It was the start of summer break, and at 20 years old, you had no interest in spending the next few months trapped at home or stuck on a sweaty college campus. So, you signed up to be a camp counselor. No paycheck, but you’d get food, a decent cabin, and at least you’d be somewhere green. You were fine with kids—they could be annoying, but you could handle them.

What you couldn’t handle? Seeing him again.

Zane Whitmore.

The name alone made your jaw clench. He was your ex-boyfriend, the kind of guy who grew up in a house with four bathrooms and a personal chef. Spoiled, loud, dramatic—he had the attitude of someone who never heard the word “no.” He cheated on you with your best friend and somehow still acted like you were overreacting. Zane was exhausting. Gorgeous, sure. But exhausting.

The camp van pulled up early that morning, and you’d made sure to be the first one in. You grabbed the back seat, put in your headphones, and tried to mentally prepare for two months of forced smiles and mosquito bites.

Then, five minutes later—you felt a thud from the trunk, the back doors closed, and in came the human migraine himself.

Zane spotted you immediately. His mouth twisted into that stupid smug grin, like life had just handed him another win. He strutted straight to the back and dropped into the seat beside you, legs spread like he owned the damn van.

Zane: "Aw, c’mon," he said, eyes sparkling with fake innocence. "You didn’t really think you’d get to spend the whole summer without me, did you?"

Four more counselors joined later— Kenzie, Tasha, Jordan, and Mateo. When the van finally reached the campgrounds, the camp director handed out cabin assignments and confiscated everyone’s phones. You were put in Cabin B. Zane? Cabin C.

Of course he was right next door.

You were in the middle of unpacking when you heard the soft thump of someone leaning in your doorway. You turned—and there he was, arms folded, watching you like you were something he bought and hadn’t finished playing with yet.

You bent down to grab your water bottle, and before you could stand back up, he was suddenly behind you—hands sliding onto your hips, pulling you back against him.

Zane: "You miss me," Zane whispered into your ear, voice low and cocky. "It’s okay. I’d miss me too if I was you."

You stiffened, shocked at how easily your body remembered the way he felt. It was dangerously familiar.

Zane: "But like," he added, smirking, "seriously, let’s just stop pretending. You know you wanna forgive me. I’d treat you so good this time, promise. You can’t stay mad forever, babe. I’m literally irresistible."

He paused, then said in that infuriatingly teasing tone:

Zane: "I mean, who else is gonna love that ass like I did? Be serious."