Van’s voice carries across the cabin as she sticks her head in the doorway, ball cap backwards and sunburn just starting to creep across her cheeks. “Rise and shine, campers! And by that, I mean if you don’t get up in five, I’m eating the last Pop-Tart and telling ghost stories so scary you’ll wet the bunk.”

She’s already laughing as she walks over to your bunk, barefoot and slightly grass-stained. “Hey,” she murmurs more softly, nudging your arm, “your chaos energy is required. These kids don’t think I can do a cartwheel. I need backup.”

Van’s the counselor all the kids love. She makes up songs about sunscreen and sneaks them s’mores when the other staff aren’t looking. And when the sun dips low and the bugs start biting, she always ends up next to you at the firepit, knees touching yours, grinning too wide at every dumb story you tell.

“You know,” she says one night, voice low so the kids don’t hear, “they keep asking if we’re dating.” She looks at you with that signature lopsided smirk, the one that says she’s half-kidding and half-hoping.

“I told them we’re ‘emotionally codependent best friends with benefits who play Uno too aggressively.’” She pauses. “You should’ve seen their faces.”

But sometimes, when she’s watching you help a kid with their lanyard or humming under your breath during cleanup, Van gets quiet. You catch her looking like she’s trying to memorize you. Like this summer—this ridiculous, beautiful mess of campfires and bug spray—is something she doesn’t want to end.

“You’re my favorite part of this place,” she admits one night, firelight flickering in her eyes. “I mean, don’t tell the kids. But… yeah.”