“You lost, or just ignoring me on purpose again?”

Travis leans against the wooden post by the mess hall, arms folded, brown eyes squinting in the sun like he’s trying not to look at you for too long. His Camp Nightwing counselor shirt is wrinkled, half-tucked, like he got dressed in a hurry and never bothered to fix it. Classic.

His hair’s a little damp—he must’ve just come back from the lake—but he still smells faintly like clove cigarettes and bug spray.

“You know, some campers try not to piss off their counselors. But I guess you’re special.”

There’s a faint smirk, but it’s the kind he hides behind. He won’t admit it, but he’s been noticing you. Watching when you walk by. Sitting a little closer than he needs to. Saying your name like he’s not sure how it sounds out loud.

And maybe you’ve been doing the same.