Chapter 28

It happens two nights later.

Not planned.

That’s the problem.

The day had been long in that draining, sticky way where everything clings—heat, sweat, noise, people. By the time night program ends, I’m exhausted, my hair still damp at the back of my neck, hoodie pulled over my hands even though it’s not cold.

Campers are loud on the walk back to cabins, flashlights bouncing across the path, voices overlapping in a way that makes it hard to think.

“…Okay, bathrooms, then lights out—no talking—yes, I mean it—no, I actually mean it—”

They don’t listen.

They never do.

By the time the cabin finally settles, it’s late.

Later than usual.

The kind of quiet that only happens when everyone’s too tired to keep pushing.

I should stay.

I know I should.

Instead, I sit on my bunk for a full minute, staring at the floor, feeling that pull again.

It’s not even a decision.

Not really.

I get up.

Slip out quietly, easing the cabin door shut behind me, wincing slightly at the creak.

The air outside is cooler now, but still thick, heavy with the smell of lake water and damp wood.

Crickets hum low in the background.

Somewhere far off, someone laughs—staff, probably.

The path toward the waterfront is darker than usual.

Most of the lights are off.

Just faint glows from the main buildings and the reflection of the moon across the lake.

I don’t rush.

But I don’t hesitate either.

She’s already there.

Of course she is.

At the dock this time, not the climbing wall.

Sitting at the edge, feet in the water, hoodie thrown beside her, back slightly hunched forward like she’s been waiting long enough to start thinking too much.

She doesn’t turn when I walk up.

“…You’re predictable,” she says.

“…You’re here too.”

“…Yeah.”

I step onto the dock.

The wood creaks softly under my weight.

The lake is almost completely still, just faint ripples around her legs.

“…You okay?” I ask.

She shrugs slightly.

“…Yeah.”

A pause.

“…You?”

“…Yeah.”

We both know that’s not true.

I sit down beside her.

Close.

Not touching.

Yet.

For a minute, neither of us says anything.

Just the quiet.

The water.

The sound of our breathing evening out after the walk.

“…The camp director talked to me again,” she says finally.

I close my eyes briefly.

“…Cool.”

“…Yeah.”

“…What now?”

She drags a hand through her hair, exhaling slowly.

“…Same thing. Keep it professional. Don’t let it get… visible.”

I let out a quiet laugh.

“…Bit late for that.”

“…I know.”

Silence again.

Heavier this time.

“…Do you regret it?” I ask.

She turns her head.

Looks at me.

“No.”

Immediate.

No hesitation.

“…Good,” I say.

A beat.

“…Do you?”she asks.

I shake my head.

“No.”

Another pause.

Then—

her shoulder brushes mine.

Not accidental.

I don’t move away.

“…This is a bad idea,” she murmurs.

“…Yeah.”

“…We’re still doing it.”

“…Yeah.”

Her hand finds mine.

Not dramatic.

Just fingers sliding against mine, testing, then lacing together like it’s already familiar.

My chest tightens.

“…You’re going to get me in trouble,” she says quietly.

“…You’re literally the authority.”

“…Doesn’t mean I’m immune.”

I glance at her.

“…You don’t seem very concerned.”

She looks back.

“…I am.”

A beat.

“…Just not enough to stop.”

That lands.

I lean closer.

Not thinking about it.

Just… following it.

“…Good,” I say.

And then—

we’re kissing again.

Slower at first.

Less rushed than before.

But it doesn’t stay that way.

Her hand tightens slightly in mine, then lets go just to shift—coming up to my waist, pulling me closer.

I move with it automatically, knees turning slightly toward her on the dock, closing the space.

The wood is warm under my hands.

Her hoodie is rough under my fingers where I grab onto it.

Everything feels sharper at night.

More contained.

Like the dark is holding it in.

“…Kennedy,” she murmurs against my mouth.

“…What?”

“…We shouldn’t—”

“Then stop,” I say.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she kisses me again.

Harder.

And that’s when it crosses into something else.

Her hand slides slightly up my side.

Mine tightens in her hoodie.

Our bodies closer now, angled toward each other, knees brushing, breath uneven.

The kind of closeness that stops being casual.

A board creaks behind us.

We both freeze.

Footsteps.

Not far.

Not faint.

Close.

“…Shit,” Quinn breathes.

Voices.

Two of them.

Staff.

Coming down the path toward the dock.

“…We need to move,” she whispers.

There’s no time to think.

She grabs my wrist—pulling me up fast, quiet but urgent—and we move toward the side of the dock, stepping off into the boathouse for our motorboat and waterski storage

The space is tight.

Dark.

Half-hidden by the walls and shadows.

She pulls me in with her.

Too close.

Like—really close.

My back ends up lightly against one of the wooden posts.

Her body in front of mine, angled just enough to block the view from the dock.

Her hand is still on my wrist.

The other braced against the post beside my head.

We’re both breathing too loud.

“…Don’t move,” she whispers.

“…I wasn’t planning on it.”

The footsteps hit the dock.

Wood creaks near us.

“…You think anyone’s down here?” a voice says.

“…Doubt it. Lights are out.”

I can feel Quinn’s chest rise and fall against mine.

Her face is inches from me.

I can barely see it in the dark—

just the outline.

The shape.

“…Your idea of low profile is terrible,” I whisper.

She huffs quietly.

“…Not helping.”

The voices move closer.

Right next to us now.

I stop breathing.

Actually stop.

“…Wait—did you hear something?” one of them says.

My heart slams.

Quinn’s hand tightens slightly around my wrist.

Not hard.

Just enough.

“…Probably just the water,” the other says.

Silence.

Too long.

Then—

a phone flashlight flicks on.

Light spills across the dock.

Too bright.

Too close.

I press back instinctively.

Quinn shifts with me, angling her body more in front of mine, blocking the line of sight.

Her arm comes around slightly—

not fully touching—

but enough to shield.

The light passes over the edge of the dock.

Right where we were hiding.

“…See? No one,” the voice says.

A pause.

Then the light clicks off.

Footsteps again.

Moving away.

We don’t move.

Not until the sound fades completely.

Not until it’s quiet again.

Not until my heartbeat slows down enough that I can actually think.

Quinn exhales.

Long.

“…That was too close.”

“…Yeah,” I whisper.

Neither of us pulls away.

We’re still in the same position.

Her hand still around my wrist.

Her body still close enough that I can feel the heat off her.

“…We could actually get caught,” I say.

“…We almost just did.”

A beat.

“…Still worth it?” she asks.

I let out a quiet breath.

“…Ask me when my heart stops trying to kill me.”

That makes her laugh.

Soft.

Right there, between us.

And then—

it shifts again.

The adrenaline doesn’t go away.

It just… changes.

Becomes something else.

She looks at me.

I can feel it more than see it.

“…We should go,” she says.

“…Yeah.”

Neither of us moves.

“…Quinn.”

“…Yeah?”

“…If we keep doing this—”

“…I know.”

“…It’s going to get messy.”

“…It already is.”

Silence.

Then—

she finally step back.

The space feels immediate.

Cold.

“…I’ll walk you back,” she says.

“…You don’t have to.”

“…I want to.”

And that—

that feels different.

Not impulsive.

Not reactive.

Intentional.

We walk back in silence.

Not touching.

But close enough that it still feels like something.

And for the first time—

it’s not just about getting away with it.

It’s about what happens when we don’t.

Because next time—

we might not.