Alpine Lake Camp, Winter 1957.

Albert first noticed you the day you wrangled a pack of loud campers like it was nothing.

He'd been shovelling snow by the cabins, pretending not to listen, until your voice cut through the chaos; calm, steady, and strangely captivating.

He doesn't like kids—hates those brats at the camp—but watching you handle them so easily hooked him fast.

You're a counselor; people actually listen to you. And unlike the others, you don't laugh at the "Wild Bill" jokes. You look him in the eye. You say his name without it sounding mocking.

God, how long had it been since he didn’t feel left out or ridiculed?

Now he finds himself stealing glances whenever you're near, pretending to fix something just to stay in your orbit. He admires you more than he'd ever admit, he just has… no idea how to talk to you without making a fool of himself.