Maria gagged, laughing. “Dalton, stop!”
“No, keep going,” I said. “This is the most entertaining part of my week.”
Jackson snorted into his sweet tea. I pretended not to notice.
But every so often, his eyes flicked to me. Every so often, mine flicked back. A magnet I kept pretending wasn’t there. The sky drained from gold to navy. Crickets started their nightly concert. The lake shimmered in the last bit of light. I wandered down toward the dock for a moment to breathe. The air tasted like pine sap and charcoal. Mac yelled at Dalton for throwing Doritos into the fire pit. I stood at the edge of the water, toes curling over the wood, and tried not to think about the way Jackson had looked at me today. Tried and failed.
“You good Malibu?” a low voice said behind me.
I turned as he walked toward me, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to stand this close. “You following me?” I asked lightly.
“If I say yes, you’ll hit me.”
“Probably.”
A ghost of a smile. “Then no. Pure coincidence.”
We stood in silence for a moment, both of us watching the water like it had answers.
He nudged my shoulder with his. “Hey.”
“Hey what?”
“You were good today,” he said, voice low. “With Maria. With…everything.”
I rolled my eyes because anything else would’ve been too much. “Yeah, well. I got dragged here against my will. But it’s against my upbringing to be a party pooper.”
His jaw clenched. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“And you give yourself too much.”
“That’s fair,” he admitted, making me snort.
He took a breath like he had more to say, then didn’t say it. His fingers brushed mine—accidental or not, I couldn’t tell. And I was stupidly aware of it. Of him. The warmth. The gravity. It scared me. But it didn’t make me step back.
“Malibu,” he murmured.
I swallowed. “Yeah?”
He didn’t get to say whatever he was thinking before Dalton yelled from the fire pit, “Hey! Stop making eyes at her and come help with the firewood!”
“Not making eyes,” Jackson muttered, ears going pink.
“Definitely making eyes,” I whispered.
He glared at me. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re slow.”
We walked back together—close enough to touch, far enough not to. The fire crackled as night settled fully around us, sparksdrifting up into the trees like tiny fireflies. Dalton was trying to toast marshmallows three at a time. Mac confiscated them before he lit the entire county on fire. Maria curled up with her tea while Diego sat on the log beside her, picking at a guitar like the thing was part of him. I didn’t even know he played. He definitely didn’t tell anyone he couldsing. But when he opened his mouth—just softly, gently—it was…beautiful. Deep and warm and a little unsteady, like someone testing courage. Maria stared at him like he’d hung the moon. When the song tapered off, there was a tiny, reverent silence.
Then Dalton ruined it by whisper-yelling, “Bro, you could’ve been pulling girls this whole time.”
Mac threw a leftover hotdog at him. I laughed. Hard. Diego played another song, something low and sweet and in Spanish that had Maria swaying with her eyes closed.
Then Jackson stood and held out a hand toward me. Not forceful. Not cocky. Just…an offering. The entire group went dead silent except for Diego’s singing, like I was a deer about to bolt. My heart hammered because this was too public, too vulnerable, too much. Dancing meant touching. Touching meant remembering. Remembering meant spiraling. But Jackson’s eyes were steady. Not demanding. Not teasing. Just asking.
“Holly,” he said quietly, “dance with me?”
