Chapter 29

You notice it immediately.

Not because it’s obvious.

Because it’s not.

If Quinn had just avoided me completely, it would’ve been easier.

Cleaner.

Something I could point at and go—there, that’s the problem.

But she doesn’t.

She shows up.

She does her job.

She talks to me when she has to.

She just…

doesn’t linger.

And that’s worse.

The morning starts like any other.

Too early.

The sky still that pale blue-grey that hasn’t fully decided to be day yet, the air damp and cool against my skin as I walk down to the waterfront with a coffee I’m not going to finish.

The dock smells like wet wood and lake water, familiar in a way that usually settles me.

Not today.

Quinn’s already there.

Leaning over the side of the dock, checking one of the ropes tied to the boats, sleeves pushed up, hair still messy like she rolled out of bed five minutes ago.

For a second, it feels normal.

Like I could just walk up, say something stupid, fall back into it.

But then—

she straightens.

Turns.

Sees me.

And I watch it happen.

That shift.

Subtle.

Fast.

“…Morning,” she says.

It’s neutral.

Too neutral.

“…Morning.”

I step onto the dock, the wood creaking lightly under my feet.

Wait.

Just slightly.

Nothing.

She nods once, like that’s enough.

Then turns back to what she was doing.

That’s it.

No teasing.

No comment.

No anything.

I stand there for a second longer than I should.

“…You’re on boats today?” I ask.

“…Yeah.”

“…Cool.”

“…Yeah.”

Silence.

It stretches.

Awkward in a way we’ve never been.

“…Okay,” I say finally, clapping my hands lightly like I’m resetting myself. “Bronze Meds in five.”

“…Got it.”

She doesn’t look at me again.

And something in my chest tightens.

The whole morning is like that.

Not bad.

Not tense in a loud way.

Just… off.

During Bronze Med, Quinn stays on the dock, but she doesn’t chirp at me, doesn’t throw comments, doesn’t get involved unless she has to.

She’s quieter with everyone, not just me.

More focused.

More… controlled.

At one point, I glance up mid-demonstration.

She’s watching.

But the second I catch it—

she looks away.

Like it didn’t happen.

That’s new.

That gets to me.

“Okay, reset!” I call out, a little sharper than I mean to.

A camper flinches slightly.

“…Sorry,” I add quickly, forcing a smile.

I’m distracted.

And I hate being distracted.

By second period, I’m irritated.

Not at her.

Not exactly.

At the situation.

At the fact that I don’t know what’s happening.

At the fact that she’s acting like last night—like everything—just needs to be… managed.

I catch Annabelle watching me during free time.

“…What?” I say.

“…You’re spiralling,” she replies immediately.

“I am not spiralling.”

“You are. It’s quieter than usual, but it’s there.”

I roll my eyes, dropping onto the grass beside her.

“…She’s being weird.”

She snorts. “…You mean she’s not all over you for once?”

“…She was never ‘all over me.'”

Annabelle just looks at me.

Flat.

“…Okay, she was a little—”

“A little?” she laughs. “Kennedy.”

I shove her shoulder.

“…Whatever. That’s not the point.”

“…So what is?”

I hesitate.

Because I don’t want to say it out loud.

“…She’s pulling back,” I admit.

Annabelle’s expression shifts slightly.

Less amused.

More… understanding.

“…And you don’t like that.”

“…No,” I say. “…I don’t.”

She studies me for a second.

“…Have you talked to her?”

“…Tried to.”

“…And?”

I shrug. “…She keeps saying ‘later.'”

“…That’s annoying.”

“…Yeah.”

A beat.

“…You’re going to confront her again, aren’t you?” she says.

“…Probably.”

“…Good.”

I glance at her.

“…Good?”

“…Yeah,” she shrugs. “…Because this whole half-in, half-out thing? That’s worse than just blowing it up.”

She’s right.

I hate that she’s right.

Dinner is worse.

Because now I’m looking for it.

Every little thing.

