Chapter 33

The rest of the hike back is slower.

Not officially.

No one calls it.

But it is.

Because of me.

“…We’re not rushing,” Quinn says at one point, not loud, but enough for the group to hear. “Keep it steady.”

No one argues.

I don’t look at her.

But I hear it.

And I know.

My leg stings with every step.

Not unbearable.

Just enough to keep me aware of it.

Of her.

We fall into an uneven rhythm.

Campers ahead.

Staff scattered.

And somehow—

I end up walking near Quinn anyway.

Not beside.

Not exactly.

But close enough that I can hear her footsteps.

Close enough that if either of us shifted half a step—

we’d be next to each other.

We don’t.

For a while, it’s just the sound of the trail.

Shoes hitting dirt.

Branches brushing past.

Someone laughing up ahead.

Normal.

Except it doesn’t feel normal.

“…Does it hurt?” Quinn asks after a while.

I glance over.

She’s not looking at me.

Just walking.

Hands in the pockets of her shorts.

“…It’s fine.”

A pause.

“…That wasn’t my question.”

I exhale.

“…Yeah,” I admit. “…A little.”

She nods.

“…Okay.”

That’s it.

But it’s more than we’ve said in days.

Which is—

kind of pathetic.

We walk like that for a while.

Not talking.

But not completely silent either.

There’s something there again.

Not fixed.

Not even close.

Just—

present.

And it’s enough to make everything feel heavier.

Back at camp, nothing resets.

I think part of me expected it to.

Like stepping back onto familiar ground would make things easier.

It doesn’t.

If anything, it makes it worse.

Because now everything’s louder again.

More people.

More eyes.

More chances to notice the shift.

“…So are you guys good now or…?” Caitlyn asks later, when we’re unpacking gear outside the cabin.

“…Or,” I say.

She winces slightly.

“…Rough.”

“…It’s fine.”

“…You said that last time before you cried.”

“…I’m not crying right now.”

“…Give it time.”

I glare at her.

She grins.

“…I’m kidding. Mostly.”

I shake my head, but a small laugh slips out anyway.

It feels weird.

Laughing when everything still feels… off.

Across the clearing, Quinn is talking to the camp director.

Serious.

Focused.

Like nothing ever happened.

I look away.

Our forced proximity really hits that afternoon.

Schedule change.

Of course.

“Alright,” our camp director says, clapping his hands together. “We’re switching some staff around for coverage—Quinn, Kennedy, you’re both on extended waterfront block. Double period into free swim.”

I freeze for half a second.

Of course we are.

“…Got it,” Quinn says easily.

I nod.

“…Yeah.”

There’s no getting out of it.

The dock feels different now.

Hotter.

Brighter.

More exposed.

The lake is rougher today, wind cutting across it in uneven waves, boats rocking slightly against their ties.

We fall into positions automatically.

Me on dock.

Her in the boat.

Like before.

Except now—

everything’s changed.

The first hour is fine.

Technically.

We do the job.

Call out instructions.

Rotate campers.

But the space between us?

It’s tight.

Every time the boat comes back to the dock—

she’s right there.

Close.

Not touching.

But close enough that I can see the water dripping from her arms, the way her shirt sticks slightly to her back from the heat.

“…Next up,” I call, avoiding her eyes.

She nods.

“…Send them.”

Our hands brush once.

Accident.

It still hits.

We both pull back immediately.

No comment.

But after that—

everything feels sharper.

By the second hour, the heat is getting to everyone.

Campers are slower.

Staff are quieter.

Quinn pulls the boat in again, killing the engine.

“…We’ve got a gap,” she says. “…Two minutes.”

I nod.

“…Yeah.”

No campers on the dock.

No one waiting.

Just—

us.

The silence stretches.

I should say something.

I don’t.

Neither does she.

Until—

“…You scared me yesterday.”

I look up.

She’s watching me now.

Actually watching.

“…Falling?” I ask.

“…Yeah.”

A beat.

“…And before that.”

I know what she means.

“…I’m fine,” I say automatically.

She shakes her head slightly.

“…You don’t have to keep saying that.”

“…You don’t have to keep asking.”

A pause.

“…I’m going to,” she says.

That—

throws me off.

“…Why?”

She hesitates.

“…Because I care.”

It’s quiet.

Not dramatic.

But it lands hard anyway.

I look at her.

Really look.

“…You have a weird way of showing it,” I say.

Her jaw tightens slightly.

“…I know.”

Silence again.

The wind picks up, pushing small waves against the dock.

The boats knock softly against the wood.

“…I didn’t mean what I said,” she adds after a second.

“…Which part?” I ask.

She exhales.

“…The ‘maybe we shouldn’t do this’ part.”

My chest tightens.

“…Okay.”

“…I was frustrated.”

“…I noticed.”

She almost smiles at that.

Almost.

“…You weren’t exactly calm either.”

“…I didn’t say we should stop.”

That one lands.

She looks at me.

“…No,” she admit. “…You didn’t.”

A beat.

“…I don’t want to stop,” she says quietly.

And there it is.

Finally.

Clear.

But—

“…Then don’t,” I reply.

It comes out sharper than I mean it to.

She flinches slightly.

Barely noticeable.

“…It’s not that simple,” she says.

“…You keep saying that,” I fire back. “…But you still haven’t explained why.”

She runs a hand through her hair.

Frustrated again.

“…Because I don’t know how to do this without screwing something up.”

“…You already are,” I say.

Silence.

That hits.

“…Okay,” she says quietly.

“…Okay.”

The moment hangs there.

Not resolved.

Not broken.

Just—

unfinished.

Voices carry down from the path.

Campers coming back.

Timing.

Again.

Quinn glances toward the sound.

Then back at me.

“…We’re not done,” she says.

“…I know.”

And then—

she pushes off the dock, stepping back into the boat.

The engine starts.

The noise fills the space where the conversation was.

And just like that—

it’s over.

For now.

But something’s shifted again.

Not fixed.

But closer.

And that’s almost worse.

Because now—

I know she stills want it.

She just doesn’t know what to do with it.

And neither do I.

That night, I can’t sleep.

Too hot.

Too much in my head.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet breathing of my campers, the occasional rustle of someone turning over in their sleeping bag.

And all I can think about is—

the way she said it.

“I don’t want to stop.”

It replays.

Over and over.

Because if that’s true—

then this isn’t over.

Not even close.

And sooner or later—

we’re going to have to deal with it.

For real this time.