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Almost Ready - O. Piastri

summary: everyone sees it but them. one final summer left to admit the truth pairing: camp counselor au Oscar Piastri x reader warnings: swearing, use of y/n word count: 8.6k a/n: this fic was heavily inspired by @piastriprincess 's fic under pink light in june and you all should definitely go check it out! i've honestly started writing a few more camp related fics so look out for them!

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You were eight years old when you first met Oscar.

The first thing you noticed about him was that he didn’t talk much. Not in the shy way some kids did, looking down at their shoes and whispering hellos. No, this was different. He looked like someone who had decided, deliberately, that silence was better than saying something dumb. Like words were coins and he only wanted to spend them if it was absolutely necessary.

The second thing you noticed was that he had the best snack.

You were sitting on a patchy, sun-warmed picnic blanket near the lake with your cabin group, poking at a sad sandwich someone’s mom had labeled in Sharpie. It was leaking something suspicious onto the paper towel underneath, and honestly, you were already regretting not just asking for a second granola bar instead.

Camp was still new. The sky was bright and buzzing with dragonflies, and everything smelled like a weird mix of bug spray, pine needles, and that sunscreen that made your arms feel sticky no matter how long it had been since it dried. Somewhere behind you, a counselor was trying to convince a kid that late water “technically counted” as a bath.

Your socks were already damp from stepping on the wrong part of the dock. Your knees itched from the grass. You felt out of place and overly noticeable and kind of homesick in a way you didn’t want to say out loud.

And then you saw him.

Across the grass, maybe a few blankets over, a boy with sandy-blond hair and knees covered in bandaids sat alone, munching on what looked like… chocolate covered pretzels.

Your mouth kind of watered.

You didn’t know his name yet. You didn’t know what cabin he was in, or if he was the kind of kid who got into trouble or got ignored. But he had that serious, quiet-kid look. The kind of kid that noticed things. His baseball hat was too big for his head and slipped low over his eyebrows. His socks were pulled up to his calves in a way that would’ve gotten him laughed at anywhere else, but there, it just made him look prepared. Like he got camp in a way you didn’t yet.

So you scooted closer.

Just a little. Not directly toward him - more like a slow diagonal shuffle, careful and half-hearted, like if you got caught, you could pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose.

But he noticed. Of course he did.

His eyes flicked toward you - quick and sharp, the same way a bird looks up from a feeder when it senses movement. He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched.

Then, finally, in a voice not much louder than a whisper:

“What,” he asked, without looking away, “are you doing?”

You froze mid-scoot.

“...Sitting.”

“Okay,” he said, and popped another pretzel in his mouth like that was the end of the conversation.

You watched him crunch. He chewed like someone with opinions.

After a second: “That looks really good.”

“It is.”

You waited. He didn’t offer you one.

“Are you gonna share?”

Oscar looked at you like that was a very big ask. Like you’d just requested access to his medical records or the secret formula to chocolate milk.

Then, with the world’s tiniest sigh, he plucked a single chocolate pretzel from the bag - slowly, precisely - and held it out toward you like it was an ancient treasure he wasn’t sure you’d earned.

“You can have this one,” he said, “but not if you’re gross about it.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like… if your hands are sticky. Or if you eat weird.”

You inspected your palms. “They’re clean. I think.”

He handed it over like he was passing along a relic.

You popped it in your mouth and immediately lit up. The chocolate was a little melty from teh sun, and the pretzel was perfectly salty and sweet and crunchy. “That’s so good.”

“I know. That’s why I said don’t be gross.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re kind of bossy.”

He shrugged like he got that a lot and didn’t care.

You sat beside him in silence for a while, both of you watching a pair of counselors try to stop a goose from stealing someone’s apple slices. The goose was winning.

The sun warmed your back, and the sugar settled on your tongue like something safe. He didn’t talk. You didn’t either. But the quiet didn’t feel weird anymore.

Then, very softly, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say it out loud:

“I’m Oscar.”

You glanced sideways. “I’m Y/N.”

There was a pause. You could hear kids laughing by the docks. Someone was singing off-key in the mess hall.

“... Wanna split the rest of the bag?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded and scooted a little closer, careful not to touch his arm. But he didn’t move away when you did.

And in the weird,unspoken, quietly magical way that kids sometimes become friends, that was it.

From then on, when the counselors asked where you were, the answer was usually the same:

“With Oscar.”

And that’s how it would be for the rest of that summer.

And the next one.

And the one after that.

Each June, you’d find him on the first day - same too big hat, same socks pulled up too high, same quiet smile he only ever gave you. It was like pressing play on something that had just been paused, like time didn’t really move during the months you spent apart. You’d pick up right where you left off: racing canoes, swapping dessert at lunch, inventing stories about the birds that nested in the rafters of the arts & crafts shed.

He never said much. But you always knew where to find him.

But in between the summers, during the long, boring school years, you lost touch.

You’d think about him sometimes. Usually when something small reminded you - chocolate-covered pretzels in a vending machine, someone with a funny accent in a classroom, the way a friend sat in the grass like he used to. Those memories would pop up, sudden and specific, like sunlight through the clouds on a gray day.

You’d wonder what his life looked like the other ten months of the year. What city he lived in. What subjects he liked. If he thought of you too.

But mostly, you waited.

