Page 7

CALLIE

I t’s past lights-out, but sleep’s playing hard to get.

My bunk creaks every time I shift, and the campfire smoke from earlier is still lodged in my hair like a ghost with commitment issues. I’ve read the same line in my book six times. Even my journal gave up on me, my last entry just says, “Glitter = good. Ryder = ???”

So when I slip on my hoodie and step into the pine-sweet night air, it’s not because I’m chasing anything.

It’s because something’s pulling.

The moon’s full tonight, heavy and yellow like a coin tossed across the sky. Camp Lightring’s quiet, the way it only gets this late when the last marshmallow’s been roasted and even the raccoons have tapped out.

I follow the path toward the lake, barefoot, the dirt cool beneath my feet.

And there he is.

Ryder.

Knee-deep in moonlight and water, back turned, hair slicked like he just surfaced from a dive. His arms are crossed, his shoulders wide and still. Even from behind, he looks... heavy. Like the lake’s holding up more than just his body.

I think about going back.

But I don’t.

Instead, I step softly onto the dock and sit, letting my legs dangle over the edge. He doesn’t move, but I know he knows I’m here.

“Told Julie you’d be the moonlit brooding type,” I say, voice light. “You’re making me look real psychic right now.”

He doesn’t answer at first.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah. Me neither.” I swirl my toes in the water. “Too quiet in the cabin. Also, my bunk mattress is trying to assassinate me.”

Still nothing.

So I try something softer.

“You come here a lot at night?”

He nods. Just once.

“It’s different then,” he says, voice low. “The water. It listens more.”

I glance at him. “You talk to the lake?”

“Sometimes it talks back.”

I go still.

Because he’s not teasing. He means it.

And for the first time since I met him, Ryder’s not wielding silence like a weapon. He’s using it like a story.

I shift, just a little closer.

“You said once you had a tribe,” I murmur. “Back before... all this.”

He nods again. Slower this time. “Yeah.”

“What were they like?”

He’s quiet so long I think he’s not going to answer.

Then he says, “Loud. Fierce. Wild.”

I blink. “Sounds like my kind of people.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. But not not a smile.

“They lived deep,” he says, still watching the water. “Past the shelf. Where the light dies and the real world stops. Magic’s thicker down there. Slower. It clings to your bones.”

My breath catches.

He’s not performing. He’s remembering.

“We weren’t supposed to come up often,” he goes on. “Surface living was... novelty. Dangerous. Some of us went anyway. Curiosity, I guess. But I was born curious. Couldn’t help it. Wanted to know what starlight looked like underwater.”

I say nothing. Just listen.

“One night, there was a breach. A crack in the trench that shouldn’t have been there. Old magic. Something collapsed. Whole outpost went dark. My parents, my sister, my mentor, gone.”

My stomach knots.

“I swam for hours,” he says, voice steady but cracked around the edges. “Looking. Screaming through the current. By the time I got to the top, the rupture had sealed itself.”

He turns toward me now. Not fully. Just enough that I see his profile, his jaw set, his eyes dark, rimmed with silver light.

“I was fifteen,” he says. “And alone.”

The only sound is the lapping water and the frogs somewhere in the reeds.

And I can’t make a joke.

Can’t flirt or sass or spin a metaphor out of grief.

So I just say, “I’m sorry.”

And mean it.

He shrugs. “That’s the thing about the deep. When it takes, it doesn’t give back.”

I inch closer, not touching him, just... near.

“But you came up,” I whisper.

He nods. “Camp offered me a job three years ago. Said they needed someone who understood the water.”

“And rules,” I say, gently.

“And rules,” he echoes, softer.

“You think you’re holding it all together,” I say. “But maybe it’s okay to let someone else swim beside you.”

He looks at me then.

Really looks.

His eyes in the moonlight are silver glass. Not cold just unguarded.

It feels like a held breath.

Like a wave that hasn’t crashed yet.

Then he turns away, just a little, and says, “You ever talk this much at night?”

“Only when I’m trying to get broody lifeguards to crack,” I say, voice shaky but teasing.

It earns me a small, tired snort.

I’ll take it.

We sit there, two silhouettes against a quiet lake, long after the moon’s shifted and the air’s gone crisp.

And for once... I don’t need to fill the silence.

Because he’s filled it with something real.

As the night stretches on, I sit there a little longer, the quiet between us settling like a comfortable weight. The water laps softly against the dock, and the stars flicker above us like scattered confetti. Neither of us speaks. Neither of us needs to.

I catch myself glancing at him more than I probably should. The way the moonlight hits his jawline, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the slight shift of his posture whenever he thinks I’m not looking.

It’s maddening how much he pulls at something in me I’m trying to ignore.

“Ryder,” I say quietly, breaking the silence. “How do you know when to let go?”

He looks at me, the silver in his eyes reflecting a question I hadn’t even fully formed yet.

“Let go of what?” he asks, voice low.

“Of... everything. Of control, of being the one who holds the weight of the world together. How do you know when to stop holding on so tight?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns to face me fully, his movements slow, deliberate. His gaze flickers to the water, then back to me.

“I’m still learning,” he says, almost like it’s a confession.

I smile, my heart light in my chest. “We all are.”

And then, without thinking, I shift closer. Just a little. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body despite the cool night air. His scent, faintly salty like the lake, fills the space between us.

He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t back up.

Instead, he holds my gaze, his face softened in a way I haven’t seen before.

“Callie,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “You drive me crazy.”

I bite back a grin. “You’re not the only one.”

Before either of us can second-guess it he leans forward, just enough that our foreheads almost touch. His breath mingles with mine, soft and steady.

I feel a flutter in my chest, something unfamiliar but not unpleasant.

For a moment, we just stay there, so close I can feel his heartbeat syncing with mine.

I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, his lips are brushing against my ear, his voice a quiet murmur.

“If I let go,” he says, “what happens?”

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the question settle in. “We find out,” I whisper back.

And for the first time in a long while, I’m not scared of the answer.