Page 10

JASON

I t’s talent show practice night, which means chaos is performing live and off-key.

The amphitheater looks like someone tossed a costume closet into a tornado.

One kid’s wearing two different tap shoes.

Another has a plastic sword duct-taped to a fishing rod.

There’s a line of campers waiting to scream-sing sea shanties, and in the middle of it all is Alice—clutching her clipboard like it’s a flotation device and she’s lost at sea.

She’s mouthing words to herself, quietly panicking in rhythm.

I hop up onto the stage. “Coach Rivers, status report?”

She startles. “Three missing. One in tears. Two arguing about spotlight cues. And Nolan is... attempting to breathe fire again.”

I glance toward the curtain.

Yep. Singed.

I lean in. “I mean, to be fair, it’s pretty impressive for a twelve-year-old.”

Alice doesn’t smile this time.

She exhales. Long. Measured.

“Do you ever just... feel like you’re about to snap and nobody notices?”

My teasing fades.

I take a step closer. “I notice.”

She blinks.

And for a second, the noise fades. The curtain, the kids, the clutter. It’s just her—tired and overwhelmed and still holding the whole damn thing together by threads.

“Want me to take over for five minutes?” I ask. “I’ll tell ‘em the slug poem won the talent show early and cancel the rest.”

That gets a flicker of amusement. “You’d really lie to save my sanity?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you didn’t?”

Her voice lowers. “I can’t screw this up.”

I don’t know what I’m doing.

But I reach out. Not to take the clipboard. Just to rest a hand on her arm.

“You won’t.”

Alice stares at my hand. Doesn’t pull away. Just breathes.

And then, slowly, she nods.

The show rehearsal ends like a runaway train that somehow lands upright.

We corral the kids back to their bunks—sticky, glittery, exhausted. I promise Nolan I’ll personally guard his tiny cardboard dragon wings with my life. He tells me they’re “theatrically essential.” I salute him.

Once they’re gone, Alice and I collapse side by side in the grass just behind the stage. She lays back, staring up at the early stars. Her breath still comes a little fast.

I prop myself up on an elbow, watching her.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“I thought you were gonna combust.”

“I thought you were gonna start juggling to distract them.”

“I would’ve,” I say, “but my act involves interpretive shirtlessness and three flaming raccoons. Bit much for rehearsal.”

She snorts and claps a hand over her mouth. “Don’t make me laugh, I’ll cry.”

I watch her for a long moment, letting the quiet stretch.

And then, real low, I say, “You’re incredible, y’know.”

Alice stiffens slightly. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not sayin’ it to be nice.”

She turns her head toward me. The soft light from the stage behind us glows in her hair, makes her eyes look almost gold.

“I’ve seen a lot of people fall apart under pressure,” I murmur. “But you? You hold it together. You show up. Even when you’re scared outta your mind.”

Her voice is just a whisper. “I am scared.”

“I know.”

“And I feel like I’m screwing everything up.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m not who they think I am.”

“That’s okay. I see who you really are.”

That hits her. I know it does. Her eyes widen just a bit, then she looks away like the truth of it is too much.

And that’s when it happens.

Her hand, resting in the grass between us, shifts.

Just enough that her fingers brush mine.

She doesn’t move them.

Neither do I.

My heart starts to race, but I keep my voice calm. “Alice.”

She meets my eyes.

There’s something raw in her gaze. Unspoken. Terrified. Hopeful.

I sit up slowly. Reach out.

I let my fingers trail up her wrist, gentle as moonlight.

She shivers.

“Are you cold?” I ask, voice low.

She shakes her head.

So I move closer.

I don’t rush it. I just lean in, slow and steady, until I’m close enough to see the freckles beneath her lashes.

Her breath catches.

Our noses almost touch.

“If I kissed you right now,” I say, “would you stop me?”

She swallows. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods.

And I don’t wait another second.

I kiss her.

And it’s not gentle.

It’s not soft and sweet like those almosts we’ve shared. It’s hungry. Real. Like every damn second we’ve spent dancing around each other finally snapped and the music came rushing in.

Her hands are in my hair. Mine at her waist. She melts into me like she’s been waiting for this—needing this.

The kiss slows, eventually. Breath turns to silence again. I press my forehead to hers, eyes closed.

“That was...” I begin.

She exhales. “Yeah.”

I fall back into the grass beside her.

We don’t say anything for a long while.

Just breathe.

She reaches for my hand again, and this time, laces our fingers tight.

And all I can think is: finally.

Her fingers tighten in mine, and for a few seconds, we just lie there, breathing each other in. The cicadas hum somewhere in the distance. The stars stretch above us like spilled sugar, and her hair’s brushing my shoulder, soft as anything.

Then she shifts. Rolls onto her side, facing me.

I turn too, and suddenly we’re eye to eye again. Closer this time.

There’s something about her right now—barefaced and open and full of that quiet strength—that hits harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.

She reaches up, fingertips brushing my jaw. Her thumb lingers on the corner of my mouth.

“I liked that,” she says, voice barely audible. “The kiss.”

“Good,” I murmur, “because I’m about to do it again.”

This one starts slower. A question.

She answers it with a soft sigh, melting into me as our lips meet again.

And then it deepens.

I shift, rolling slightly to brace myself on one elbow so I don’t crush her, but our bodies stay tangled. Her hands find the back of my head, pull me in tighter. Mine trace the curve of her waist, memorizing the way she shivers under my touch.

She tastes like orange and midnight.

When she breaks the kiss, she doesn’t move far. Her forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling.

“You drive me crazy,” she whispers.

I grin against her lips. “Likewise.”

She kisses me again—quicker this time, urgent—and I groan softly, sliding my hand up to cradle the back of her head.

I want to take my time. To savor every second of this.

But right now?

All I can do is kiss her like I’ve waited years.

And maybe I have.

We finally part again, gasping, grinning, tangled in each other like we’ve always belonged there.

“I’m scared,” she says.

I brush a kiss to her temple. “Me too.”

She nods. “Okay.”

And just like that, we keep lying there, under the stars, hearts thudding, hands twined.

Not perfect.

But finally real.