Quinn’s across the table again.

Talking to Kallie, Noah, someone else.

Laughing.

Relaxed.

And it hits me—

she’s not off.

She’s  just off with me.

That stings more than I expect.

At one point, Kallie says something that makes Quinn laugh, leaning forward, elbow on the table, completely at ease.

I look away.

Immediately.

“…Okay, yeah, that’s bad,” Emily mutters beside me.

“…What is?”

“…You’re doing the thing where you pretend you don’t care but you clearly care.”

“I don’t clearly—”

“You do.”

I exhale sharply.

“…She’s acting like nothing happened,” I say.

“…Or she’s trying not to get caught,” Emily counters.

“…We almost got caught.”

“…Exactly.”

I pause.

“…So that just means we stop?” I ask.

Emily shrugs. “…Or it means you figure out what you actually want.”

I already know what I want.

That’s the problem.

Night.

Camp is quieter tonight.

No big program.

Just cabin time, early lights out.

It should feel calm.

It doesn’t.

I don’t go looking for her.

Not this time.

I stay in my cabin longer than usual, sitting on the floor while my campers braid each other’s hair and argue about music.

I laugh at the right moments.

Say the right things.

But I’m not really there.

Eventually, when they’re settled, I step outside.

The air is cooler now.

A light breeze off the lake, just enough to cut through the heat of the day.

The sky is clear, stars scattered across it in a way you never see in the city.

I start walking.

Not toward the dock.

Not toward the climbing wall.

Just… walking.

Until—

“…You’re avoiding me now?”

I stop.

Turn.

Quinn’s leaning against a tree just off the path, arms crossed, like she’s been there long enough to get comfortable.

“…I’m not avoiding you,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow.

“…Really.”

“…Really.”

She pushes off the tree.

Steps closer.

“…That’s funny,” she says. “…Because you’ve barely looked at me all night.”

“…You’ve barely looked at me all day.”

A beat.

“…That was different,” she says.

“…How?”

She hesitates.

Just slightly.

“…I was trying to keep things under control.”

I let out a short laugh.

“…By acting like I don’t exist?”

“…That’s not what I did.”

“…It kind of is.”

She steps closer.

Not too close.

But closer than before.

“…You know that’s not what I meant,” she says.

“…Then what did you mean?”

Silence.

Again.

I shake my head.

“…This is exactly what I’m talking about,” I say. “…You keep doing that.”

“…Doing what?”

“…Stopping halfway,” I reply. “…Like you want this, but only on your terms.”

That lands.

Her expression shifts.

“…That’s not fair.”

“…No?” I say. “…Because it feels pretty accurate.”

She runs a hand through her hair, frustrated.

“…I’m trying not to make this worse.”

“…For who?”

“…For both of us.”

“…That’s not your call to make alone.”

A beat.

“…You think I don’t know that?” she snaps.

There it is.

Finally.

“…Then stop acting like it,” I fire back.

We’re closer now.

Not touching.

But close enough that the air feels tight.

“…You think this is easy for me?” she says. “Balancing this with everything else?”

“I’m not asking you to balance it,” I say. “I’m asking you to not pretend it’s nothing.”

“I’m not pretending that.”

“…Then why does it feel like I’m the only one still in it?”

Silence.

That hits.

Hard.

She looks at me.

Really looks.

And for a second—

I think she’s going to say something that fixes it.

She doesn’t.

“…I need to think,” she says instead.

And that—

that’s it.

That’s the moment something cracks.

“…Yeah,” I say quietly. “…You do that.”

I step back.

This time, I don’t wait.

Don’t linger.

I turn and walk away.

And she doesn’t follow.

For the first time—

she actually lets me go.

The night feels colder on the way back.

The path longer.

The sounds of camp quieter, like everything’s holding its breath.

And as I push open the cabin door, slipping back inside—

I realize something.

This isn’t just tension anymore.

This is the beginning of the break.

And it’s going to hurt more than I thought.