Page 8

JASON

T he day starts weird, which should’ve been my first clue.

She’s hot.

I mean, objectively.

Tall, sleek, with these high cheekbones that look like they were crafted by elves and a sports bra that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. She’s scanning the announcements with this breezy confidence, like she’s been here a hundred times.

I wander over, because... of course I do.

“You lost, or just casing the place?”

She turns, flashing a smile like a toothpaste commercial. “Neither. Just checking out the setup before my lecture.”

“Guest speaker?” I ask.

She nods, offering her hand. “Melody. Survival and water filtration. I’m with the Cross-Biome Eco Collective.”

“Oh, fancy,” I say, shaking her hand. “Jason. Camp chaos coordinator.”

She laughs, light and easy. “Do I get a title too?”

I smirk. “Depends. You good with kids?”

“I used to be a teacher. Back in my human world days.”

That earns a half-laugh from me. “Welcome to the monster playground.”

She gives me this once-over—half curious, half playful. “You’re... not what I expected.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Ruggedly handsome and underqualified?”

She grins. “Something like that.”

I grin back. It’s all casual. Light.

I feel it.

That weird pulse. Not in me—but around me.

Like the temperature dropped two degrees behind me.

I turn and see Alice.

Frozen. Mug in hand. Face gone ghost-white.

I follow her eyes—back to Melody.

Then it clicks.

Melody.

My stomach drops like I just hit the bottom of a rollercoaster.

Alice doesn’t say a word. She just turns and walks out like something cracked open inside her.

And suddenly that cute, flirty little moment?

Feels like betrayal.

Even if I didn’t know.

I catch up with her near the side of the art cabin. She’s got both hands braced on the wall, head down like she’s trying to breathe through a panic attack.

“Hey,” I say gently. “Alice.”

She doesn’t turn.

I don’t touch her. Not yet.

“Talk to me,” I say. “Please.”

She swallows hard. “That’s Melody.”

My stomach twists. “Melody, like...?”

“My best friend,” she whispers. “The one.”

Oh. Shit.

“She’s the one who?—”

“Yeah.”

I rub a hand over my jaw. I want to rip something apart. A chair. A tree. Maybe a guest lecture schedule.

“Did you know she was coming?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I saw the schedule last week. It just said ‘survival expert.’ I didn’t even?—”

Her voice cracks and she cuts it off.

I step closer. “You don’t have to talk to her.”

“I can’t not. She’s here. She’s here. ”

I’ve seen a lot of expressions on Alice’s face over the last week—annoyance, amusement, surprise, reluctant admiration—but I’ve never seen this.

This tight, frozen version of her that looks like she’s trying to hold every part of herself together with sheer willpower and a few strands of hair.

“You wanna leave for the day?” I ask. “Skip out. I’ll handle the campers.”

She finally looks at me, and there’s something heartbreaking in her eyes. “I don’t want to run.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But it’d be easier, right? To run?”

I want to argue, but I get it. Running’s my specialty. I’ve made a damn art of it. But seeing Alice like this—this brave, hurting version of her—it knocks the wind out of me.

“You’re not her,” I say quietly.

Alice frowns. “What?”

“You’re not like her. I don’t even know her, and I can already tell. She walked in like she’s owed attention. You walk in trying to take up less space.”

She lets out a breath. “Not exactly a compliment.”

“It is,” I say. “Because you care. ”

She leans against the wall, sliding down until she’s sitting in the dirt. I sink down next to her.

We’re quiet for a minute.

Then she says, “It’s been over a year. I shouldn’t still feel this way.”

“Grief doesn’t follow calendars.”

“I don’t even know what I’m grieving anymore. The friendship? The betrayal? The fact that I didn’t see it coming?”

“All of it,” I say. “Probably all of it.”

Her fingers twist in her lap. “I thought I could come here and forget. Reset. But the second I saw her... it was like being back in that apartment. That moment. Everything just slammed into me again.”

I want to touch her. To pull her close and take it all away. But I don’t. Not yet.

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” I say. “You just have to breathe.”

She closes her eyes and nods.

Back in the mess hall, Melody is laughing with Julie like she’s never wrecked a life. I resist the urge to growl.

Literally.

Alice reappears eventually. Not smiling. But standing.

Strong in that quiet way she has.

I stick close for the rest of the morning.

No jokes. No teasing. Just presence.

Because maybe that’s what she needs more than anything right now.

Someone who stays.