Chapter 42

The first week came and went, full of tension, flirtation, and that line just begging to be crossed.

Its time for our outtrip, me and Annabelle packed all our campers up and we all got in the vans to get to the campsite.

Of course, me and Quinn are sitting together in the back, the van ride was quiet at first. Most of the campers had passed out, exhausted from the afternoon hike, leaving Quinn and me crammed together with the gear piled around us.

I could feel every inch of her body as she shifted, hoodie half falling off one shoulder, legs brushing mine under the seat, hair messy in a way that made me want to reach out and straighten it—but I didn’t. Not yet.

“…You’re dangerously close,” Quinn muttered, voice low, teasing, but there was a sharp edge to it. “…Do you even realize that?”

“…Am I?” I whispered, deliberately letting my knee press just slightly against hers, “…Or do you like it?”

Her eyes flicked down, then back to mine, darkening. “…Shit,” she muttered, voice catching, “…you’re insane. I can’t—ugh, you’re going to kill me.”

I grinned, leaning back just enough to let my fingers brush hers while pretending to adjust a strap on my bag. “…Maybe I want to.”

“…Mm-hmm,” she breathed, exhaling sharply, “…you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“…Not at all.” I responded innocently, smirk tugging at my lips. “… But I think you secretly like it.”

“…Don’t push me,” she muttered, voice rough, thumb brushing over the back of my hand in a way that sent sparks shooting up my arm. “…I might snap.”

I laughed softly, leaning closer until my shoulder pressed against hers, “…You are snapping, Quinn. I can feel it.”

By the time we arrived at the campsite, the sun was dipping behind the pines, casting long shadows over the dirt path, she campers were running around, excited for the night ahead. Quinn insisted I carry a box of supplies while she lugged the sleeping bags. Of course, our paths kept crossing; every time I passed her, our hands bumped, every time I set something down, our bodies grazed, each brush sparking tension neither of us could ignore.

“…Kennedy,” Quinn muttered as we set up the tents, “…stop doing that on purpose.”

“…Doing what?” I asked sweetly, holding up a tent pole for her to grab.

“…Teasing me,” she said, leaning closer than necessary, “…pressing up against me, brushing your hands like that…God, you know what you’re doing.”

“…Maybe I do,” I said, smirking. “…Maybe I like watching you squirm.”

Her hand lingered on the pole a fraction too long, just enough to brush mine deliberately, and I could see the fire in her eyes, the struggle between wanting to scold me and wanting… something else entirely.

“…You’re going to regret this,” she muttered, voice low, dark, sultry. “…I’m going to make you regret it.”

“…I hope so,” I whispered, letting my fingers graze hers just a fraction longer. “…Maybe I want you to.”

The first night was the worst. We were supposed to be checking on campers before lights out, but the tents were close together. Quinn and I ended up in a tiny one, zipped halfway closed, sitting across from each other, the space so tight I could feel the heat radiating off her.

“…Ugh,” she muttered, running a hand over her face, hoodie falling off her shoulder, “…this is torture. You’re so cruel.”

“…Am I?” I asked, voice low, leaning just slightly forward so our knees brushed. “…Or am I just… persistent?”

“…Persistent,” she repeated, eyes dark, lips parting, “…you’re killing me.”

“…Good,” I whispered, letting my fingers lightly graze hers. “…I like knowing that.”

“…You’re impossible,” she muttered, voice rough, hand pressing down lightly on my knee, “…and I hate it. And I love it.”

The next morning, I woke to her muttering something about “ridiculous campers” and “stupid tents,” but I couldn’t focus on the words. My mind was stuck on the warmth of her body the night before, the way her hand had lingered, the way her lips had curved into that smirk just for me.

“…Good morning,” I whispered, brushing past her to grab a cup of water. “…Did you sleep well?”

“…Shut up,” she muttered, voice low, smirk tugging at her lips despite herself. “…Don’t talk to me. I’ll lose it.”

“…Lose it?” I asked innocently, letting my hip brush hers as I walked past. “…Are we talking about your temper or something else?”

She froze, eyes flicking down to my hips, jaw tightening.

By the end of the outtrip, neither of us had spoken about the kiss directly, but every glance, every brush of skin, every teasing word stretched the tension higher. Quinn’s frustration simmered, and I kept stoking the fire with small jabs, flirtatious comments, and intentional touches.

I could see the way she tried to keep her composure—bossy, teasing, flustered—but underneath, it was clear: she was completely undone by me, just as I was by her.

And I couldn’t wait to see how far we’d push it next.