Chapter 26

Camp feels different when people start watching you.

Not obviously.

No one walks up and says anything straight.

But it’s in the pauses.

The looks that last half a second too long.

The way conversations dip slightly when you walk past.

I notice it before breakfast even starts.

The air is already warm, thick with that mid-July humidity that sticks to your skin before the sun is even fully up. The dining hall smells like syrup and burnt toast and lake water still clinging to everyone’s hair.

I grab a plate, sliding into line behind Annabelle, trying to act normal.

“…Don’t look now,” she mutters, not even turning her head, “…but like six people just watched you walk in.”

“…Six?” I say. “…That’s dramatic.”

“…Okay, four. But still.”

I roll my eyes, but my shoulders tense anyway.

“…People always look.”

“…Not like that.”

I don’t ask what she means.

Because I already know.

I risk a glance.

Quinn’s at one of the far tables with Kallie and a couple of others.

She’s mid-laugh, head tilted back slightly, sunlight catching on the edge of her cheek, tank top on.

She looks… normal.

Relaxed.

Like last night didn’t happen in front of half of camp.

But then—

She glances up.

And everything shifts.

It’s subtle.

Barely anything.

Just her eyes landing on me and staying there for a second longer than they should.

The corner of her mouth pulling slightly—not a full smirk, just something quieter.

And then she looks away.

Like it didn’t happen.

My chest tightens.

“…Yeah,” Annabelle says under her breath. “…That.”

I shove a piece of toast into my mouth just to avoid responding.

The problem with camp is there’s no space.

No room to figure things out privately.

No chance to just be without someone noticing.

And now—

we’ve crossed the line.

So everything feels louder.

Closer.

More exposed.

Waterfront, first period.

The lake is glassy this morning, barely a ripple across the surface. Sunlight reflects off it so bright it almost hurts to look at, and the dock is already warm under my bare feet.

Campers are louder than usual, energy high from the weekend.

I’m trying to focus.

I really am.

“…Kennedy, is this right?”

“…Yeah—no—wait—switch your grip—yeah, like that—”

I’m halfway through correcting a rescue hold when I feel it.

That awareness.

I don’t look right away.

I already know.

Quinn’s on the dock.

Not moving.

Not calling anything out.

Just… there.

Watching.

When I finally glance up, she’s leaning against one of the posts, arms loosely crossed, sunglasses on, but I can still tell she’s looking at me.

Not in that loud, teasing way from before.

Something quieter.

More contained.

It throws me off more than the chaos ever did.

“…Focus,” I mutter to myself, turning back to my campers.

But I can feel it.

The space between us.

Charged.

Unresolved.

Later, when the campers are rotating out, I climb up onto the dock, water dripping from my legs, pushing my hair back from my face.

“…You’re quiet today,” I say, not looking at her.

“…You noticed,” Quinn replies.

Her voice is calm.

Too calm.

I glance over.

“…Hard not to.”

She shrugs slightly, pushing off the post.

“…Figured I’d give you space.”

That—

I wasn’t expecting that.

“…I didn’t ask for space,” I say.

She meets my eyes.

“…You kind of did.”

A beat.

She’s not wrong.

And I hate that.

“…I asked you to be clear,” I correct.

“…Same difference.”

“…Not really.”

Silence stretches between us, filled only by the sound of water lapping against the dock and campers yelling somewhere behind us.

She’s step closer.

Not too close.

But enough that I can see the faint sunburn across her nose, the way her hair curls slightly at the edges from drying in the heat.

“…Last night wasn’t nothing,” she says.

“…I know.”

“…But it also wasn’t…” she trails off.

“…Wasn’t what?” I push.

She exhales slowly, looking out at the lake instead of at me.

“…Simple.”

That lands.

Heavy.

“…I’m not asking for simple,” I say.

She glances back at me.

Something flickers there.

“…That’s the problem,” she mutters.

Before I can respond—

“QUINN!”

Kallie again, jogging down the dock.

“…We need you at boats—motor’s acting weird!”

Quinn closes her eyes briefly.

Like she’s deciding something.

Then—

“…Coming.”

She looks back at me.

For half a second.

“…We’re not done,” she says quietly.

“…I know.”

And then she’s gone.

Again.

The rest of the day drags.

Not because it’s boring.

Because it’s not.

Camp is never boring.

Archery mishaps.

A camper crying because someone “looked at her weird.”

A full argument during lunch about whether cereal is soup.

Normal.

Loud.

Chaotic.

But underneath it—

everything feels slightly off-balance.

Quinn isn’t avoiding me.

But she’s not… leaning in either.

No quick touches.

No low comments in passing.

No deliberate shoulder brushes.

And somehow—

that’s worse.

Because now I don’t know where we stand.

Evening program: night game.

The entire camp is split into teams, running through the woods as the sun sets, flashlights cutting through the dark, counsellors yelling instructions that no one listens to.

The air cools just enough to be comfortable, the smell of pine and dirt stronger now, damp and grounding.

I’m stationed near one of the trails, helping coordinate, when Quinn appears out of the dark.

“…You look like you’re having fun,” she say’s.

“…Living the dream,” I reply.

She steps into the edge of the flashlight beam.

Half-lit.

Half-shadow.

“…You’re still mad,” she says.

“…I’m not mad.”

“…You’re something.”

I exhale. “…You pulled back.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“…I adjusted.”

“That’s not better.”

A pause.

“…What do you want from me right now?” she asks.

That question again.

But this time—

I have an answer.

“…I want you to stop acting like this is something you need to manage,” I say. “…Like it’s a situation instead of just—”

I stop.

“…Just what?” she asks quietly.

I meet her eyes.

“…Us.”

Silence.

The game noise fades around us for a second.

Or maybe I just stop hearing it.

She step’s closer.

Slow this time.

Deliberate.

“…You’re making that sound easy,” she say’s.

“…I’m not saying it is.”

“…It gets complicated fast here,” she replies. “…You know that.”

“…Then let it,” I say.

Another step closer.

Now we’re back in that space again.

Too close for nothing.

Not close enough for everything.

“…And when it does?” she asks.

“…We deal with it.”

She studies me for a second.

Really studies me.

“…You’re going to be a problem for me,” she says.

“…Good.”

That almost makes her smile.

Almost.

Voices echo down the trail.

Campers getting closer.

Timing.

Again.

She glances toward the sound.

Then back at me.

For a second—

I think she’s going to do it.

Close the distance.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she steps back.

Just slightly.

“…Later,” she says.

Not teasing.

Not flirty.

Just—

real.

“Don’t disappear,” I reply.

She shakes her head once.

“Not planning on it.”

And then she’s gone into the dark again.

Leaving me standing there—

heart racing—

frustrated—

wanting more—

And finally understanding something I didn’t before.

This isn’t just tension anymore.

It’s not just flirting.

It’s not even just attraction.

It’s timing.

Pressure.

Risk.

And the worst part?

We both know exactly what we want.

We’re just not sure what it’s going to cost.