And when summer came around again, you’d arrive at camp with that quiet, nervous feeling tucked in your chest - is he coming back?

And every year, the answer was yes.

======

At sixteen, the cabin looked a lot smaller.

Not in a disappointing way - just in the way everything from childhood eventually does. As if your eyes had grown up faster than the space around you. You stood just outside the doorway, a clipboard tucked under your arm and a box of name tags dangling from your wrist, staring at the same crooked window you used to press your face up against when it rained. The glass was still cloudy in the corners. You remembered tracing little hearts in the fog of it with your fingertip.

The bunk beds looked the same - scuffed and creaky and slightly too close together. The bottom bunk on the far left still had a carved smiley face near the headboard, and someone wrapped friendship bracelets around one of the support poles, faded and fraying from summers long gone. The wooden beams still had those pencil markings from campers long gone: height measurements, initials, hearts carved around other initials. You spotted your own name faintly scratched near the window frame.

And even though your shirt said Junior Counselor, it didn’t quite feel real yet. You felt like a kid playing dress-up in someone else’s summer.

Then you heard him. That unmistakable soft shuffle of sneakers on gravel, the quiet sound of someone who didn’t stomp or run, who simply arrived.

You turned, and there he was.

Taller now, his frame stretched out like it had only just started figuring itself out. His shoulders broader. Hair longer, a little messier, sun touched at the tips.His navy camp baseball cap now fit perfectly, this time flipped backwards. His name badge was clipped neatly to his collar: Oscar P.

Still the same no-nonsense stance, still the same calm in his eyes. Like the whole world could be buzzing and Oscar would just watch.

And when he saw you, his whole face shifted - just slightly. A soft half-smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. The same one he used to give you back when you were eight and dripping wet from falling in the lake, cold and embarrassed, and he’d handed you his towel without saying anything.

“I was hoping they’d put us on the same rotation,” he said. His voice had dropped since last summer. Not deep exactly, but lower, steadier. Still distinctly him.

You grinned before you could stop yourself. “They said I’d have a co-counselor who ‘didn’t talk much but knew how to fold blankets.’ I figured it was you.”

He rolled his eyes. “I said that once.”

“Yeah. And then folded mine for the rest of the summer.”

He didn’t deny it. Just stepped forward and leaned casually against the porch railing beside you. The wood creaked under his weight, the way it always did. The breeze rustled through the trees, bringing with it the familiar smell of pine needles, sunscreen, and something vaguely burnt from the mess hall kitchen.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

It was like being ten again, sitting shoulder to shoulder on a sun-warmed rock near the dock, passing pretzels back and forth and pretending you weren’t thinking about the end of summer. Pretending nothing would ever change.

“I didn’t know if you’d come back,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could think too hard.

Oscar didn’t answer right away. His head tilted slightly. “Did you want me to?”

You didn’t look at him, just shrugged, suddenly fascinated with the dirt curled in the grooves of the wooden floorboards.

He stepped a little closer.

Not close close. But close enough that his arms almost brushed yours. Enough that you could smell him - clean cotton and sun-warmed skin, with something faintly citrusy beneath it. Laundry detergent, maybe. Or shampoo. It made your head feel fizzy in the way feelings sometimes did before you had the words to name them.

“I kept checking the cabin list,” he admitted quietly. “Thought maybe you’d decided not to come.”

“I always come back,” you said

“So do I.”

The words hung in the space between you - quiet, but not empty. It didn’t need to be said out loud. You both knew what it meant.

Silence again. But not awkward, simply full.

Then, he reached into his bag and pulled something out.

You blinked. “Is that-”

“Chocolate-covered pretzels,” he said, “First day tradition.”

You let out a laugh without meaning to. It came out too loud, and it echoed off the walls like a secret being let loose.

“I can’t believe you remembered.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring any,” he teased and handed you the bag.

The rest of the summer passed the way it always did - fast in the moment, slow in the memory. Sunburned days and firefly nights. You and Oscar fell back into your old rhythm so easily it scared you a little. It was like muscle memory, like a song you hadn’t heard in a year but still somehow knew all the words to.

You still split snacks. Still walked side by side to the mess hall. Still found each other during free swim like gravity had its own opinion on where you belonged.

But it was different now, too.

You laughed longer when he said something dry and unexpected. He looked at you a beat too long when you weren’t watching. You noticed the shape of his hands - how they’d grown, how steady they looked. He stopped correcting you when you folded the life jackets wrong, even though he clearly noticed.

Sometimes your shoulders touched when you walked, and neither of you moved away.

There were moments- soft ones, barely there ones - when it felt like something might happen. A shared glance in the fading dusk, a lingering pause when he handed you your water bottle, the near-miss of a hug that didn’t quite happen at the end of a long day. All those almosts that buzzed under your skin long after you went to bed.

But nothing ever came of it.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Just… not yet.

You hugged goodbye the way people do when they think they’ll see each other soon. It was quick, almost casual, your arms over his shoulders, his hands at your waist. Too short and too long at the same time.

You didn’t make promises.

He didn’t ask for your number.

You didn’t ask for his.

But you came back next summer.

And so did he.

======

Over the years, your friendship became something quieter, deeper.

Less about snacks and shared sunscreen and more about who you were turning into when no one was watching.

