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JASON

I ’m watching Alice rearrange the same damn pillow for the third time, and I can’t help it—I laugh.

Not loud. Just enough for her shoulders to twitch like a spooked rabbit. She doesn’t look at me, though. Probably still trying to decide whether I’m a sex pest or a liability with muscles.

Honestly, I’m both. On Tuesdays.

“Y’know,” I say from my perch on the top bunk, hands behind my head, “you keep fluffin’ that thing like it insulted your grandma.”

She huffs. Quiet. Not dramatic enough for a real huff, more like a breath that got too ambitious. “I like things neat.”

No shit, sweetheart. She’s folded her hoodie. In July.

I stretch, making sure the bedframe creaks enough to remind her I’m still shirtless and absolutely the problem child she didn’t want to get paired with. “You know the kids are gonna obliterate that bed in about six hours, right?”

She finally looks up. Blue eyes, narrowed just slightly. “And you know we’re supposed to be setting a good example, right?”

I smirk. “I am. This is me in role model mode.”

Her silence says God help us all.

“Look,” I say, flipping over so I can peer down at her, “this whole clipboard-counselor act? It’s cute. Really. But this is Camp Lightring. These kids are monsters. Literally. You think Nolan the dragon shifter is gonna respect alphabetical lineups? The kid burned his name tag last year.”

She blinks. “Wait... like, on purpose?”

“No, Barbie, he sneezed fire. ”

She flinches at the nickname again. Doesn’t correct me this time. That’s progress.

I drop down from the bunk and land like a damn superhero, just to mess with her. She startles again, pressing her lips into a tight little line.

“You’re jumpy,” I say, stepping a little too close. Not threatening close—just enough to make her uncomfortable in a way she doesn’t know how to label.

She crosses her arms. “You’re... large.”

I grin. “You should see me during a full moon.”

Her ears go pink.

I expected her to say something cutting or flustered or annoying, but she just shakes her head and mutters something about “camp supplies” and heads for the door.

I watch her go, and damn if her walk isn’t pure first-grade teacher energy—clipped, focused, feet practically apologizing to the floor. But there’s something under it, too. Tightness in her shoulders. The kind of tension people carry when they’re running from something.

I know that tension. I lived in it for five years straight.

By the time I catch up to her near the rec field, she’s got a clipboard in one hand and a stopwatch in the other. Kids are bouncing around like chaos goblins on candy, and Alice is clearly trying not to lose it.

“Okay, Group C,” she calls out. “Let’s try our name game one more time! When I call your name, say one fun fact about yourself?—”

“Miss Alice,” one kid yells. “Jason said his fun fact was he can pick up raccoons with one hand!”

“That is a fact,” I say, strolling in with a wave. “Just ask last year’s maintenance guy. Little bastard was stuck in the dining hall chimney.”

Alice shoots me a look. “Please don’t encourage animal wrangling as a counselor skill.”

“Aw, come on. We’re tryin’ to inspire the youth. What says growth like raccoon diplomacy?”

The kids crack up. Alice pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Jason,” she says slowly, “I’m trying to run a structured activity.”

“Structure is overrated,” I mutter, but I throw her a wink. “But fine. I’ll behave. For now.”

“Good,” she says, even though she sounds more exhausted than reassured.

She tries again. “Nolan?”

The shy kid halfway behind a tree peeks out. “I can whistle through my claws.”

“That’s badass,” I tell him, which earns me a huge smile and a look from Alice like I just handed a kid a switchblade.

She doesn’t say anything. Just jots something on her clipboard like she’s filing a formal complaint to the Universe.

God, she’s fun.

Later, after lunch—which involved a ketchup packet explosion and a sentient blob of macaroni—I find her scrubbing a picnic table with military focus.

I lean against the edge and toss her a water bottle. “You always this tightly wound or is it just me?”

She looks up, startled. Takes the bottle, because she’s polite like that. “I like rules.”

“No kidding.”

“And order.”

“Sure.”

“And when people don’t make up weird facts about raccoons.”

“That one really got under your skin, huh?”

She sighs. “I’m just... not used to this. The noise. The chaos. The... shirtlessness.”

I laugh. Loud and unapologetic. “You’ll adjust. Camp’s kind of a living creature. You don’t manage it—you ride it till it spits you out.”

“That’s comforting,” she deadpans.

“You’ll survive. Probably.”

She glances up again, and for a second I see something flicker in her eyes. Not fear. Not anger. Just... curiosity.

It passes. She stands, wiping her hands on her khakis. “I’m going to organize the cabin supply bins before dinner.”

“Knock yourself out,” I say, watching her walk away.

She’s a mess. A tightly-buttoned, rule-worshipping, clipboard-swinging mess.

And I’m gonna have a great time watching her unravel.