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“It’s microscopic.”

“It’s on my shirt.”

“Tragic.” I take the tongs from him with exaggerated care. “And here I was thinking you were clinically spotless. This ruins the serial-killer aesthetic. I’m disappointed.”

“Don’t burn them,” he says, ignoring me, nodding toward the skewers.

“I’m not going to burn them.”

“You burn everything.”

“Oh, okay then.” I shoot back. “I’ll burn them on purpose just to spite you.”

He shakes his head, but there’s something almost fond in it as he turns away. He grabs a backpack resting on one of the chairs, slings it over his shoulder, and starts walking—not toward the cabin, but toward the trees.

I watch him go for a second, confused.

“Where the hell are you going?” I call after him.

Tristan doesn’t even slow down. “To bathe in the river.”

I blink. “It’s dark out here.”

“It’s not too dark for me,” he replies, voice carrying easily over the gentle sound of the water. He doesn’t stop walking.

Of course he’s the type to bathe in a river at night like some brooding romance novel hero.

I shake my head, muttering under my breath as I turn back to the grill.

“Fucking show-off.”

But even as I say it, I can’t quite stop the small, stupid smile tugging at my lips.

❧

We end up settled by the bonfire, plates balanced on our laps, the warm glow of the flames dancing across the yard. The skewers are perfect—juicy, smoky, and seasoned just right.

Tristan had emerged from the river right as I was pulling the last pieces off the grill. Shirtless. Water glistening on his dark skin, white sweatpants slung low on his hips, clinging just enough to be distracting. For one glorious second, I forgot how to breathe.

Then he disappeared inside the cabin and came back wearing a black tank top.

I’m still mildly disappointed.

At least his biceps are on full display, the tattoos across his arms catching the firelight in a way that makes my fingers itch to trace them. The man looks unfairly good, even when he’s trying to be casual.

We’ve been eating and sipping the wine he opened earlier in relative silence, the crackle of the fire and the distant murmur of the river filling the space between us. It’s not awkward, exactly. But I’ve never been good with silence. Silence gives people too much room to think. It lets feelings stretch their legs and settle in. Usually, I fill it before it gets dangerous.

So I do.

“I learned how to make braids.”

Tristan looks up from his plate.

There’s surprise in his face, brief but real. Then curiosity follows it, settling into his eyes.

“You learned how to make braids,” he repeats.

“Cornrows,” I clarify. “Proper ones. Not the kind where someone watches a one-minute TikTok and suddenly thinks they’re qualified to touch another person’s head.”