Page 95 of Make Out With A Merman

But I go.

And what I find?

Stops me in my tracks.

The lake is glowing.

Not in a cursed, pulse-of-doom way.

In a soft, golden shimmer like someone bottled the moon and let it leak gently across the surface.

A floating platform is moored just past the main dock. About twelve feet square, anchored by enchanted weights. Wooden. Sturdy. Painted the same soft gray-blue as the cabins.

On it: a small round table, two chairs, and a low canopy made from what looks like old sailcloth stretched between four posts, strung with glowing beetle-lanterns Ryder must’ve riggedhimself. The lights cast a halo over the whole setup warm, flickering, utterly magical.

Blankets are piled on one corner. A little metal cooler rests between the chairs.

And food.

Actual food.

Cheese. Fruit. Crackers. Chocolate. Campfire-warmed cider in real ceramic mugs that don’t even have chips in them.

He’s standing beside it all, barefoot, in his dark henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows.

Waiting.

Like I’m the center of the whole damn universe and he’s just orbiting me now.

“Ryder,” I breathe, stepping onto the dock. “What is allthis?”

He shrugs, but it’s shy. “A date.”

“You built me afloatingdate?”

“I builtusa floating date.”

I step onto the platform.

It’s solid underfoot, barely rocking. The magic woven into the corners hums faintly, tuned to the water’s rhythm.

He pulls out my chair.

Waits until I sit.

Then opens the cooler and pulls out two chilled bottles of something sparkling and peach-colored.

Non-alcoholic, because camp rules.

Romantic, becausehim.

We sit and eat and drink and laugh.

He’s quiet, but watching me the whole time. The way he always does, like he’s memorizing my joy.

I ask him if he’s cold. He hands me a blanket without answering.

I tease him about planning this and he just grins and says, “You deserve to feel chosen.”

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