You stopped spending every second side by side, but somehow became even more important to each other. It wasn’t about lake games or flashlight tag anymore. It was midnight walks when you couldn’t sleep. Conversations on the mess hall roof during counselor curfew. The way his voice lowered when he asked “Are you okay?” and actually meant it.

You talked about the futures you were trying to figure out - half made plans and backup dreams. College majors. Cities that scared you. Jobs that didn’t exist yet but sounded good in theory. He told you how he didn’t like talking about feelings, but with you, it was easier. You told him how you worried about disappointing people. He told you he worried about never doing enough.

You talked about your families. Your parents. What home felt like. What it didn’t.

The people you thought you were falling for - and the ones you knew you weren’t. About kisses that didn’t feel like anything, and moments that almost did.

You both dated other people. Sometimes briefly, sometimes not.

Camp flings. School-year maybes. People who made you laugh, people who looked good in photos.

But not him.

You didn’t talk about it much, not in detail. Neither of you ever asked for names, never wanted them. But sometimes he’d go quiet when you mentioned someone. His jaw would shift, eyes focused on something just past your shoulder. And sometimes, when the cabin was too quiet and the air was too warm, you’d lie awake wondering if he was thinking about someone else. If another girl had sat beside him in a different kind of silence. If she knew about the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek when he was nervous. If she ever made him laugh that quiet, breathless laugh he only let out when he really meant it.

Still, every summer, you found each other.

In the clearing behind the mess hall. In the pause before dinner. On the corner of the dock where the sun hit just right and no one else ever sat. You’d pick up like nothing had changed, even if everything had. You knew his favorite hoodie. He knew when you needed space. You could read his moods from across the firepit, and he could find your laugh in a crowd of twenty voices.

And every summer, you left without saying the one thing that had begun to burn quietly in both of you: It’s always been you.

The words waited at the back of your throat like a secret. Like a truth too delicate to say out loud. Like something sacred you weren’t ready to ruin.

So you’d hug goodbye, tight but brief. You’d tell yourselves there would be time.

Next year. Next summer. When you were older. When you felt safer. When maybe, just maybe, he’d say it first.

But he never did.

And neither did you.

======

You didn’t mean for it to be your last. But you knew it was.

At twenty three, real life had gotten louder - jobs with titles you didn’t quite understand yet, cities with rent you couldn’t quite afford, commutes and deadlines and alarm clocks that didn’t smell like pine or damp earth. The world outside of camp had started calling you by your full name. Expecting things from you. Urging you to move forward.

You’d aged out of counselor cabins and color wars and group chants screamed across the lake. Your bunk had been replaced by a full-sized mattress in a sublet apartment with too thin walls. You drank coffee now. You packed Advil in your bag. The idea of chasing fifteen eight-year-olds through the woods made your back hurt a little just thinking about it.

You were only back this year because the camp director had begged. One more summer she’d said over the phone. Help train the new kids. Make it special.

You said yes. You weren’t even sure why.

Until you got there.

Until you heard a voice behind you say, soft and familiar:

“Same shoes.”

You stopped mid-step, duffel swinging lightly against your hip. The sky above the staff cabins was clear, hot, a shade of blue that only existed in June. You turned.

And there he was.

Oscar.

He looked different, but only slightly. Like someone who’d just finished becoming whoever he was always meant to be. His features were more defined now, jaw a little sharper, stubble ghosting his chin just slightly. His camp t-shirt clung to a frame that had filled out over the years - subtly, quietly, like everything else about him. His hat was still backwards. His hands were still in his pockets.

He was older. Sharper. And still, unmistakably him.

That same quiet certainty behind his eyes. The same stillness in the way he stood. That same crooked half-smile pulling at his mouth, only for you.

And just like that, your lungs gave in. You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for months.

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

“Hi,” you managed, voice already softer than it had been all morning.

“Hi,” he said back, like no time had passed. Like this was normal.

And somehow, it was.

You stepped toward each other. He held out his hand - not for a handshake, but to take your bag. You let him, even though you didn’t need the help. He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Like you did when you were sixteen and he carried your art supplies up the cabin steps without asking.

“I didn’t know if you’d be back,” he said, watching you from the side.

“I didn’t know if you would,” you said. “Figured maybe you finally aged out of camp traditions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean like bringing pretzels on the first day?”

You laughed - quiet and surprised and involuntary. It spilled out of you like something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time. The sound of it made his smile deepen.

You looked at him. Really looked.

Maybe this was the summer you were going to say it.

======

The mess hall was already too hot by 9 a.m.

A box fan rattled in the corner, groaning against its own effort, blowing warm air over a pile of unclaimed name tags. The smell of instant coffee and last night’s spaghetti lingered in the wood-paneled walls. Outside, the sky was an uninterrupted blue, the kind that promised bug bites and sunburns.

Inside, ten brand-new junior counselors sat on mismatched benches, all elbows and nerves, sipping lukewarm iced coffee out of paper cups and pretending not to be intimidated. Most were fresh out of high school or in that dazed post-first-year-of-university fog. A few had already started sweating through their t-shirts.

You stood at the front of the room, clipboard in one hand, camp whistle looped around your wrist like a bracelet. Your name tag - handwritten, glitter-stickered, slightly peeling - clung to your shirt with the stubborn pride of someone who had absolutely seen things.

