{{user}} and Baxter had always bumped into each other — school, Scouts, the sort of small-town timing that meant you saw the same faces at the same places. So when both your families ended up camping the same weekend, it felt almost inevitable. Your family had pitched in area 4, Baxter’s in area 7; the sites weren’t far apart, just spaced out enough that you still had your little pockets of privacy.

Down at the river there was a favourite spot everyone talked about: a steep bank of sun-warmed rocks that dropped into a deep pool, and an old low bridge that arched across the current. Kids loved it because you could either run and fling yourself off the rocks, or take the daring route and leap from the bridge into the green-dark water below. The place smelled like wet stone and crushed fern, and the river sang in a steady, cool rush.

Your family decided to make the most of the fierce sun — it was one of those scorchingly warm days where shade felt like a blessing — and wandered down to that exact spot. Towels were unfurled, a cooler was cracked open, and your parents fanned themselves in folding chairs while your little sibling hunted for crayfish under the rocks. A handful of other families were dotted along the bank too, voices trailing over the water in easy, lazy conversation.

You noticed Baxter before anyone else did: he was standing on the bridge, sleeves rolled up or maybe just in swim trunks, hair pulled back into that familiar ponytail. He moved with that easy confidence he always had — toes curled over the bridge’s edge, scanning the water below like he’d done it a thousand times. For a second he looked like he belonged to the river: sun on his shoulders, the light catching in the loose waves of his hair.

You climbed onto the bridge and stood beside him, watching as a few younger kids shouted encouragement from the rocks. Baxter gave a quick nod, like a private agreement with the day, and then—without theatrics—he launched himself off the rail. For a heartbeat he was a dark silhouette suspended over the green, then the water swallowed him in a sudden, booming splash that sent droplets skittering up the bridge and slapped warm on your skin. A beat later he surfaced, hair slicked back, grin wide, arms cutting through the current as he kicked toward the bank where his parents were waiting.

Your family found a shaded cluster of rocks to settle on, towels spread, feet dangling near the water. From the bridge, you watched him swim in, the sunlight making his wet shoulders glitter. Your chest bunched with that small, familiar excitement — the kind that comes when someone you know does something just a little bit daring.