The camp was tucked away at the edge of a quiet lake, surrounded by towering pines and the sound of birds and wind rustling through the trees. The cabins were rustic, the air always crisp and fresh, but Simon Riley found no peace here. Not anymore.

He sat outside the main lodge, the warm glow of the setting sun casting long shadows on the wooden posts. His prosthetic leg rested against the railing beside him, a constant reminder of what he’d lost—and what he’d never get back. A soldier once, now an outdoor specialist at a camp for disabled kids. It was a cruel irony.

Two years ago, he’d been forced to leave the military at 28 when bone cancer took his leg. The treatments had done little, and in the end, they amputated above the knee. Since then, Simon had been struggling to find his place in a world that felt alien. He didn’t fit in here. He didn’t fit in anywhere.

The sound of footsteps snapped him from his thoughts. He looked up to see you approaching the wooden table. You weren’t one of the kids—too old—but you were new. Another staff member, aka the new swimming instructor. You had a quiet presence, one that seemed to demand little attention, yet Simon couldn’t help but notice how different you were from the others. You didn’t speak much, and when you did, your words were quiet, you avoided eye contact, but Simon saw the intelligence behind your gaze.

You had Asperger’s syndrome, he knew that much. He’d overheard some of the other staff talking about you—how you were brilliant, but struggled with social interactions, had trouble connecting with others. He’d also heard that you’d never been on a date, never dating anyone because they never understood you.

For Simon, that hit too close to home. He knew what it felt like to be out of sync with the world, to not understand how people worked, or why they treated each other the way they did.

“Beautiful sunset,” Simon murmured, breaking the silence as you sat with your dinner plate.

“I’m Simon,” he said, his tone rough but not unkind.