Chapter 27

By the next day, it’s not just a feeling anymore.

It’s real.

People are talking.

Not loudly.

Not in a way you can call out.

But enough.

I hear it in pieces.

Walking past the staff cabin—

“…I mean, it’s kind of obvious—”

“…they’re not even trying—”

“…Quinn’s never like that with anyone—”

I keep walking.

Like I didn’t hear it.

But it sticks.

By breakfast, even the energy at our table is off.

Not bad.

Just… aware.

Noah glances between me and Quinn like he’s watching a tennis match.

Kallie looks way too entertained.

Annabelle is practically vibrating.

Quinn?

Unreadable.

She’s quieter again.

Not distant.

But not leaning in either.

And I’m starting to lose patience with that.

“…Can you stop doing that?” I mutter as I sit down across from her.

She looks up. “…Doing what?”

“…Acting like nothing’s happening.”

A pause.

“…We’re at breakfast,” she says.

“…Exactly.”

Her jaw tightens slightly.

“…Not here.”

I lean back, crossing my arms.

“…Then when?”

She holds my gaze for a second.

Then look away.

“…Later.”

Again.

Later.

I hate that word now.

The morning drags.

Everything feels sharper.

The sun’s too bright.

The air’s too heavy.

Even the lake feels louder somehow—water slapping against the dock in uneven rhythms.

I’m short with my campers.

Not mean.

Just distracted.

Quinn’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Floating between activity areas, checking in, talking to staff.

Doing her job.

But every time she passes me—

she doesn’t stop.

And that?

That gets under my skin.

By lunch, I’m done.

I find her behind the dining hall, leaning against the side wall, half in the shade, picking at a granola bar.

“…You’ve said ‘later’ like five times,” I say.

She doesn’t look surprised.

Like she knew I’d show up.

“…I’ve been busy.”

“…You’ve been avoiding me.”

She sighs, pushing off the wall.

“…Kennedy—”

“…No, don’t ‘Kennedy’ me,” I cut in. “…Just say it.”

“…Say what?”

“…Whatever it is you’re clearly not saying.”

Silence.

A long one.

She looks past me for a second.

Then back.

“…The camp director talked to me this morning.”

That lands immediately.

“…About what?”

“…About us.”

My stomach drops.

“…There is no ‘us,'” I say automatically.

She raises an eyebrow.

“…That’s your official statement?”

“…You know what I mean.”

“…Do I?”

I exhale sharply. “…What did he say?”

Quinn runs a hand through her hair, pacing once before stopping again.

“…That I’m in a leadership role. That I’m supposed to set an example. That staff relationships—especially visible ones—can mess with dynamics.”

“…So?”

“…So,” she looks at me, “…he’s watching.”

The air feels heavier.

“…Okay,” I say slowly. “…And?”

“…And I don’t want this turning into a problem for you.”

I blink.

“…For me?”

“…You’re first-year staff. You don’t need—this—complicating things.”

Something in my chest tightens.

“…So your solution is to just… pull back?” I ask.

“…My solution is to not screw this up.”

“…By acting like it doesn’t exist?”

“…By not letting it blow up in front of everyone!”

The first real edge in her voice.

“…It already has,” I shoot back. “…People are talking anyway.”

“…Yeah, and I’d like them to stop.”

“…That’s not how this works, Quinn.”

She looks frustrated now.

Actually frustrated.

“…I know that,” she says. “…I just—”

She stops.

“…Just what?” I press.

She hesitates.

And that hesitation?

That’s what sets me off.

“…You don’t get to half-do this,” I say. “…You don’t get to kiss me like that and then act like I’m some liability you have to manage.”

Her expression shifts.

“…That’s not what this is.”

“…Then what is it?”

Silence.

Again.

“…I don’t know yet,” she admits.

And that?

That hits harder than anything else.

“…Right,” I say quietly.

I turn.

Start to walk away.

“…Kennedy—”

I stop.

But I don’t turn around.

“…I’m not saying I don’t want this,” she says.

“…Then say you do,” I reply.

A beat.

“…I do.”

It’s quiet.

But it’s real.

I turn back.

“…Then stop making me feel like a problem,” I say.

