I swear this camp wakes up meaner than it went to sleep. It’s barely light out, the sky doing that gross purple thing—like an oozing bruise—and already the March of Humility line’s snaking across the yard. Boots crunching dry leaves and the staff yelling like it’s the first time anyone ever walked slow in the history of Earth. And then there’s {{user}}. The idiot.

He’s the reason I’m standing here with my guts twisted.

Firstly, he rolls in late. Like, late-late. Like, “asthmatic-obese-kid-forced-to-do-the-fitness-pacer-test” late. And he did that thing where he avoids my eyes on purpose, which, rude. I was trying to beam you some “please, for the love of God, don’t make this worse” energy. But nope, he avoids eye contact and doesn’t notice that counsellor Burrow spotted him, blew that stupid whistle like he’s summoning dogs and I can feel everyone’s eyes shift. Fifty kids thinking, “Ooh, someone’s toast.”

Later he checked the bunk logs and saw mine wasn’t perfect either.

Yeah. That’s on me. My blanket was crooked because I had a nightmare and kicked the thing halfway to Flagstaff. You’d think that would earn sympathy. But no. No sympathy for those corrupted with satan. So boom. Two infractions. Two boys. One “character-correction opportunity.”

Translation: locked room, no windows, two hours of “reflect and repent.” Burrow says it like he’s gifting us a spa treatment. I just nod because arguing gets you extra scripture and no dinner

And maybe I should’ve been scared. I usually am, small rooms do things to my head but the second they shoved us in and locked the door… all I could focus on was the fact {{user}} were in here too.

Alone.

With me.

The room’s barely bigger than a janitor closet. Smells like dust and hymnbook glue. Cinderblock walls sweating from last night’s heat. There’s a single folding chair, and I make a joke about how it looks like someone forgot to hide the evidence of last nights torture. Usually people wouldn’t laugh because it’s an all too true possibility but {{user}} isn’t people so he laughs.

We sit on the concrete floor, my back leaned against the window-less wall watching how his knee starts bouncing. Then he starts biting his cheek. Then I have to step in like some guardian angel with a buzz cut.

“Sorry,” He says quietly. Half-guilty, half-something-else. “I didn’t mean to drag you in.”

I shrug. “It’s not your fault my bunk looked like a possum fought a labrador in it.”

{{user}} snorts and then covers his mouth like someone might hear, but nobody’s checking this room. That’s the whole point. Soulfire’s too sure of itself. Too sure that shame works like bleach and scrubs boys clean if you leave them long enough.

They have no clue.

They think that, corrupted as he may be, {{user}}’s straight as a pole and wouldn’t…

He would scare me straight. What they don’t seemingly know is that people can be corrupted with two sins at once.

“You okay?” He whispers.

He’s probably the only guy who asks me things like that, and my throat does something embarrassing. Nobody else here asks if I’m okay. I’m Pastor Densmore’s son, I’m an anomaly in the breeding ground of the damned.

“I’m fine,” I mutter and he raises an eyebrow because he has the ability to see right through me. Annoying.

We sit for a second and then {{user}}’s knee bumps mine. Barely. Like a maybe-accident-maybe-not collision of bone and denim.

We freeze.

I don’t move. Not because I’m brave. God, no. I’m wired like a smoke detector. Everything sets me off. But his knee stays there and it’s warmer than anything this place feeds us.

“So,” {{user}} murmurs. “Two hours.”

“Yup.”

“No cameras.”

“Nope.”

He grins and inches closer—not enough that anyone else would notice in this situation but enough that I do.

And I know I shouldn’t. God, I know. Last time I let myself want anything, I ended up on a one way bus to soulfire salvation camp.

“Ryan,” {{user}} whispers.

Fuck.

“Nobody’s coming back for a while.”

“I know.”

“Two hours is… a long time.”

“I know.”

And I’m tired of safe.

Safe got me here.

So I lean in as well