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RYDER

I avoid her for two days.

Not on purpose at first.

I tell myself I’m busy. That the lake demands more of me now. That Penny’s close call and the signs in the deep mean I need to stay focused. Stay ahead.

And that’s not a lie.

But it’s not the whole truth either.

Because every time I close my eyes, I see her.

The curve of her grin, salt-touched and breathless.

The way her wet curls stuck to her cheek.

The way her mouth moved toward mine like gravity was in on the joke.

She didn’t kiss me.

We didn’t touch.

But I felt it.

And now it’s everywhere.

I can’t concentrate. My drills run slow. My patrols get looped. I nearly miss a knot in the southern anchor rigging, and Torack gives me a look like pull it together, soldier.

Julie notices. Of course she does.

“You sick?” she asks while handing me a roster with two new transfer campers.

“Fine.”

“You’re acting like you stepped on a sea urchin and it crawled up your spine.”

“I said I’m fine .”

She eyes me, unconvinced. “This about Callie?”

I stiffen.

“I avoid complications,” I say flatly.

“Yeah, well, some complications glitter and bite back.”

I don’t answer. Just take the roster and head for the waterline.

Because she’s right.

And that’s the problem.

At dinner, I sit at the far end of the table.

Far from the junior counselors and their chaos.

Far from her.

But it doesn’t matter.

My eyes find her anyway.

Callie’s laughing, knees up on the bench, swiping frosting from her nose after Jason surprise-attacked her with a cupcake ambush. She’s got one of the kids braiding yarn into her hair and another trying to paint her arm like a jungle cat.

And she glows.

Not like fire.

Like something wilder.

Something that shouldn’t be caged.

When she glances over just once, barely a flick of her gaze, I pretend not to notice.

But the air shifts. Like she feels it too.

I shove another bite of food in my mouth to block the ache.

This isn’t the time.

Not with the rift shifting.

Not with magic coiling under the lake like it’s dreaming about storms.

Not when distraction could cost someone their life.

Later that night, I walk the perimeter of the north path.

The water’s calm again. But it’s the kind of calm that comes before something breaks.

The reeds shiver when there’s no wind.

The dock creaks like it’s breathing.

And in the dark, I swear I hear her voice.

Not her.

But the thing in the lake.

The thing that remembers me.

That wants something I can’t name.

I stand there until my muscles lock, jaw clenched so tight I could bite through steel.

Then a sound behind me.

Footsteps.

I don’t have to turn to know.

It’s her.

She steps up beside me, arms crossed, silent for once.

We don’t speak.

Not yet.

“You good?” she asks, voice low and casual.

“Fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

She scoffs. “You’re about as fine as a soggy firework.”

I don’t look at her.

Because if I do, I might say something stupid.

Or worse, true.

Instead I say, “I’m keeping people safe.”

“Who says you’re not?”

“I can’t afford mistakes.”

She’s quiet a beat.

“You think I’m a mistake?”

Her voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t snap. But it cuts.

I look at her.

And gods help me, she’s just standing there, not angry, not smiling. Just waiting.

I take a breath.

“No,” I say, honest and hoarse. “You’re a risk.”

She smiles, just a little. “So are you.”

And then she walks away, her steps light on the path, vanishing back toward camp like moonlight on moving water.

And I don’t breathe again until she’s gone.

Because every second I spend near her, my grip slips.

And I don’t know if I want to catch it again.

The silence stretches after she leaves.

Too long.

Then rumble.

Subtle, at first. Like a groan in the bedrock. A ripple of sound under my feet, not through the air but through the earth.

The water near the west dock ripples outward in a perfect circle.

No wind.

No splash.

Just motion.

And then screaming.

I’m running before the second note hits.

It’s coming from the south cove.

By the time I round the trail bend, two kids are huddled near the canoe rack, eyes wide, pointing.

“It was in the water!” one shouts. “It looked at me! ”

I crouch fast, eye level. “What did you see?”

“A face,” the boy stammers. “Under the surface. Glowing eyes. Like green fire.”

The other nods, pale. “It smiled.”

I freeze.

Because I know what that means.

The Watcher.

The guardian that once lived near the trench’s edge before the fracture. It doesn’t smile.

Not unless it’s warning us.

Or welcoming something worse.

Julie’s there in seconds, breath short from the sprint. “What happened?”

I answer for them. “The rift moved again. It’s watching now.”

She stiffens. “How close?”

I glance at the lake, the ripples still widening.

“Too close.”

And deep inside, something ancient unfurls in my chest.

The part of me that remembers the trench. The magic. The loss.

It’s awake now.

And it’s coming.