Chapter 51

The worst part isn’t the hangover.

It’s the clarity.

Because the more I sit there—

head pounding, mouth dry, sunlight way too bright—

the more it comes back.

Not all at once.

In pieces.

The dock.

Her hand on my arm.

That stupid, soft laugh.

And then—

her mouth on mine.

“…Oh my god,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.

Across from me, Quinn is very still.

Too still.

“…Yeah,” she says slowly.

Silence fills the space between us.

Not the quiet from yesterday.

Not heavy in the same way.

This is worse.

“…We were drunk,” I say finally.

It comes out too fast.

Too easy.

Quinn nods once.

“…Very.”

“…Like—barely functioning.”

“…Couldn’t stand,” she adds.

“…Exactly.”

We’re both agreeing.

Too quickly.

Like if we stack enough reasons on top of it—

it’ll mean less.

“…So,” I continue, forcing a shrug, “…it didn’t really—mean anything.”

There it is.

The line.

Quinn doesn’t answer right away.

She’s looking at the floor now, jaw tight, fingers tapping once against her knee.

“…Right,” she says.

And something about the way she says it—

not sarcastic, not sharp—

just flat—

It twists something in my chest.

“…I mean,” I add quickly, “…we don’t even remember it properly.”

“…No,” she says.

But she doesn’t sound convinced.

Neither do I.

Across the room, someone laughs loudly. A cabinet slams. Music starts again, low and fuzzy.

Life keeps going.

But here?

We’re stuck.

“…Do you remember it?” she asks suddenly.

I hesitate.

“…Parts.”

She nods slowly.

“…Yeah.”

Silence again.

“…It was just—” I start, then stop.

“…Just what?” she asks.

I shake my head. “…I don’t know.”

That’s the problem.

Because it wasn’t just sloppy.

Or random.

Or nothing.

And we both know it.

“…We shouldn’t have done that,” Quinn says finally.

It’s not harsh.

Just… honest.

“…Yeah,” I say quietly.

Another pause.

“…Especially like that,” she adds. “…Drunk. Messy.”

“…Yeah.”

We keep agreeing.

But it doesn’t fix anything.

Quinn shifts, pushing herself up off the floor slowly, like her head’s still catching up.

“…I’m gonna get coffee.”

“…Okay.”

She takes a step—

then stop.

Not turning around.

“…For what it’s worth,” she says, voice quieter now, “…I don’t think it was nothing.”

My chest tightens.

She doesn’t look back.

“…But maybe it shouldn’t have happened like that.”

And then she walks away.

I sit there.

Frozen.

Because that?

That’s worse than if she just agreed with me.

Later

The cottage feels different now.

Not quieter.

Still loud, still messy, still full of people recovering and laughing and replaying the night.

But for me—

everything feels slightly off.

I’m more aware.

Of everything.

Of where Quinn is in the room.

Of when she laughs.

Of when she doesn’t.

We don’t end up alone again.

Not all day.

But there are moments.

Passing in the kitchen—

our shoulders brush.

We both pull away too fast.

On the dock—

She sits on the opposite side this time.

Not next to me.

At one point, Tanner throws an arm around my shoulders, laughing about something, and I let it happen—

just to feel normal.

But across the yard—

I catch Quinn watching.

Not jealous.

Not angry.

Just…

thinking.

And that almost makes it worse.

That night, back at camp

The buses are quiet.

Everyone’s tired.

Sunburnt.

Hungover.

I lean my head against the window, watching trees blur past, trying not to think.

It doesn’t work.

Because all I can hear is—

“I don’t think it was nothing.”

And the worst part?

I agree.

But I don’t know what that means.

And neither does she.

Back at camp

Everything resets.

Like it always does.

Cabins.

Schedules.

Campers.

But now there’s something new layered underneath it all.

Not just tension.

Not just almost.

Something real.

Unspoken.

And impossible to ignore.

That night, as I’m locking up the waterfront, I hear footsteps behind me.

I don’t turn right away.

“…We should probably not do that again,” Quinn says.

I let out a slow breath.

“…Yeah,” I say.

A pause.

“…At least not like that.”

I turn this time.

She’s closer than I expected.

“…Right,” I say.

Silence.

The air shifts again.

Familiar.

Dangerous.

“…Okay,” she says, stepping back slightly.

“…Okay.”

Neither of us moves.

Because even though we just agreed—

we both know—

that whatever this is?

It’s not done with us yet.