Oscar stood beside you.

He hadn’t said much yet - he never did, not unless it mattered - but he was flipping through a laminated emergency protocol packet like it personally offended him. His name tag read:

Oscar - Senior Staff.

All block caps. Clean, precise. No stickers.

The difference between the two of you was… obvious to say the least. But no one could ever argue you didn’t work well together.

“Okay,” you said brightly, clapping your hands together once. The sound echoed across the exposed raptors. “Let’s talk about cabin dynamics.”

A few groans rumbled through the group, low and reluctant. One girl tilted her head back and dramatically whispered, “Help me.”

Oscar didn’t even look up from the protocol guide. “If you complain now,” he said, flat and dry, “you won’t survive the third graders’ tie-dye day.”

A couple of them laughed - nervous, uncertain, the kind of laugh that asked was that a joke? You glanced sideways at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Starting with a threat?” you murmured under your breath.

“Setting expectations,” he replied, not bothering to whisper.

You bit back a smile.

You turned toward the whiteboard and uncapped a marker. “You’re going to live with these kids for ten weeks. They will cry. They will spill applesauce on your bed. One of them will probably try to smuggle a frog into the mess hall. The good news is: you get used to it.”

“The bad news is,” Oscar added, flipping a page with a snap, “you still have to clean up the applesauce.”

More laughter now. Slightly easier. You caught a few of them exchanging relieved looks.

You turned toward the whiteboard and started scribbling down a few bullet points: Routine. Respect. Rain plans. Each in big, bold letters.

Behind you, Oscar began handing out the cabin charts - color-coded, organized, and predictably immaculate His handwriting was still all-caps, neat to the point of intimidation. You wondered - not for the first time - if he’d ever been the kind of kid who used a ruler to underline things in notebooks.

“Uh, question?” a voice piped up near the back.

You turned.

A new counselor - Jaden, you thought, skinny and sunburnt already - raised a hand tentatively.

“What if the campers don’t like us?” he asked, genuine concern in his eyes. “Like, what if they think we’re… lame?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “They will.”

You turned to stare at him. “Oscar.”

He shrugged, facing the kid. “At first. They always think you’re lame. Then one of them cries during lights-out, you sing them off-key lullabies, and suddenly you’re their hero.”

You shot him a side-glance. “You sing lullabies?”

He didn’t look away from the chart. “Once. By accident.”

You snorted and turned back to the group. “What Oscar’s trying to say is: they come around. Just be patient. Be present. And don’t lie to them - kids can smell fake nice like it’s blood in the water.”

They laughed again - louder this time. You could see them loosening up, tension slipping off their shoulders as the room warmed in the right way.

A girl with pink sunglasses pushed up on her head - Ava, - raised her hand next. “How do you guys, like… know all of this? You seem really calm.”

Oscar leaned back against the table beside you, arms crossed, letting the question hand for a second.

You answered first. “We’ve been here since we were kids. Climbed the ranks. Went from campers, to junior counselors terrified of canoe duty, to now senior campers.”

Oscar added, “And we’ve made every mistake you’re about to make. Twice.”

That got a solid laugh, and someone clapped, ironically. The energy shifted. Less formal now, more like a team starting to take shape

You turned toward Oscar and caught it - just for a second - his eyes already on you, like he was waiting to see if you’d say more. You didn’t. Not yet.

But your smile softened. And his did too.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “You’re being nice.”

“I’m being honest.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

He shook his head, but didn’t deny it.

You turned back to the group and clapped again. “Alright. Time for a trust walk. Pair up, someone gets blindfolded, and no, we’re not liable if you fall in a ditch.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Is there a ditch?”

“There might be,” you said cheerfully, tossing him a bandana.

He caught it one handed. “Rock paper scissors to see who leads?”

You grinned. “You’re not blindfolding me, Piastri.”

“Then I guess I’m trusting you to not walk me into a tree.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You walked out together, side by side, just like you used to.

And the new counselors followed. Not because you told them to. But because together, without ever trying, everyone thought you were the people who knew that you were doing.

Even if you were still just figuring it out. Even if neither of you had said what you really wanted to.

The lake shimmered under the afternoon sun, soft waves lapping at the wooden dock like it was exhaling. Dragonflies flitted lazily across the surface, occasionally dipping low enough to skin the water, then zipping up again. Somewhere behind you, cicadas buzzed in the trees, a low electric hum that filled the stillness.

You sat in the tall white lifeguard chair, sunglasses perched on your head, whistle resting between your lips, and a bottle of blue Gatorade sweating by your ankle. Your feet were bare, propped on the lowest rung, toes already dusty with sand.

It was midweek, and the swim zone was empty - for now. Just you, the heat, and the occasional creak of the dock shifting under the sun.

Your clipboard was balanced on one of the arms of the chair, weighted down by a clothespin and a crumpled receipt being used as a bookmark. It was filled with cabin swim rosters, band color notes (a very serious system of shallow, middle, deep end), and a scribbled reminder to find someone to patch the kickboards before the next round of kids turned them into medieval weapons again.

You exhaled slowly, closed your eyes, and tilted your head back. The sun warmed your shoulders, your collarbones, the bridge of your nose. This was the best part of the day: the quiet before the cannonballs.

Then -

“Please walk.”

