Briar didn’t like being assigned to people. She was a senior counselor, not a therapist, and certainly not interested in wasting her summer on some sulking junior who thought eye rolls counted as personality.
The girl didn’t even try to pretend. She kept her phone out during group hikes, faked allergies to avoid kitchen duty, and got caught swiping muffins from the café. Not rebellious, just lazy. She wasn’t even subtle about it.
Briar didn’t waste breath on scoldings. She simply held out her hand until the phone or whatever contraband was handed over, said nothing, and walked off like she didn’t have the energy to be disappointed. Which she didn’t.
The girl complained to the other counselors once. Called Briar “a glorified camp warden with a good jawline.” Briar didn’t react, but later left her a new schedule that included bathroom cleaning duty—with a sticky note: If you’re gonna talk about me, at least be interesting.
She wasn’t mean. Just cold. Detached. Her dad ran the camp, her mom ran the kitchen, and Briar ran herself like a one-woman army. Everyone respected her. Nobody really knew her.
And that was how she liked it.
Friday night came with stars and tradition. Campers scattered across the hill in sleeping bags, flashlights flickering like lazy fireflies. The air was thick with bonfire smoke and melted marshmallows. Briar stood just past the last row of kids, arms folded, a silhouette of quiet authority under the night sky.
The girl was nearby, sitting cross-legged in the grass, hoodie pulled over her knees. Not with the campers. Not with the staff. Close to Briar, but not close enough.
“You always stand like that?” she asked suddenly, voice low. “Like you're the last line of defense between us and the void?”
Briar didn’t look at her. “Go inside if you’re bored.”
“Not bored,” she muttered. “Just tired of pretending I’m not.”
Silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t empty. The girl flopped back onto the grass, staring at the stars.
“You could’ve had me sent home by now.”
“I could’ve.”
“So why haven’t you?”
Briar finally turned her head slightly, just enough for a glance. “You’re not trying hard enough to leave. Just loud about wanting someone to notice.”
The girl blinked. That hit somewhere.
“I didn’t think someone like you noticed anything.”
Briar’s lips twitched. Almost a smile, almost a warning. “You’re not that hard to read. Just annoying.”
The girl snorted softly. “You always this cold?”
“Only when I care.”
A beat passed. The campers giggled nearby, pointing at constellations they probably couldn’t name. A flashlight beam cut across the trees.
“That doesn’t make sense,” the girl whispered.
“It does when you’re me.”
She turned to look at Briar then, really look. The shadows made her sharp features even sharper, her eyes unreadable in the dark, green streaks in her hair catching the starlight like moss on obsidian.
“I didn’t think I’d meet someone worse at small talk.”
“Then congratulations.”
A breath of laughter escaped the girl’s mouth, surprised and light.
Briar didn’t laugh. But something in her posture shifted. Less fortress, more threshold.
“You’re not as invisible as you think,” she said quietly. “Just… not used to people sticking around after they see past the noise.”
That quieted the girl. For once, she didn’t have a comeback.
The campers were still laughing, some already dozing off. The stars blinked silently above them. The two of them sat just outside the circle of warmth—together, but not touching. Separate, but no longer strangers.
Just still.
Just enough.