Chapter 47

It happens fast.

Too fast.

We’re at the climbing wall during third period, the sun beating down, campers loud and restless, when one of the CIT’s—Sophie—slips on the descent.

It’s not a big fall. Not dramatic.

But the way she lands—wrong angle, sharp twist—

I hear it before she even screams.

“…Okay—okay, don’t move,” I’m already saying, dropping to my knees beside her. My hands are steady, even if my stomach isn’t. “…Where does it hurt?”

“…My ankle,” she gasps, face pale. “…I can’t— I can’t put weight on it—”

Swelling’s already starting. Not good.

“…Alright,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “…You’re okay. Just stay still.”

I look up—and of course, of course—

Quinn is already there.

She’s all business.

Kneeling beside me, quick assessment, eyes sharp. “…We need to get her checked. Could be a bad sprain… maybe worse.”

I nod. “…Yeah.”

Short. Professional.

That’s it.

The camp director’s call comes quick:

We’re the closest qualified staff.

We’re taking her in.

Together.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

The drive starts quiet.

Too quiet.

Sophie’s in the backseat, leg propped up, trying not to cry. I twist around every few minutes, checking on her, talking her through it, keeping her distracted.

“…You’re doing great,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “…Hospital snacks are elite, by the way. You’re about to get the good stuff.”

She laughs weakly. “…I hope so.”

“…Trust me,” I say. “…Worth it.”

In the front seat, Quinn doesn’t say a word.

Hands tight on the steering wheel.

Jaw set.

Eyes fixed on the road.

Focused.

Distant.

It shouldn’t bother me.

She’s doing her job.

Same as always.

But it does.

At a red light, I glance up.

Her profile is sharp in the afternoon light—messy curls, septum ring catching the sun, hoodie sleeves pushed up.

She looks tired.

Or maybe just… tense.

“…You took that fall well,” she says suddenly.

I blink. “…What?”

“…Back there,” she clarifies, still not looking at me. “…You handled it.”

It’s simple. Neutral.

But it lands weird.

“…Yeah,” I say after a second. “…I know what I’m doing.”

There’s a beat.

I don’t miss the way her grip tightens slightly on the wheel.

“…I never said you didn’t.”

And just like that—

we’re right back there again.

I turn back to Sophie. “…Hey, still doing okay?”

“…Yeah,” she says quietly.

“…Good,” I nod. “…Almost there.”

We don’t talk again for the rest of the drive.

The hospital is all fluorescent lights and too-cold air.

Forms, waiting rooms, quiet conversations.

Quinn handles the front desk while I sit with Sophie, keeping her distracted, letting her lean against me when the pain spikes.

“…You’re doing really good,” I tell her softly. “…Seriously.”

“…It hurts,” she admits.

“…I know,” I say. “…But you’re tough.”

When Quinn comes back, she doesn’t look at me right away.

Just nods slightly. “…We’re good. They’ll call her soon.”

“…Okay.”

We sit across from each other.

Chairs too close.

Not close enough.

Time stretches.

Sophie scrolls on her phone.

A TV murmurs in the background.

And between us—

nothing.

But it’s not empty.

It’s heavy.

Every glance that almost happens.

Every shift in posture.

Every breath that feels just a little too loud.

At one point, Sophie gets called in for imaging. A nurse wheels her away, leaving just—

us.

Silence.

I stand first. “…I’m gonna get water.”

“…I’ll come,” Quinn says immediately.

I almost say no.

Almost.

The hallway is quieter.

Colder.

We walk side by side, not touching, not looking at each other, until we stop at a vending machine that hums too loudly in the silence.

I press a button. It gets stuck.

“…Of course,” I mutter.

Quinn steps closer, shoulder brushing mine as she hits the machine lightly with the side of her fist. The bottle drops.

“…Thanks,” I say.

“…Yeah.”

We don’t move.

We’re too close.

“…Your eyes are still red,” she says after a second.

Quiet. Careful.

I freeze. “…I’m fine.”

“…You weren’t last night.”

“…I said I’m fine.”

She exhales, slow, controlled.

“…You don’t have to do that.”

“…Do what?”

“…Shut me out.”

I laugh, but it’s sharp. “…I’m not shutting you out.”

“…You are.”

“…Maybe I just don’t feel like talking,” I snap.

That does it.

“…So you’ll talk to everyone else but not me?”

“…Don’t do that,” I say immediately.

“…Do what?”

“…Turn it into something else.”

“…It is something else,” she shoots back, voice low but tight. “…You won’t even look at me.”

I finally turn.

“…Because every time I do, we end up right back where we were.”

“…And whose fault is that?”

“…Are you serious?” I say, disbelief cutting through my voice. “…You really want to do this right now?”

“…No,” she says quickly. “…I don’t.”

Silence again.

Closer this time.

Messier.

Her hand brushes mine.

Not on purpose.

But neither of us pulls away right away.

It lingers.

Just for a second.

Too long.

I step back first.

Of course I do.

“…We should go back,” I say, voice quieter now.

“…Yeah.”

We walk back side by side.

Same distance.

Same silence.

But now it feels different.

Worse.

When Sophie comes back—confirmed bad sprain, no break—we both shift back into role instantly.

Professional.

Focused.

Easy.

Like nothing’s wrong.

But when we get back in the car—

When the sun is lower, the road quieter, Sophie half-asleep in the back—

I can feel it again.

That pull.

That tension.

That almost.

And this time?

Neither of us says a word.