The voice was familiar. Steady. Slightly annoyed.

Your eyes opened. There he was, half chasing his cabin group down the hill toward the lake like a reluctant sheepdog. Oscar had one hand wrapped around a stray pool noodle and the other gripping the back of a camper’s shirt who was dangerously close to face planting.

You watched them make their way towards the changing stalls, the kids shouting over each other about who could swim faster, who was gonna do a triple flip off the dock (they weren’t_, and who saw a fish the size of a shark yesterday (they didn’t).

“And here comes the chaos,” you muttered to yourself.

He heard it anyway. “This is the refined version of chaos,” he said, releasing the kid and sending him toward the changing stalls. “You should’ve seen snack time.”

You leaned an elbow on the side of your chair and smirked down at him. “Someone cried again?”

“Two of them,” he said, flipping off his sneakers and kicking them towards the bench. “One over a broken granola bar. The other because his was too perfect, and he didn’t wanna ruin it by eating it.”

You snorted. “That’s camp philosophy right there.”

Oscar shaded his eyes with one hand and looked up at you. “You’ve got sunscreen on your nose.”

You rubbed it instinctively.

“No,” he added, and you caught the edge of a smile, “I mean you did a good job. Usually you forget it.”

You rolled your eyes but your lips tugged upward anyway. “You gonna swim or just pace dramatically on the shore?”

“I’m supervising,” he said, pulling off his shirt and tossing it over the bench. You’ve seen him a thousand times before, but your eyes couldn’t help but linger. “But if someone starts fake drowning again, I’m going in.”

You raised your eyebrows. “That one kid yesterday deserved an Oscar.”

Oscar deadpanned, “He had my name.”

“Don’t hold it against him.”

The campers began trickling into the water, a few of them shrieking at the initial cold before dunking under, splashing one with another with wide, clumsy arcs. You counted heads out of habit, tracking colored wristbands, mentally noting who needed to be watched near the ropes and who’d already made a beeline for the floating platform.

Oscar sat on the bottom step of your lifeguard stand, forearms resting on his knees, his bare feet digging into the warm, grainy sand. He didn’t speak right away, just watched his cabin with a kind of focus that had always made him a good counselor - steady, patient, present.

“You’re good at this,” you said softly, not even sure if you meant for him to hear it.

“I’m tired,” he replied, glancing up. “Is that the same thing?”

You shrugged. “Sometimes.”

A pause. Then:

“You’ve always been good at this,” he said. “The way you just… know what they need before they even do. It’s like magic or something.”

You looked down at him, caught off guard. The way he said it wasn’t teasing - it was earnest. Quiet.

“It’s not magic,” you said, your voice a little hoarse. “I’ve just been here a long time.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, without looking at you: “Yeah. But you care. That’s the difference.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t.

You just watched a camper try to climb onto the floating dock, fall off twice, and then get boosted by two friends, triumphant like he’d summited Everest.

“Thanks,” you said, finally.

Oscar nodded. “Anytime.”

The sun glinted off the lake like shattered glass. Your knee, bent against the frame of the stand, brushed gently against his shoulder. He didn’t move. Neither did you.

The whistle stayed silent. No one was drowning. No one was crying.

But somehow, it still felt like your heart was treading water - just waiting, waiting, waiting to touch solid ground.

It wasn’t camp unless there was a critter found somewhere.

Sometimes it was a raccoon in the dumpster. Once it was a squirrel in the arts & crafts cabin. And one year, someone swore a possum had tried to climb into their sleeping bag.

And like most times, it started with a scream.

A sharp, glass-shattering one that cut across the quiet of the evening like a knife through marshmallow fluff. You were halfway through brushing your teeth at the outdoor sink when it happened - spit and mint foam still in your mouth - when the sound rippled across camp. Your toothbrush froze mid-brush.

Then came a second scream. Louder. Somehow wetter. You didn’t know how a scream could be wet, but it was.

You spat, jammed your toothbrush back in its case, and turned just in time to see the bathroom door slam open. Two campers bolted out like they were being chased by a ghost.

“THERE’S A BAT!” one of them cried, arms flailing. “IT’S IN THE SHOWER STALL. IT’S LOOKING AT ME.”

You blinked.

Before you could ask anything else, Oscar was suddenly at your side like he’d teleported there. Hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, and holding a half-eaten granola bar like it might help.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice calm but alert.

You pointed at the door. “Apparently, Dracula’s moved in.”

Another scream echoed inside - this one more dramatic, echoing off tile.

Oscar sighed, already rolling up the sleeves of his crewneck. “Okay. I’ll handle it.”

You grabbed his arm. “Oh no you don’t. You’re not going in there alone.”

“I’ve got a towel,”

“That’s not a shield.”

“It is if you believe in it.”

“You’re going to get rabies.”

He looked at you, deadpan. “Not if I duck.”

Despite yourself, you almost laughed. Still, when he stepped forward, you followed him. Of course you did.

The air inside was warm and damp, thick with that distinctive camp-bathroom mix of humidity, faint mildew, and watermelon shampoo. The lights flickered like they were trying to create mood lighting for a horror film. The scent of fear - kid shampoo, wet flip-flops, and adrenaline - clung to the walls.

