Page 29

CALLIE

I t’s funny how things sneak up on you.

Like glitter in your underwear drawer.

Or love.

Or, in my case, the actual decision to grow up.

I’m sitting on the roof of the equipment shed, don’t ask how I got up here, it involved a pulley system, an old towel, and what I now know is a permanent knee bruise watching the last of the campers pack up for the end of summer.

The sun’s barely up, the sky’s cotton-candy pink, and I’ve got coffee that’s more grounds than liquid.

And still?

I’ve never felt more at peace.

Because I’m staying.

I’m staying.

Not as a summer temp, not as a last-minute lifeguard sub, not as the glittery chaos goblin that stumbled in on a paddleboard two months ago.

As staff.

Full-time.

Julie made it official yesterday. I signed the papers. Swore in blood. Or maybe grape juice. Hard to say with Hazel officiating.

And the weirdest part?

I didn’t panic.

I didn’t bolt.

I just… felt right.

Like maybe this version of me, the one who builds things, and loves fiercely, and talks back to ancient lake magic is the real one.

The one I’ve been swimming toward all along.

Ryder finds me an hour later.

He climbs up next to me without a word, hands me a sandwich, and steals a sip of my coffee like it’s his divine right.

“You’re gonna fall,” I tell him, nudging his knee.

“Then you’ll catch me.”

“Damn right I will.”

He looks out over the lake.

It’s calm. Reflective. Like it’s watching us with one eye open, finally content.

“So,” he says after a minute. “You still staying?”

I grin. “Already signed the paperwork.”

He smiles slow. “Good.”

“You think you can handle full-time Callie?”

“I’m building you a floating workshop,” he says. “I think I’m past the point of no return.”

I lean against him, shoulder to shoulder, and sigh.

“Didn’t expect this,” I murmur. “Any of it.”

He wraps his arm around me. “Me neither.”

“But I’m glad we drowned a little first,” I add. “Gives the love story more bite.”

He chuckles. “You planning to dramatize it for the new campers next year?”

“Oh, absolutely. There will be reenactments. Possibly sock puppets.”

He groans.

I kiss his cheek.

And so, the summer that started with glitter in the lake and ends with a girl signing a contract to stay?

Feels perfect.

Waterproof plans and all.

Later that afternoon, I march up to Torack’s office with a folder clutched to my chest and about eighty percent more confidence than I actually feel.

He opens the door before I can knock.

“Callie,” he says. “You’re early.”

“I’m enthusiastic,” I say, stepping inside.

He grunts like that’s suspicious.

I slap the folder onto his desk.

“My first official project,” I announce. “Schematics, costs, resource lists, and three possible enchantment configurations.”

Torack raises an eyebrow, flips open the folder, and starts reading.

Ten seconds pass.

Then twenty.

Then he looks at me, eyes sharp. “You want to build an underwater observation deck.”

“Yes.”

“For students.”

“Yes.”

“That can adjust to magical tide flux and redirect energy through a shielding ring?”

“Exactly.”

He closes the folder slowly.

Then leans back in his chair.

“Why?”

I blink. “Because… it’s awesome?”

He gives me a look.

So I try again. “Because kids should see what’s under the surface. Not just the danger. The beauty. The magic. And maybe if they can see it, really see it, they’ll protect it better.”

Torack taps a finger against the folder.

Then nods.

“I’ll need a full magical structural analysis,” he says.

“Already included.”

He smirks.

And for the first time, I feel like not just a helper…

But a damn architect.

Of the future.

That night, Ryder tells me to meet him at the dock after dark.

“No questions,” he says, voice low but full of something… earnest. “Just wear something comfortable. And bring your curiosity.”

I squint at him. “This isn’t a trap, is it?”

“No glitter cannons involved,” he deadpans. “Promise.”

Which is suspicious, honestly.

But I go.

And what I find?

Stops me in my tracks.

The lake is glowing.

Not in a cursed, pulse-of-doom way.

In a soft, golden shimmer like someone bottled the moon and let it leak gently across the surface.

A floating platform is moored just past the main dock. About twelve feet square, anchored by enchanted weights. Wooden. Sturdy. Painted the same soft gray-blue as the cabins.

On it: a small round table, two chairs, and a low canopy made from what looks like old sailcloth stretched between four posts, strung with glowing beetle-lanterns Ryder must’ve rigged himself. The lights cast a halo over the whole setup warm, flickering, utterly magical.

Blankets are piled on one corner. A little metal cooler rests between the chairs.

And food.

Actual food.

Cheese. Fruit. Crackers. Chocolate. Campfire-warmed cider in real ceramic mugs that don’t even have chips in them.

He’s standing beside it all, barefoot, in his dark henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows.

Waiting.

Like I’m the center of the whole damn universe and he’s just orbiting me now.

“Ryder,” I breathe, stepping onto the dock. “What is all this? ”

He shrugs, but it’s shy. “A date.”

“You built me a floating date?”

“I built us a floating date.”

I step onto the platform.

It’s solid underfoot, barely rocking. The magic woven into the corners hums faintly, tuned to the water’s rhythm.

He pulls out my chair.

Waits until I sit.

Then opens the cooler and pulls out two chilled bottles of something sparkling and peach-colored.

Non-alcoholic, because camp rules.

Romantic, because him.

We sit and eat and drink and laugh.

He’s quiet, but watching me the whole time. The way he always does, like he’s memorizing my joy.

I ask him if he’s cold. He hands me a blanket without answering.

I tease him about planning this and he just grins and says, “You deserve to feel chosen.”

And that?

That hits me straight in the sternum.

Because he means it.

Every nail he hammered into this platform.

Every lantern he hung.

Every berry in this little cracked ceramic bowl.

It’s him saying I love you without the need for a stage.

And I do something I rarely do.

I go quiet.

Just watch him.

The way he tilts his head when he listens. The scar on his forearm. The way his fingers twitch like he’s still adjusting to calm.

“I didn’t know you could be romantic,” I murmur.

“I didn’t know I wanted to be,” he says. “Until you.”

I take his hand.

It’s warm, calloused, steady.

Like the lake finally learned how to hold instead of pull.

And right there, under the canopy he built, floating over the water we conquered

I fall in love with him all over again.