Chapter 3

By day three, I realize two things.

One: camp runs on routine.

Two: Quinn is in mine.

Not in a cute way. In an unavoidable, slightly irritating, why-are-you-always-there kind of way.

6:40 AM. Dock again.

I’m on time this time. Early, even. Sitting cross-legged near the edge, half-awake, dutch braiding my hair so it doesn’t turn into a disaster the second I hit the water.

I hear footsteps behind me.

“Wow.”

I don’t turn around. “Don’t.”

“Early,” Quinn says.

“I’m not early,” I reply. “I’m prepared.”

“Sure.”

I glance back. She’s holding two coffees.

I frown. “Did you—”

She holds one out. I blink.

“…for me?”

“Don’t make it weird,” she says.

Too late.

I take it anyway. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat where neither of us moves. Then I take a sip.

It’s good, annoyingly good.

“Okay,” I admit. “That helps.”

“Thought so.”

I narrow my eyes slightly. “You’re not usually this nice.”

She shrugs. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

But I keep the coffee. Obviously.

Bronze med is less chaotic today. Which is unfortunate, because chaos is easier than… whatever this is.

“Rescue entries,” Quinn says, pacing. “We’re cleaning up form today. Kennedy—demonstrate stride jump.”

I sigh, standing up. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“Jump.”

I do.

Clean, controlled, and minimal splash.

I surface, pushing my braids back. “Happy?”

Quinn nods once. “Better.”

“Better than what?”

“Day one.”

“Wow. Growth.”

A few campers laugh.

Quinn ignores them. “Again.”

I groan but reset.

This is the thing, she’s strict—but not unfair, and annoying—but right.

And somehow that’s worse.

Halfway through, one of the CIT’s panics during a drill.

Nothing major. Just nerves. Too many instructions, not enough confidence.

I’m about to step in when Quinn beats me to it.

“Hey,” she says, voice completely different now. Softer, steady. “Look at me.”

The girl does.

“You’re fine,” Quinn continues. “We’re not rushing. Reset.”

No sarcasm, no edge. Just calm.

The girl nods, breathing evening out.

“Good,” Quinn says. “Try again. I’ve got you.”

And she does. Perfectly.

I lean back against the dock, watching. That’s—new.

Or maybe it’s not. Maybe I just didn’t notice before.

Quinn glances over at me briefly, like she can feel it.

I look away immediately.

“Stop staring.”

I choke on my water. “I wasn’t staring.”

Quinn raises an eyebrow.

We’re sitting at the edge of the dock now, legs in the water while the campers practice in pairs.

“You were,” she says.

“I was observing.”

“Right.”

“For professional reasons.”

“Of course.”

I flick water at her, and she doesn’t even flinch.

“You’re annoying,” I tell her.

“You’re dramatic.”

“I jumped into a lake for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“You implied it.”

She looks at me for a second. Then shakes her head, like she’s trying not to smile.

It’s working. Barely.

Waterski is worse, not physically, but mentally.

Because now it’s just us, again.

I get the dock, clipboard in hand, wearing my cutest bikini, checking names as campers get there.

Quinn pulls up to the dock in the boat, one hand on the wheel, sunglasses on now, but through them, I see her staring at me in my bikini.

We start rotating the campers through.

“Ready—go!”

The boat takes off, clean and fast.

She’s good. Like, really good.

Controlled, smooth turns, adjusting speed without even thinking about it.

I try not to watch and fail. I can’t help but admit how hot it it.

“Enjoying the view?”

I look down.

Quinn’s pulled the boat back in, looking up at me.

Shit.

“No,” I say immediately.

“Mhm.”

“I’m working.” I say, trying not to grin.

“Looks intense.”

“It is.”

She grins.

That same one. I hate that I know it already.

“Next up,” I say quickly, checking my sheet. “Go.”

The boat doesn’t move right away.

She just keeps looking at me.

“What?” I snap.

“Nothing.”

“Then go.”

She laughs under her breath and turns back to the boat.

I exhale slowly.

This is—Fine. Everything is fine.

By free time, I’m fried.

Sunburn creeping in, hair doing whatever it wants, brain running on fumes and caffeine.

I drop onto the grass near the waterfront, flopping onto my back.

Annabelle plops down beside me. “You look like you’ve been through something.”

“I have.”

“Quinn?”

I turn my head. “Am I that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“Great.”

She grins. “So?”

“So nothing,” I say. “She’s just… around.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And bossy.”

“Mhm.”

“And annoying.”

“Definitely.”

“And—”

I stop.

Annabelle waits.

I roll my eyes. “That’s it.”

She snorts. “You’re cooked.”

“I’m not cooked.”

“You’re medium rare at best.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too.”

That night, after dinner, it’s cabin unity.

Low effort. Chill. Just bonding games and talking.

I’m sitting on the floor with my campers, half-listening to a story about someone’s dog, when I feel it again.

That feeling. Like I’m being watched.

I glance toward the doorway.

Quinn, leaning against the frame.

Of course.

Shes talking to another staff, but her eyes flick to me for a second.

Just a second. Then away.

Like it didn’t happen.

I frown slightly. Because that was intentional.

Right?

I look back at my campers.

Focus, this is my job, this is normal. Everything is normal.

But later, when I’m brushing my teeth in the staff bathroom, Caitlyn leans against the counter beside me and goes:

“So.”

I spit. “No.”

“You didn’t even let me ask.”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

She grins. “Quinn.”

I point my toothbrush at her. “No.”

“That wasn’t a denial.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t good.”

I rinse, glaring at her through the mirror. “There is nothing happening.”

“Yet.”

“Ever.”

She hums. “We’ll see.”

I shove past her on my way out. “You’re all insane.”

“Sure,” she calls after me sarcastically. “We’re the insane ones.”

I climb into my bunk, pulling the blanket over myself, staring up at the ceiling again.

Same as night one.

Except now—

There’s a pattern.

Morning. Dock. Her voice. Her hands correcting mine.

Waterski. That look. The way she notices things. Too many things.

I exhale slowly, I know this is going to be a problem.

Not now, not yet. But eventually?

Yeah. Definitely.

And the worst part? I don’t think I’m going to stop it.