Vince raises his eyebrows, looking amused. "Sounds like the start of a confession."
I laugh lightly, glaring at him playfully as I stare into the fire. "But it's not like that with Gary."
"Not like what?" he teases, his smirk making my pulse race.
"He's much older. And, honestly, he's not my type," I say, my gaze still fixed on the fire. I glance at Gary and Frank again, their quiet affection like a beacon in the night.
Vince doesn't respond right away, but I feel his eyes on me, steady and searching. I wonder if he's trying to read between the lines, or if I'm just imagining it.
The campsite buzzes with life, laughter echoing in the distance, but Vince and I stay by the fire, caught in our own little world. The flames cast dancing shadows, mesmerizing in their warmth and unpredictability. I poke at the fire absentmindedly with a stick, stealing glances at Vince.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his face illuminated by the flickering light. The firelight catches his profile in a way that feels too intimate, like a private screening of something I wasn't meant to see. His jawline cuts sharp against the orange glow, hisdarkhair catching flecks of gold from the flames. He's not just good-looking in that Hollywood way you see on billboards. There’ssomething more there, something that makes my chest tighten until I can barely breathe. My fingers itch to trace the line of his collarbone where it disappears beneath his jacket, to smooth away the frown that sometimescrosseshis brow when he's lost in thought.
I force my gaze back to the fire, but my eyes keep betraying me, stealing glances at the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, at the slight curl of his lips. He's sitting too close, the warmth from his body seeping through the denim betweenus, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact—our knees brushing, the sleeve of his jacket occasionally grazing my arm.
This is dangerous territory. I know it. Vince has that effect on people—charisma that wraps around you like a warm blanket, making you feel like you're the only person in the room. I've seen him work a crowd, seen how people gravitate toward him like moths to a flame. But here, now, it's different. He's not performing. He's just... Vince. And somehow, that's infinitely more terrifying.
The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks into the night sky, and Vince flinches slightly, turning toward me. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the space between us. The laughter from the picnic table fades to a distant hum, the crackle of the fire muted. He looks at meand I feel seen in a way that makes my heart hammer against my ribs.
Too perfect. That's the thought that flashes through my mind, unbidden. Not just his face, not just his body, but the whole package. The way he listens, the way he teases, the way he makes me feel like I matter. It's too much. It's everything I've been searching for without even knowing what I was looking for.
I tear my eyes away, focusing instead on the flames dancingin front ofus. My throat feels tight, my palms sweating inside my pockets. I need to say something, anything,to break this spell before I do something stupid like reach for his hand or lean in closer than is strictly necessary.
"It's getting late," I manage, the words coming out rougher than intended.
Vince nods slowly, his gaze still fixed on me. "Yeah," he agrees, his voice low. "It is."
But neither of us moves. We sit there, caught in the firelight, in the space between what is and what could never be.
"So,humor me. What’syour typethen?" Vince asks suddenly, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Honestly?”I mullit over, then smirk. "Wayne." I glare at him teasingly, knowing exactly how thatwillland.
His face twists in mock outrage, and I burst into laughter before he can respond.
"Yeah, yeah," he says, rolling his eyes and elbowing me in the side. I push him back.
"Everyone wants to fuck Wayne. Get in line, because he doesn't seem to want anyone."
I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. "I think you're just jealous."
"I'm serious."
"Well, fine then," I say with a grin, playing along. Vince still looks at me like I've disappointed him.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
Vince isn't my type, because guys like him aren't even an option. He exists in a realm so far removed from my own reality that even considering him as a possibility feels like setting myself up for heartbreak. He's in a league of his own, the kind of guy I admire from afar—like those glossy magazine covers you flip through, knowing they're beautiful but unattainable. The fact that we're friends at all still baffles me.
He isn't just out of my league, he isn't even playing the same sport. While I'm stumbling through amateur games of pickup basketball on cracked neighborhood courts, he's competing in professional championships under stadium lights. He moves through life with an effortless grace that I can only dream of, attracting attention without even trying, while I spend my days trying not to trip over my own feet.
"By the way," I add, running a nervous hand through my hair, "just to remind you,I amtaken."
He gives me a pointed look, still smiling. "Right, Ted."
"Yeah."
"So, Ted's your type, then," he says dryly, his smile fading slightly.“The guy who didn’t want to camp with you.”
