Chapter 52

Camp goes back to normal.

Or at least—

it tries to.

Schedules don’t care about your personal life.

Flagpole still happens.

Breakfast is still loud.

Campers still lose their water bottles like it’s a personality trait.

And somehow—

that makes everything worse.

Because there’s no space to deal with it.

I see Quinn everywhere.

But not with me.

At breakfast, she’s across the dining hall, laughing with Kallie like nothing’s changed.

At activities, she moves through sections like she always does—checking in, correcting, helping.

Efficient. Easy.

With everyone else.

With me?

It’s… careful.

Not distant.

Not cold.

Just—

measured.

“…You’re doing it again,” Annabelle mutters as we walk to second period.

“…Doing what?”

“…Watching her like she personally offended you.”

I scoff. “…She did personally offend me.”

“…No,” she says. “…You’re just mad you can’t pretend it’s nothing anymore.”

I don’t answer.

Because she’s right.

Waterfront — third period

Of course I get paired with her again.

Boat and dock.

Same as always.

Except this time—

there’s no teasing.

No easy rhythm.

Just silence.

“…Ready?” Quinn calls from the boat.

“…Yeah.”

That’s it.

We run the set clean.

Perfect, actually.

Campers rotate smoothly.

Signals are sharp.

Timing is exact.

We don’t mess up once.

It’s the best we’ve ever worked together.

And it feels like nothing.

Which somehow feels worse than when we were fighting.

At one point, I step onto the edge of the dock to help a camper reposition.

The wood’s wet.

My foot slips—

Not a fall.

Not even close.

But her voice cuts across the water instantly—

“…Careful.”

Sharp.

Automatic.

I freeze for half a second.

Because that wasn’t calculated.

That wasn’t “section head Quinn.”

That was—

instinct.

I recover, straightening.

“…I’m fine.”

“…I know,” she says.

But she doesn’t sound relaxed.

And for a second—

we look at each other.

Really look.

Then it’s gone.

Later — free time

I shouldn’t go to the dock.

I know I shouldn’t.

But I do anyway.

It’s quieter now. Most campers are at cabin activities, the lake calm, the sun lower in the sky.

And of course—

she’s already there.

Sitting at the edge, feet in the water.

“…You live here now?” I ask, walking up.

She glances back.

“…Could ask you the same thing.”

I sit anyway.

Not too close.

Not far.

“…We’re good at this,” I say after a minute.

“…At what?”

“…Pretending nothing’s happening.”

She huffs a quiet laugh.

“…Yeah.”

Silence.

“…It’s getting old,” I add.

“…Yeah.”

Neither of us moves.

Because saying it out loud doesn’t fix it.

“…So what do you want to do?” she asks.

The question hangs there.

Simple.

Not simple at all.

“…I don’t know,” I admit.

She nods slowly.

“…Yeah.”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

“…I meant what I said,” she adds quietly. “…At the cottage.”

My chest tightens.

“…Which part?”

“…That it wasn’t nothing.”

I stare out at the water.

“…Okay,” I say.

“…That’s it?” she asks.

“…What do you want me to say?”

“…I don’t know,” she admits. “…Something honest.”

I laugh softly.

Not amused.

“…You want honest?” I say, turning to her. “…Fine.”

She looks at me fully now.

“…I think about it more than I should,” I admit. “…I think about you more than I should. And it’s annoying, and distracting, and—”

I stop, exhaling sharply.

“…And I don’t like not knowing what this is.”

Silence.

Not empty.

Waiting.

Quinn’s jaw tightens slightly.

“…Yeah,” she says quietly. “…Same.”

That hits.

“…Okay,” I say again, softer now.

“…Okay.”

But neither of us looks away.

Because now it’s out there.

Not everything.

But enough.

“…And I don’t like,” I add, voice tightening slightly, “…when you act like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

There it is.

She exhales.

Slow.

“…I know,” she says. “…I messed that up.”

I blink.

Wasn’t expecting that.

“…You did,” I say.

“…I know.”

A beat.

“…I’m used to being in charge,” she admits. “…Sometimes I forget how that lands.”

“…Yeah,” I say. “…It lands badly.”

She nods.

“…I’m working on it.”

It’s not a big apology.

Not dramatic.

But it’s real.

“…Okay,” I say.

And for the first time—

it feels like we’re not talking around it.

We’re actually in it.

The air shifts.

Softer.

Still tense.

But different.

“…So what now?” I ask quietly.

She looks at me.

Really looks this time.

“…I don’t know,” she says. “…But I don’t think pretending this isn’t happening is working.”

“…Yeah,” I agree.

A pause.

Then—

she stands.

“…We’ve got evening program,” she says.

Of course we do.

I laugh softly, shaking my head.

“…Right.”

She hesitates for half a second.

Like she’s about to say something else.

But she doesn’t.

“…Come on,” she says instead.

And this time—

when we walk back—

we’re still not touching.

But we’re not avoiding it anymore either.

And that?

Might be the most dangerous place we’ve been yet.