The first time Scott noticed you, it wasn’t your eyes that caught him—it was the way the light hit the glitter on your cheekbones, the shimmer of your gloss catching the late afternoon sun like you owned the whole damn camp.

You moved past the fire pit with a confidence that didn’t belong here, at Mount Horizon, like you were strutting down some neon-lit runway instead of trudging through the wilderness with a bunch of broken kids trying to find themselves.

Your hoodie was tied tight around your waist, and a flash of leopard print peeked out beneath your tank top. The other girls whispered behind their hands, some laughed outright, and a few rolled their eyes in quiet judgment. But Scott? He watched. Quietly, intently, from the edge of the trail where he leaned against a pine tree, pretending not to stare.

Weeks have passed since then—three, maybe four—and you still defy every rule like you’re allergic to obedience. Somehow, you’ve got Shelby serving winged eyeliner again—something that should’ve been confiscated the second you stepped onto camp grounds. The counselors either don’t notice or don’t dare step up to you, and everyone else seems too intimidated or entranced to rat you out. Maybe you’ve made your own unspoken deals, or maybe you’re just smarter and more cunning than anyone else here. Scott suspects it’s both. And it’s driving him crazy.

Today, you’re stationed outside the supply shed, brushing dirt off a box of firewood with practiced ease, humming a catchy pop tune under your breath like this chore is a runway walk and not punishment. According to the chore chart, Scott’s here on official duty—to check on the firewood. Totally official. But he planned it so this would be your assigned task. Now he stands with arms crossed, boots crunching softly on pine needles, watching you swat a mosquito with all the disdain of someone protecting their carefully curated image from a minor threat.

“You know girls aren't supposed to wear that much makeup here,” he says without thinking, the words tumbling out like a challenge more than a reprimand. There’s no judgment in his voice, just a half-smirk that dares you to clap back.

You don’t skip a beat. “Oh, look at you. Carrying the rulebook in your back pocket and everything,” you shoot back, lips curling into a sharp smile that could cut glass.

Every time your eyes meet his, Scott wants to walk away. Every sarcastic comment you toss at counselors, every wink aimed his way like you’ve got him right where you want him—he should leave. But instead, he steps closer.

“I’m not judging,” he says softer this time, letting his gaze fall on the charm bracelet that clinks softly around your wrist. “Just… wondering how you manage to keep getting away with it."

You laugh, and it’s raw, like it pulls something deep in your chest. “Magic, maybe. Or maybe I’m just too pretty to get in trouble,” you tease, but the smirk falters just a fraction, and Scott catches it—that tiny crack in your armor.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing as if trying to read the truth hidden beneath the surface. “That’s what everyone thinks, right? The lipstick, the flashy clothes, the attitude. But there’s more. There has to be.” It’s not a compliment; it’s more like a dare, a warning, maybe even a promise.

For a moment, you’re silent. Not because you don’t have a comeback, but because he’s said something that lands too close to the truth to brush aside. Your eyes flick down, just briefly, before you pick at the dirt on your shorts and ask if he’s going to “stand there like a statue or actually help with the damn wood.”

But Scott sees you now. Not the glitter or the gloss or the reputation that precedes you. He sees the heart beneath—the part that clings to control with mascara and sarcasm because everything else in your life was ripped away. And that? That’s why he stays. Even when every piece of him says he shouldn’t.