Chapter 16

The heat of mid-July hugs the camp like a heavy blanket. Even at sunset, the air is warm and sticky, carrying the scent of pine, lake water, and sunscreen. The campers are finally winding down after the crazy weekend—sandy, sunburned, exhausted, and happily buzzing from it all.

I’m leaning against the edge of the beach fire pit, towel draped over my shoulders, watching my campers collapse in giggles and sand-drenched exhaustion. Annabelle and Emily are nearby, comparing sandcastles and plotting the next round of “who can fall in the water first.”

Across the pit, Quinn sits on a driftwood log. Oversized hoodie draped over her shoulders, shorts sticking slightly to sun-kissed legs, damp hair curling at the edges from our earlier lake games. The faint outline of her bikini top under the hoodie hints at the sunburned shoulders and chest, casual and confident. She’s supervising some campers, playing by the water, but I can see the way she watches me, a smirk tugging at her lips.

I feel it instantly—that jolt. My stomach flips.

“Kennedy!” one of my CIT campers call, holding a scorched marshmallow on a stick. “Help! It’s ruined!”

I rush over, snatching the marshmallow and tossing it back into the fire with exaggerated horror. Laughter erupts.

Quinn strolls up behind me, casually leaning close enough that her hoodie brushes my arm. “…Making friends, Kennedy?” Her voice is teasing, low, almost intimate.

I smirk, brushing off the touch, though I feel it. “…Obviously. Someone’s gotta save them from their terrible life choices.”

“Clearly,” Quinn replies, smirk widening. Her shoulder presses mine again ever so slightly. “…Good thing I’m here to supervise your heroics.”

Later, the evening bonfire begins. Campers sit in circles, singing songs, roasting marshmallows, and recounting the weekend’s chaos. Staff lounge on logs and blankets nearby. I’m leaning against a driftwood log, half-sitting, half-lying, finally letting my muscles relax.

Quinn appears beside me, hoodie falling just enough to show a bare shoulder and collarbone. She sits close. Shoulder brushes mine lightly. I catch a whiff of shampoo, sunscreen, and something uniquely her.

“You’re impossible,” I mutter.

“And yet,” she replies, voice teasing, “…here I am.”

We fall quiet, watching the fire. The campers’ laughter, the distant waves, and the glow of the sunset frame us. My heart hammers, and I’m hyper-aware of every brush of her shoulder, every casual nudge, every smirk that feels like it’s meant just for me.

Then comes a spark of jealousy.

One of the younger staff—a fun but flirty guy—walks by, teasing Quinn about something silly. She laughs, but I notice the small spark in her eye when she glances at me—a quick, almost imperceptible check. My chest tightens. Why am I suddenly so aware of who touches her, even slightly?

I catch her gaze. “…Careful,” I mutter, smirk playful but heart racing.

Quinn’s smirk softens, and she nudges me, shoulder to shoulder. “…I am. Don’t worry.” Her voice is low, teasing, intimate. “…You’re with me tonight, Kennedy.”

My chest flips. “…Excuse me?”

She shrugs, casual, but that small smirk tells me she meant it. “…You heard me.”

The night winds down. Campers retreat to cabins. Staff lounge around, laughing quietly, recounting the weekend events. Quinn and I end up walking along the waterline, barefoot, toes sinking into wet sand. Waves lap at our ankles. Stars shimmer above.

Every glance, every accidental brush of skin sends sparks straight through me.

“…You know,” Quinn murmurs, voice low, almost teasing, “…I could get used to this. You, me… “

I glance at her, breath catching. “…Yeah. Me too.” I whisper.

We walk a few more steps, shoulder to shoulder, closer than casual, the tension electric. Every accidental touch, every small nudge, carries more weight than either of us admits.

And finally—almost, just almost—I feel it. That tipping point where this threatens to explode.

Quinn grins, leaning in slightly, voice soft and teasing. “…You’re lucky I’m not just a little more… persuasive.”

The air between us hums. Sparks. Chemistry. Tension. And I know… the tipping point isn’t far away.

And I don’t think either of us is ready to admit just how much we want it yet.