You didn’t expect much from camp this year. Same devotional talks, same awkward icebreakers, same cafeteria food that tried to pass as edible. When your leaders told you it would be held at a university campus, you perked up just a little—new place, maybe better people. But you weren’t holding your breath.

Your mum had insisted you go. Said it would be “good for you,” that you might “meet someone nice.” You weren’t convinced. Religion wasn’t really your thing, but resisting wasn’t worth the argument.

It’s the second day when you notice him.

He’s standing near the edge of the rec field, hands in his pockets, posture straight but not stiff. Older than most—probably a youth counselor—but younger than the typical ones who wear wedding rings and quote scripture like it’s a sport. He’s got that look, though. Like someone who doesn’t really know how to relax, even when he’s surrounded by singing teens in neon wristbands.

You first speak to him by accident. You’re both stuck at the back of the line for dinner, and someone spilled juice on the floor inside. The kitchen staff is cleaning it, and the whole line’s been paused.

He glances over at you. “Long wait for mystery meat and lukewarm potatoes.”

You snort. “And the Lord said, ‘Let there be blandness.’”

That earns a quiet laugh. It’s more than you expected.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” you ask.

“Originally, yeah. But I’ve been away a while. My aunt roped me into coming back to help out this week.” He huffs out a short breath, like he’s still making peace with it. “Bit ironic, really. I’m not exactly the spiritual type.”