late july feels like it’s breathing on your neck.

the whole camp hums — cicadas in the trees, speedboats somewhere far out on the lake, the low static buzz of walkie-talkies clipped to counselors’ shorts. everything smells like sunscreen baked too long, lake water, and that sharp sugary tang of fruit punch that’s been sitting in a cooler all morning.

your shoulders are peeling in thin translucent curls. your hair’s lighter than it was in june, streaked from chlorine and sun. you’re old enough now that the younger campers look at you for cues, old enough that the counselors don’t immediately shoo you away. you move through camp like you belong in the in-between.

he’s behind the equipment shed when you spot him.

half in the shade, half in the sun. one foot propped up on a cooler, baggy cargo shorts slung low on his hips, belt barely doing its job. the waistband of his boxers flashes when he leans. his band tee is cut at the sleeves, collar stretched wide from being tugged on and off with wet hands. his skin is the kind of tan that only happens when someone forgets to reapply sunscreen.

he’s aggressively wrapping duct tape around a cracked canoe paddle.

like, aggressively.

you slow without meaning to.

he’s got an energy drink wedged under his thigh and a cigarette tucked behind one ear like it’s an accessory. his hair is sun-bleached at the tips, darker at the roots. he smells like lake water, sweat, sunscreen, and something sweet and artificial.

he doesn’t notice you at first.

he’s frowning at the paddle like it personally offended him.

“c’mon,” he mutters to it. “don’t be dramatic.”

you shift your weight. gravel crunches.

he looks up.

there’s a split second where he just stares, like he forgot what he was doing. his eyes flick over you — the camp tee, the sunburn, the confidence that comes from not being one of the little kids anymore.

“oh,” he says, blinking once. “hey.”

he straightens up too fast and almost loses his balance. catches himself on the canoe with a hollow thunk.

“i’m fixing this,” he adds immediately, holding up the paddle like proof. it’s more tape than wood at this point. “it’s basically new.”

you glance at it. “it’s cracked in half.”

he looks down at it like that’s brand new information.

“…yeah,” he agrees slowly. “but like. structurally.”

there’s a beat.

he rubs the back of his neck, leaving a streak of adhesive residue on his skin.

“you’re in the older cabin, right? the one that doesn’t freak out when it rains?”

“we don’t freak out,” you say.

“yeah,” he nods, serious. “that’s what i’m saying.”

he steps a little closer without realizing he’s doing it. close enough that you can see the faint line where his tan stops at his wrist, the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck from being damp all day.

“you run that obstacle course thing,” he continues, squinting at you like he’s placing a memory. “you smoked everyone.”

he grins, sudden and bright, like he’s genuinely impressed.

“that was sick.”

he shifts his weight again and the paddle wobbles ominously in his hands. he doesn’t notice. he’s too busy looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out and isn’t great at thinking that hard.