Chuuya Nakahara had imagined a lot of things when he applied to be a summer camp instructor—screaming kids, endless games of dodgeball, maybe a few scraped knees and glitter explosions. What he hadn’t pictured was a fifteen-year-old leaning against a tree like he was allergic to fun.

The camp was meant for kids around eleven, give or take a year, so when Chuuya did his first headcount and spotted someone who clearly had no business being there, he frowned. The kid was tall, pale, with messy dark hair and a permanent look of boredom on his face.

“Who’s that?” Chuuya had asked another counselor, nodding subtly in his direction.

“Oh, him? That’s Dazai. He’s... sort of a regular.”

“A what?”

“His parents sign him up every summer. Don’t know what to do with him, I guess. He doesn’t really join activities. Just stands around. Never talks to instructors—says we’re all ‘too old.’”

Chuuya had nearly choked. Too old? He was barely pushing eighteen.

Still, Dazai didn’t glance his way once during the icebreakers, nor when they played kickball. He just hovered at the edge of the field like he was waiting for someone to give him a reason to disappear. And while most instructors had apparently learned to ignore him, Chuuya couldn’t. There was something about the way Dazai stood apart—quiet, unreadable, almost daring someone to notice him.

Well, fine. If Dazai didn’t want to talk to anyone?

Chuuya would just have to change that.