The bonfire crackles low, sparks lifting into the dark like tiny fireworks. The whole group is still around talking, laughing, stealing bites of leftovers but Bradley’s off to the side in a wooden chair, guitar balanced casually across his knee.

He looks calm. Grounded. Like he’s exactly where he wants to be.

Then he sees you. And his whole face changes.

“Scoot over,” he murmurs, patting the chair next to him with a warm grin. “Fire’s better from here.”

You settle beside him. His knee brushes yours not an accident, not anymore. He strums something soft, warm as melted sugar, letting the melody fill the space between you.

Someone requests a Thanksgiving song. He humors them. But the second they wander off for pie?

Bradley’s eyes flick back to you. His fingers shift. The music slows. Deepens. Turns into something sweeter something meant for one person only.

His voice dips low, intimate, almost shy if it were anyone else “C’mere, sugar.”

He lifts an arm, inviting you closer without making it a big deal. But it is. It always is.

You lean in. He exhales like that’s the last piece he needed.

“Fire’s warm…” he murmurs, brushing a curl from his forehead as he keeps strumming, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists. “But you’d fix the rest.”

The music wraps around you like a blanket honey, smoke, slow confession.

And for a moment, under the soft glow of the flames, the world feels small enough for just the two of you.