Near the showers, someone had knocked over an entire shelf of toiletries. Conditioner bottles were strewn like casualties across the floor. A towel was draped dramatically across the floor like someone had used it to defend themselves and failed.

Silence loomed over, tension thick in the air.

And then - fluttering.

You both froze.

It came from above. From somewhere behind a warped ceiling tile near the corner light fixture, something small and winged squeaked once, then again.

“There it is,” you whispered, squinting upward.

Oscar tilted his head. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He raised the towel like a net. “Alright. We’ll trap it. Then we let it go. No panic.”

“No panic,” you repeated, heartbeat clearly disagreeing.

Another flutter. It was getting ready.

“Okay,” he said, positioning himself below the ceiling corner. “On three. One. Two…”

He didn’t get to three.

What followed was nothing short of a disaster film in fast-forward: wings flapping in manic loops, the bat doing aerial acrobatics, your scream bouncing off the tile, Oscar swearing, the towel flying, you flying (backwards into a sink), and the bat careening once, twice, before shooting out through the cracked window with one final screech like it was late for a party.

Silence.

You and Oscar stood panting, eyes wide, surrounded by fallen toiletries and questionable dignity. Your shoulder was pressed tight to his arm. His hoodie had slipped halfway off. You were both breathing like you’d just run a mile.

“I think,” you said between gulps of air, “I just saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Oscar ran a hand through his hair. “Mine said, you’re gonna die in a camp bathroom.”

You started laughing, real laughing. Bent slightly at the waist, catching your breath, shoulders shaking. He looked over, eyes crinkling at the corners. And for a second, it was quiet again.

“Thanks,” you said finally. “For not letting me get attacked alone.”

He shrugged, but softer this time. “Always.”

Then, from the hallway:

“DID YOU KILL IT?!”

“CAN WE NAME IT?!”

“CAN WE KEEP IT AS A MASCOT?!”

You both groaned at the same time.

Oscar gave you a side-glance. “If you tell them it laid eggs in the shampoo bottles, they’ll never step in here again.”

You smirked “You’re a menace.”

“But a helpful one.”

You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “That was worse than the squirrel-in-the-arts-cabin year.”

“Still not as bad as glitter day,” he muttered

The bat was gone.

But for the rest of the summer, that night was ingrained in your campers heads. Legendary. Mythical. Immortalized in popsicle stick retellings and glitter-glued reenactments.

It started innocently during arts and crafts.

The sky outside was a heavy, pewter gray, thick with the kind of rain that hadn’t fallen yet, but was waiting, smug, somewhere above the pine trees. Camp was on rain schedule, which meant a hundred damp-footed, sugar-laced children were now crammed into the rec hall for the past hour and a half making lopsided friendship bracelets and glitter-glued name signs that would absolutely not survive the summer.

Oscar sat at one of the long tables, hunched over a piece of cardboard and a pile of googly eyes. He wasn’t crafting so much as supervising, but someone had handed him a glue bottle and now he was very seriously assembling a bat out of pipe cleaners, complete with glitter fangs.

You were perched on the opposite edge of the table across from him, one knee tucked under you, snipping pieces of yarn for a friendship bracelet for a camper.

A lull settled across the room, punctuated only by the sound of scissors and low-level supply disputes.

Then, from the far side of the table, came a voice.

“Miss Y/N,” a voice piped up beside you. It was Sophie, one of the louder, bolder girls from your lake group. Her pigtails were lopsided and her arms were glittery. “Are you and Oscar in love?”

You choked on air. “What?”

Across the room, someone dropped a popsicle stick. Chairs squeaked. Heads turned like it was a courtroom drama.

Sophie didn’t back down. “You always sit next to each other.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re in love,” you said, trying for neutral, cool. The effect was… questionable.

“But you laugh at his jokes even when they’re not funny,” a boy chimed in from the next table over.

“And he gave you his last Cheez-It yesterday,” another added solemnly, like that was definitive proof of eternal devotion.

You shot a glance at Oscar. He hadn’t looked up from his craft yet.

“Technically,” he began, holding up the bat to inspect it, “it was my second to last Cheez-It.”

That. Did. Not. Help.

“SEE?” Sophie crowed, practically leaping onto her bench. “He remembers! That means he cares! He’s in looooveeee”

Oscar finally looked at you. Raised one eyebrow, lips twitching like he was seconds from breaking.

You, however, were going down swinging. “You guys are wild. People can care about each other and not be in love, you know.”

One of the ten year olds across the room cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone: “YOU GUYS TOTALLY LIKE EACH OTHER.”

Oscar leaned back on his bench and sighed dramatically. “This is what I get for participating in bat-themed crafts.”

“Miss Y/N!” Sophie tugged your sleeve, starry eyed. “If you do get married, can I be a flower girl? I have a sparkly dress already.”

You shook your head “We are not getting married.”

“But if you did!” She insisted, now practically vibrating with excitement, “would there be cupcakes? And a petting zoo?”

Oscar set his glue bottle down and said, deadpan, “Only if I get to ride into the ceremony on a canoe.”

That broke the dam. The entire table burst into delighted chaos.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m deeply uncomfortable,” he replied dryly. “But the image of a wedding canoe has potential.”

The kids started chiming in again, overlapping:

“Can we decorate it with streamers?”

“You have to have s’mores at the reception!”

“What if the bat comes back and officiates the wedding!?”

