Page 9

CALLIE

I t starts with a shout.

High, sharp, and wrong.

I spin on the dock just in time to see two campers, Zoe and Gabriel tilting too far to one side in their canoe. The water around them ripples weird, like it’s breathing in.

Suddenly, they vanish.

The boat doesn’t flip. It sinks .

Straight down, as if the lake decided, nope, I’ll take that now.

I’m moving before I know it. Jason’s yelling something behind me, but I’m already at the edge when I see him.

Ryder.

He explodes out of the water like he was waiting for this moment.

No hesitation. No wasted movement. He cuts through the current like it’s begging to part for him. One second he’s on the surface, the next he’s under again, arms sweeping, legs disappearing in a swirl of foam and silver flicker.

Seconds pass. Too many.

Then he breaks the surface again, Gabriel in one arm, Zoe clinging to his back, wild-eyed and coughing.

I run down the shallows to meet them.

“Got ’em?” I shout.

“Safe,” he grits out, hauling them both through water that still wants to pull them back.

Zoe starts crying when her feet hit sand. Gabriel clings to my side like a barnacle.

I glance at Ryder.

He looks furious.

Not at them.

At the lake.

Like it betrayed him.

And for the first time, I see it, that edge in his eyes isn’t just control.

It’s fear.

Some people love coffee. Some people love long walks on the beach.

I, apparently, love arguing with a brooding merman about water safety at eight in the damn morning.

“You can’t just tape off half the lake like it’s a crime scene,” I snap, hands on my hips. “We need those zones for training.”

Ryder doesn’t flinch. Just finishes wrapping a bright red cord around the main dock post, ties it like he’s angry at knots. “We almost lost two campers yesterday.”

“Almost,” I say, stepping closer. “You pulled them out. We learned from it. We adapt. That’s how this works.”

He straightens, towering over me, shirt clinging to his chest like betrayal. “We don’t adapt after someone drowns.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not saying we play dodgeball in the rift. But we can’t just throw up warning signs and pretend the water stops existing.”

His jaw clenches. “I’m protecting them.”

“No,” I say, poking him in the sternum, “you’re controlling everything.”

His gaze sharpens. “And you’re dismissing risk like it’s optional.”

I laugh, short and sharp. “You think because I wear floaties and talk glitter I don’t see danger? I saw Max’s face when that current hit. I see it, Ryder. I just don’t let it rule me.”

He steps forward, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him.

“Then start acting like it matters,” he growls.

My blood spikes, hot and furious. “Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m not out here every day keeping them safe in my own way.”

A beat.

His chest rises and falls once. Twice.

He says, quieter, “You have no idea what’s coming.”

I stare at him, my heart thudding so loud I think the water hears it.

“What do you mean?”

He looks away, jaw set like he wants to say more, but won’t. “Just keep them away from the south channel.”

“No.” I fold my arms. “Not until you tell me what’s really going on.”

“Callie”

“Ryder.”

We lock eyes.

His hand twitches like he’s debating grabbing me, or maybe running.

And then

“Callie!” Jason yells from across the dock. “We got a kid too close to the drop!”

My heart flips. We both bolt.

By the time we get there, the camper, Tyson, from Cabin Five is safe. A little freaked out, a lot wet, and very confused about how he “just started floating the wrong way.”

Ryder kneels beside him, voice low and calm, checking vitals, asking questions. His whole demeanor shifts in these moments focused, fierce, a soldier in deep water.

I crouch beside them, resting a hand on Tyson’s back.

“You okay, buddy?” I ask softly.

He nods. “Yeah. But it pulled weird. Like… fast but quiet.”

Ryder and I glance at each other.

The same thing Max said.

The same wrong current.

Back at the main cabin, I corner him again.

“Ryder, talk to me. ”

He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do.”

“It’ll change how you see the camp.”

“Good. Because something’s already changed, and I’m not going to stand by and pretend this is just another summer.”

He exhales hard, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not just a current. It’s a rift. Underneath us. Old magic. Something from before this lake was a lake.”

I blink.

“Oh.”

He watches me carefully, like he expects me to laugh it off. Float away.

But I don’t.

“Okay,” I say.

He narrows his eyes. “Okay?”

“You thought I’d freak out?”

“I thought you’d run.”

I laugh. “You’re ridiculous. I once taught a swim lesson during a thunderstorm. You think some ancient lake magic’s gonna make me pack up my glitter and go?”

Something changes in his expression.

Like a crack in ice.

He steps closer. “You’re not afraid.”

“Terrified,” I say honestly. “But I’m also here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

His breath catches. Barely.

And then we’re close again. That same too-close distance from the dock, from the canoe, from the fire pit after dark.

“Callie,” he says, voice low, “you make me crazy.”

“You said that already.”

He nods, stepping even closer. “I meant it more now.”

We’re centimeters apart.

He smells like lakewater and lightning.

And I hate how much I want to lean in.

“Are we really doing this right now?” I whisper.

He breathes out a laugh, surprised, rough. “No. But I don’t think I can stop.”

Neither can I.

But before either of us can close the space, a horn blows from the other side of camp.

Training time.

He pulls back first. Regret etched in his shoulders.

I try to catch my breath, but my lungs are still in the argument.

Still in the way he looked at me like I was gravity.

And maybe, I look at him the same way.