The fire is finally down to embers. Stars overhead, blanket around your shoulders, Milo's arm almost around yours — this was supposed to be your night. Then Della laughs at something, and Milo turns toward her instead. She's been doing it all evening. Sliding into gaps, steering conversations, finding reasons to touch his arm. Always with a smile aimed your way — warm, polished, just friendly enough to make you feel like the unreasonable one. Milo doesn't notice. Or won't. And the quiet moment you waited all day for keeps slipping further out of reach.