You buried your face with your hands.

Oscar nudged your knee under the table.

When you peeked through your fingers, he was looking at you with that same soft expression he always wore when he thought no one else was watching. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Just for you.

“You know,” he said, “I would trust you to pick the playlist.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m going to drown you in the lake.”

He grinned. “How romantic.”

And then - “SEE?! FLIRTING!” came the high pitched wail of confirmation from behind a mountain of yarn.

You groaned, but despite that, you were smiling.

The rain began to fall soon after. Soft at first, drumming on the tin roof like applause from the universe itself. The kids went back to their crafts, now glancing between the two of you with renewed suspicion and barely contained glee.

Oscar reached over and placed his completed bat in front of you. It had a lopsided smile and crooked wings. One googly eye was already sliding off.

“For you,” he said, mock-serious.

You stared at it. “This is hideous.”

“It’s symbolic,” he replied, straight faced.

You snorted. “Of what?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Emotional dysfunction.”

And from across the table, a chorus of giggles rose up again.

They didn’t need to know the truth. That your hands brushed under the table. That you hadn’t stopped thinking about the way he looked at you during free swim. That maybe they were more right than you were willing to admit.

You tapped the bat’s head, glanced at him sideways, and said, “Fine. But if we get married, we’re not naming our first kid ‘Cheez-It.’”

Oscar didn’t even blink. “Middle name. Compromise.”

And somewhere behind you, another kid whispered. “This is better than a soap opera”

You should’ve known something was up the moment your campers offered - completely unprompted - to “take over swim check in,” armed with clipboards, dramatic salutes, and suspiciously wide eyes.

“Go take a break, Miss Y/N,” Sophie said, blinking innocently, standing a little too perfectly between you and the path up to the cabins. “You’ve done so much. We’ve got this.”

That alone was suspicious. Sophie once fake-cried for ten minutes to get out of rest hour. And now she was volunteering for extra responsibility?

But before you could question it, she was already corralling the younger kids, her voice unusually commanding. “Line up alphabetically by how cool your swim bands are!” she declared.

Your eyebrows furrowed. “That’s not how alphabet-”

Too late. A distraction had been launched.

Five minutes later, Sophie came bounding back, glitter streaked across her cheek like war paint and a folded piece of paper clutched in her hand like it was a top-secret message.

“For you,” she said, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face. “Step one.”

You raised an eyebrow but unfolded it anyway.

CLUE #1:

Where the bat once flew and shampoo bottles died,

A clue awaits, if you dare go inside

(P.S. It’s not back…probably)

You stared. “Is this a scavenger hunt?”

From halfway up the hill, Sophie turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “OPERATION CANOE WEDDING IS A GO.”

“Operation what?!”

But she was already gone

You looked at the paper again, then sighed. Of course they started with the bat bathroom.

Inside the girls’ showers, the light flickered in that same ominous way it always did, like the building was haunted by the ghost of shaving cream past. The tiles were still chipped from that one epic prank war, and a suspiciously large spider occupied the upper corner like it paid rent. But there, taped to the mirror with a concerning amount of glitter glue, was the next note.

CLUE #2:

You watch the waves, you guard the shore

But maybe love has something more?

Go where you sit to count the heads,

And maybe think about what’s left unsaid.

(Omg that was deep)

You snorted and muttered, “You dramatic little gremlins.”

It kept going. Notes slipped under doors. Hints chalked in bubble letters along the path. A lopsided origami heart wedged between canoe paddles. One kid handed you a paper flower and said, “For your emotional growth,” before vanishing behind the gear shed

You found Oscar sitting beneath the tree by the firepit, a clue resting in his lap like it had personally offended him.

He looked up when you approached, brows raised. “ Let me guess. You got roped into this too?”

You held up your own collection of glittery rhymes. “Apparently we’re soulmates and they’ve decided to force fate’s hand.”

He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “They made me solve a riddle in order to unlock the ‘next phase of my heart journey.’”

“They made me dig under the paddleboards. I got a splinter”

You both stood there for a second, then fell into step without thinking, like always. Same path. Same rhythm. Comfortable silence broken only by the chirp of cicadas and the occasional far-off shriek from what was probably a pillow fight going rogue.

The final note had been taped to the dock’s railing, sealed with an alarming amount of heart-shaped stickers.

FINAL CLUE:

You’ve reached the end. Now take a seat,

He’s waiting for you (and your heart’s skipped a beat).

No pressure or anything.

(P.S. WE KNOW!!)

You sat beside him, legs swinging over the water, shoes kicked off. The sun had started its descent, casting long golden streaks across the lake. The world narrowed down to the creak of the dock and the way his pinky nearly brushed yours.

“They’re really committed,” you said after a while.

“Too committed,” Oscar replied, exhaling slowly. “I think Sophie threatened someone into drawing a map.”

You laughed softly. “I feel like I’m on some weird rom-com TV show and the campers are the writers.”

“Terrifying thought.”

Then, quieter: “Do you think they actually believe it?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He leaned back on his hands, watching the sun dip behind the tree line.

“I think…” he said eventually, “kids see things we’re too scared to say.”

It landed between you like a stone in still water.

You turned your head. His profile was golden with the last of the light, his jaw tight like he was trying to keep something in.

