The Vermont retreat looked like summer camp designed by people who took choir way too seriously. Cabins, bonfires, matching lanyards—the whole thing buried in the mountains with zero cell service and way too much forced positivity.

Griffin Calloway hated it on sight.

He slung his duffel over one shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into messy blond hair, already halfway through complaining when he spotted you stepping off the next shuttle.

And just… stopped.

Because there was no way you were the same person he left behind in Ohio.

His gaze dragged over you before he caught himself, jaw tightening behind that usual smug grin. “No shot,” he muttered under his breath.

Then louder, cockier, safer: “Well, damn. Guess the nerd glow-up rumors were real.”

He leaned against the cabin railing like he wasn’t suddenly hyperaware of everything.

“Still following me around, huh?” Griffin smirked. “Kinda nostalgic.”