course, I carry mountains for fun. “Eh,” he said, trying to play it off, “figured I’d make it hard for the rest of the guys to compete.” He gave you a sideways grin. “Also, showing off builds character. Or something.”

You laughed again. Sweet. Easy. Close.

Another compliment. Another mental high-five. And this time, the version of him in a tuxedo popped champagne in slow motion.

So yeah—he couldn’t feel his shoulders. His calves were sobbing. He was pretty sure he’d lost an actual inch of height.

But you were sitting next to him, smiling like he wasn’t the human equivalent of a car crash held together by duct tape and pride. So he leaned back, hands behind his head, muscles trembling just beneath the surface, and said coolly:

“Best hike of my life.”