“But it’s just a joke. Right?” He asked, not quite looking at you.

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Obviously. It’s… camp drama. They’re bored.”

“Right.” His voice was soft. Neutral. Careful. “It’s nothing.”

“Exactly.”

You both stared out at the water.

The moment stretched. The lake lapped gently below. Your foot dipped in, just barely, and set soft ripples outward. But neither of you moved. Not really.

Because it wasn’t nothing.

Not even close.

You cleared your throat. “I should… probably get back. Before they start assigning roles in the fake wedding.”

Oscar stood first, brushing his hands off on his shorts. “For the record, I’m not wearing a flower crown.”

“You’d look good in one.”

He paused, looked down at you, that unreadable half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So would you.”

And maybe that was it. Maybe that was the closet either of you could get.

You stood and walked back beside him. Not touching. Not talking. But the space between your shoulders hummed with everything that hadn’t been said.

And behind you, in the shadows of the trees, you knew your cabins were watching - waiting, whispering.

But you didn’t turn around.

You weren’t ready.

Not yet.

The fire cracked and popped like it had secrets to tell.

It was the last night of camp. The kind that didn’ feel real until you were already halfway through it - the air heavy with smoke and memory, the faint echo of a summer’s worth of inside jokes still lingering between the trees. The kids were finally asleep - tired from crying during cabin goodbyes, from trading lanyards like currency, from trying to memorize phone numbers they’d never actually call.

The counselors lingered in the firelight, a scattered collection of silhouettes and worn sweatshirts, clutching mismatched mugs filled with lukewarm cocoa and the ache of endings. Someone strummed a familiar song on the guitar, the chords slightly off, but no one cared. Someone else lit a sparkler and traced a heart in the air. And someone retold the story about the raccoon that once stole an entire box of graham crackers and disappeared like a ghost into the woods.

You sat on a fallen log, knees pulled up to your chest, hoodie still warm from a last-minute run to the laundry cabin. Your eyes tracked the sparks curling toward the stars, but your focus wasn’t really on the fire.

Oscar was on the log across from you, legs stretched long and a twig spinning absently between his fingers. The light from the flames caught in his hair and painted gold at the edges of his face. He hadn’t said much all night - not because he was distant, but because he was watching it all like he was trying to memorize it.

Every summer ended. You both knew that. But this one was the last chapter of something sacred. Twenty-three didn’t leave much space for cabins and campfires and inside jokes about bats. Not when real life was baning on the door.

As the fire burned lower and the group around it slowly thinned - some peeling off toward cabins, some lying back in the grass - you caught him watching you. Finally, really watching.

“You okay?” you asked, voice low.

He nodded once. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He huffed out a soft laugh. “Not this time.”

You waited.

He looked down at his hands. “Just that this is the last one,” he said, his voice barely above the fire’s whisper.

It didn’t need explanation. You both knew what he meant.

Camp had always been the place you came back to. The reset button. The middle ground.

There was a long stretch of silence, broken only by the occasional pop from the logs and the far-off whoop of someone cannonballing into the lake, last-minute swim rules be damned. Then-

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” you said.

Oscar glanced up.

You shifted on the log, suddenly aware of every inch of space between you. “And I keep wondering if I’ll regret not saying something.”

That got his attention. The twig stilled in his hand. His brow furrowed.

“But maybe you don’t feel the same,” you added quickly. “And that’s okay. I just didn’t want to leave this place without-”

“Wait,” he said suddenly, standing like the ground had given him a jolt. “Come here.”

Your heart tripped.

He stepped away from the fire, toward the edge of the woods where the tree line opened up just enough for the stars to peek through like secrets. He didn’t turn to check if you were following.

But you were.

The noise of the fire and the others faded into the background. The pine needles cushioned your steps. The scent of smoke clung to everything. When you reached him, Oscar turned, hands shoved in his pockets.

“I do,” he said

Your brows knit. “Do what?”

“I do feel the same way.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a little out of breath. He looked nervous, but not unsure. Like he was done pretending.

“I’ve felt that way for a long time,” he said. “Years. But everytime I thought about saying something, I talked myself out of it. I didn’t want to ruin what we had. You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine too.”

His voice dropped. “And I almost kissed you on the dock.”

“I know,” you whispered, a small and sad smile formed on your lips.

“I wanted to. I was going to. But then I thought… if I do this, and it’s not what you want, it’ll change everything.”

“I was scared too,” you admitted. “But Oscar -” You took a breath. “You were never going to lose me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like he was taking in every inch of your face, memorizing it like the way he watched the fire earlier. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for your hand. His fingers bruised yours, tentative.

You didn’t pull away.

And when he laced your fingers together, something in your chest settled.

When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It was a quiet question. And your kiss was the answer.

Soft. Steady. Years in the making.

The kind of kiss that felt like it had always been waiting there - between games of capture the flag, behind whispered goodnight jokes in the staff lodge, just under the surface of every late-night swim.

When you pulled back, the air felt clearer. The stars looked closer. His forehead rested against yours.

“So,” he murmured, voice brushing your skin. “What happens next?”

You smiled, thumb grazing his knuckles. “We figure it out.”

“Together?”

“Always.”

And in the hush of the last night of summer, beneath the stars and pine trees and the weight of something finally said, you knew -

You were ready.

So was he.