“Okay.” She turns, already walking away. “But you should.”
I watch her go; the weight of her words settles in my chest with an ache. And just like that, I’m alone again, with the memory, the ache, and no idea what to do with either.
By the time I get back to camp, the others are packing up in silence. Missy’s wandered off to load the truck, Harper and Mom wrestle with the tents, and Stormy crouches by the firepit. She’s tapping ash from a pan, and her hair’s pulled into a messy knot that’s already coming loose. She glances up when she sees me.
Her face is bare and beautiful, with a constellation of freckles that practically beg to be counted. Morning light spills across her skin, illuminating the curve of her cheek, and my heart stumbles. She’s starting to tan, just barely. Like the sun’s been creeping in, claiming her inch by inch. Like it knows she belongs here.
“Hey,” she says, soft and sweet.
“Hey,” I answer, my voice tight as I attempt to ignore the knot in my stomach.
The silence presses in, and I feel the events of this morning hanging between us, impossible to ignore.
"Is everything okay?" she asks quietly. But I can hear the question tucked behind it: Are we okay?
I clear my throat and nod "Yeah. Just … needed a walk."
Stormy stands, brushing soot off her knees, nodding in response. Then turns, walking toward the supply box. But when she’s halfway there, she hesitates and spins back to face me, her brow furrowing gently.
“Are you … mad at me?” Her voice lowers. “I didn’t mean to … I mean … if I did something wrong …”
Fuck. That hits harder than it should. I shake my head, the urge to reach out wipe the worry from her face courses through me.
“No. You didn’t. It’s me. I’m just …” I bite off the rest, jaw tight. I step closer, eyeing the others at the other side of camp. “I don’t know what I’m doing. This … you…” I stop again. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” The urge to touch her intensifies, and I’m relieved when she shifts her weight, looking away.
“Okay,” she says, but it’s tight. Tense. She turns to clean up, but I step forward, almost too quickly.
"I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” I blurt out.
She stops. Looks back.
I shift, rubbing the back of my neck.
“We … probably shouldn't letthathappen again.” My voice is low, frayed. “I'm not good for you, Stormy. I'm … grumpy. Pissed off half the time. I don’t say the right things. And I sure as hell don’t do the right things."
Stormy tilts her head, watching me quietly.
“Well. I’m not exactly a prize either.” She lets out a shaky laugh, barely more than a breath, and her eyes search mine. “I wasn’t … I didn’t come here looking for this, you know.” She forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Actually, I came to get far away from that."
My jaw tightens as I try not to think about her ex.
"I mean it, Stormy. You deserve better than me fumbling through my own mess like an idiot. We … us … it can’t happen again."
She nods again, eyes low, voice smaller.
“Yeah. You’re probably right.”
Her fingers toy with the pan in her hands and my hands tighten into fists at my sides. The space between us feels thick. Charged.
"We can just … be friends?" she says, like a question. Her voice is light, hopeful, almost like she’s afraid of losing something. “… I’d like that”
“Friends,” I echo, though my throat has a hard time saying it. “Yeah.”
The word tastes wrong. All I want is to give us a shot, to see what this could be if I wasn’t dragging my past behind me like a wrecking ball. If she wasn’t still flinching from hers. I want to know what it feels like to be good for someone. To be wanted without the burden of damage. But I look at her, and I see the cracks she’s still holding together. I feel the ones in me, too jagged to hide. And I know—I know—that if I reach for her now, I’ll ruin it before it begins.
So, I say, ‘friends’, and I pretend it’s enough. Even though it’s not. And the moment sits between us, pulsing.
“Ford!” Harper’s voice cuts through the fog, barrelling toward us in a half-jog, her hair a frizzy mess. “Can you quit slacking off and come help us before Mom collapses under a tent pole?” She gestures toward the mess of canvas and poles behind her. “She’s over there trying to wrangle canvas like it insulted her, and honestly, it’s kind of entertaining. I tried to help, but she told me she’s ‘got it’ and wouldn’t let me near it. So now I need you to help me help her before she loses the battle.”
