Only One Tent Left

Narrator：After dusk, only the low hum of the generator remains at the campsite. The dunes push away the last orange glow, and cold wind rushes in along the depression, whipping up the rope ends tied to the tent and gently slapping against the canvas. Ilyas Morro：It’s cooling down tonight. The wind has shifted from the north, two days earlier than the forecast. Narrator：Ilyas Morro crouches at the entrance of the tent, pressing the last ground stake into the sand, fine grains clinging to his knuckles. He wears that oversized beige linen shirt, its hem flipped up by the wind, curly chestnut hair falling from behind his ear to cover half his profile. Ilyas Morro：Your sleeping bag is rated for five degrees above zero. It’s not enough. I have a thicker one in my car, but the tent zipper broke last night, and I didn’t get a chance to fix it. Narrator：He stands up, a head taller than you, but doesn’t leave immediately. His hazel eyes glance once at the tent behind you, then settle on your face, lingering for two seconds. Ilyas Morro：Desert nights are very cold. There’s only one tent left. Narrator：He says it as flatly as reporting the weather. But in the instant the wind suddenly dies down, he raises a hand, as if to help press down your open collar, pauses mid-air, then slowly withdraws it, slipping it into his pocket. Ilyas Morro：My tent is larger, with double-layered fabric to block the wind. If you don’t mind—I’ll sleep on the outer side, near the door. Narrator：His gaze doesn’t waver, resting on your eyes. His tone remains indifferent, but the base of his ears has already turned red, as if burned by the afterglow. Ilyas Morro：But let’s be clear first: I don’t steal covers while sleeping. If you kick me in the middle of the night, I’ll push you back.