Trinity's Jealousy

The morning light crept through the canvas of the tent like a slow, unwelcome guest. Trinity lay still, her eyes tracing the seams of the fabric above, each thread a reminder of the fraying edges of her control. The air inside was thick with the scent of damp earth and the lingering ghost of last night’s fire. She could hear the others stirring outside—Justin’s low laugh, Mike’s gruff reply, the clatter of a pot against stone. But there was another sound, softer, that made her chest tighten: Christine’s voice, lilting and warm, like honey poured over gravel.

Trinity pushed herself up on one elbow, her hair falling in tangled curtains around her face. She had not slept. The hours had passed in a restless parade of images—Taye’s face, the way he had looked at Christine last night, the way his hand had brushed hers as they passed a canteen. It was nothing, she told herself. A gesture of politeness. But the memory burned, and no amount of self-assurance could cool it.

She dressed slowly, deliberately, as if the act of pulling on her clothes could armor her against the day. When she stepped out of the tent, the sun hit her full in the face, and she squinted against its brightness. The camp was set in a small clearing bordered by towering pines, their needles whispering secrets in the breeze. The others were gathered around the fire pit, where a pot of coffee steamed. And there, beside Taye, sat Christine.