She looks at me.

Really looks.

“…You’re not,” she says.

“…Then act like it.”

We stand there.

Neither of us moving.

And for a second—

it feels like we might actually figure it out.

But camp doesn’t work like that.

“QUINN!”

A voice from across the clearing.

Another staff.

“…We need you—camp director’s asking—”

Of course.

Quinn closes her eyes briefly.

“…I have to go.”

I laugh under my breath.

Not amused.

“…Yeah. Obviously.”

She hesitates.

Like she wants to say something else.

She doesn’t.

And then she’s gone.

Again.

The rest of the day is a blur.

I go through the motions.

Activities, campers, instructions.

All automatic.

But underneath it—

everything feels off.

Because now it’s not just tension.

It’s uncertainty.

And I hate that more than anything.

Night.

Late.

Later than we’re supposed to be out.

Camp is quiet.

Finally.

I’m not planning to go anywhere.

Not planning to see her.

But somehow—

I end up walking the same trail anyway.

Past the waterfront.

Up toward the climbing wall.

Like my body already knows.

She’s there.

Leaning against the same beam as before.

Arms crossed.

Head tilted back slightly, looking up at the sky through the trees.

She doesn’t look surprised when I walk up.

“…You said later,” I say.

She glances at me.

“…I did.”

I step closer.

Not stopping this time.

“…So talk.”

She straightens slightly.

Unfolds her arms.

“…I’ve been coming to this camp since I was eight,” she says.

Not what I expected.

“…Okay…”

“…Every summer. Same place. Same people. Same… everything.”

Her voice is quieter now.

Less guarded.

“…This is the first time I’ve actually… cared about something like this here.”

That lands.

Soft, but heavy.

“…And that scares you?” I ask.

She laughs lightly.

No humor in it.

“…Yeah.”

A beat.

“…Why?” I ask.

She looks at me.

Really look.

“…Because camp ends.”

Simple.

Brutal.

True.

“…Everything here is intense and fast and—temporary,” she continues. “…And I don’t want this to be that.”

My chest tightens.

“…So you’d rather… what? Not do it at all?” I ask.

“No,” she says immediately. “That’s the problem. I do want it.”

She steps closer.

“…I just don’t know how to do it without it blowing up.”

I hold her gaze.

“…Then we figure it out,” I say.

“…You make that sound easy again.”

“…It’s not easy,” I say. “…It’s just… worth it.”

Silence.

Then—

she reaches for me.

This time slower.

More deliberate.

Her hand settling at my waist, pulling me just slightly closer.

I don’t hesitate.

My hands find her hoodie, gripping lightly.

“…We’re really doing this,” she murmurs.

“…Yeah,” I breathe.

“…Okay.”

And then she kisses me.

Not rushed.

Not sharp like before.

Slower.

Heavier.

Like she’s actually letting herself feel it this time.

 Her hand slides up my side slightly, stopping just below my ribs.

Not pushing.

Just there.

I pull her closer.

Without thinking.

And that—

that’s when it shifts.

The tension builds.

Deeper.

Warmer.

More dangerous.

Her breath catches slightly.

“…Kennedy,” she murmurs.

“…Don’t stop,” I say.

That does it.

She kisses me again.

Harder now.

One hand at my waist, the other at the back of my neck.

And for a second—

it feels like everything else disappears.

No camp.

No rules.

No people watching.

Just this.

Until—

“…We should stop.”

The words are quiet.

But firm.

I pull back slightly.

Breathing uneven.

“…Why?”

She rests her forehead briefly against mine.

“…Because if we don’t, we’re not going to.”

A beat.

She’s right.

I hate that she’s right.

I let out a small breath.

“…This is stupid.”

“…Yeah,” she agrees.

But neither of us moves away right away.

“…We’re going to get caught eventually,” I say.

“…Probably.”

“…And the camp director’s already watching.”

“…I know.”

Silence.

Then—

“…Still worth it?” she asks quietly.

I look at her.

“…Yeah.”

She nods once.

“…Okay.”

And this time—

when we step apart—

it doesn’t feel like the end of something.

It feels like the start of something we can’t control anymore.

And that?

Might actually be worse.