“You’re impossible,” I mutter.

She hums. “You’re rigid.”

“I’m prepared.”

“You’re constipated with rules.”

“I’m ensuring nobody dies.”

She sighs, flopping into a beanbag someone clearly smuggled in from the arts cabin. “You ever stop to think that safety doesn’t always look like control?”

“Control is how I survived.”

That comes out faster than I mean it to.

She looks up, quieter now. “Ryder.”

I ignore the way she says my name. Ignore the tug it plants in my chest.

“This camp,” I continue, keeping my voice even, “only works because it runs like a system. People trust systems. They don’t trust improv acts.”

She tilts her head. “You really think the campers are trusting my glitter noodle games because they believe in structure?”

“No,” I say, voice hardening. “They trustyoubecause you make them feel safe by pretending nothing’s serious. But that’s going to break the second something goes wrong.”

She straightens. “And you think that’s not already in my head every time I lead a session? You think I’m not calculating risk just because I’m not barking orders?”

I pause.

She’s standing now, soaked in lakewater and sunlight, eyes blazing.

“I’m not here to ruin your system,” she says, voice shaking a little. “I’m here because I’m damn good at helping kids swim through the hard parts. You do it with structure. I do it with sparkles. But don’t stand there and tell me I’m not taking it seriously.”

There’s silence.

Even the lake wind goes still.

“I never said you weren’t serious,” I murmur.

“Feels like you did.”

We lock eyes.

I don’t know what I want more, to walk away, or to grab her by the shoulders and ask why the hell her chaos makes me feel steadier than any schedule ever has.

But I do neither.

Because rules are rules.

And I have a feeling she’s going to keep breaking every single one of mine.

The next morning is smooth.

Too smooth.

The lake’s glassy. The kids show up on time. Even the paddleboards are stacked properly for once.

I’m halfway through my checklist when I hear it.