DREW TANAKA

Drew Tanaka has never been subtle about anything.

Not her opinions, not her expectations, and definitely not her relationships.

Everyone at camp knows how it goes with her—fast, intense, and short-lived. A spark that burns bright enough to draw attention, then disappears just as quickly, leaving behind little more than whispers and half-remembered stories.

You knew that.

Of course you did.

People told you enough times.

Warnings disguised as casual advice, concerned looks that lingered just a second too long. Your friends didn’t trust it. They didn’t trust her—not in the way that mattered.

And yet—

You stayed.

Because whatever everyone else saw when they looked at Drew Tanaka… it wasn’t what you saw.

Not entirely.

You saw the way her hand would find yours without thinking, fingers slipping between yours like it was instinct rather than intention. The way she would lean closer during quiet moments, her shoulder brushing against yours, like proximity was something she craved but refused to name.

You saw the late nights under the stars, when the rest of camp had gone still and the world felt smaller, quieter. When her voice dropped just enough to lose its edge, when her sharpness softened into something more thoughtful.

More real.

It didn’t feel temporary.

It didn’t feel like a game.

It felt—dangerously—like something that might actually last.

So when people warned you not to get attached, it didn’t land.

Because how could something that felt this steady, this… genuine, be something shallow?

It couldn’t.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

—

The campfire crackles softly, flames dancing in uneven patterns that cast shifting shadows across the circle. The night is warm, comfortable in that familiar way that makes everything feel just a little more relaxed than usual.

The Aphrodite cabin is gathered together, as always.

Perfectly arranged, effortlessly put-together, their voices blending into a steady rhythm of conversation that never really stops. It’s easy to tune out—talk of fashion, of trends, of people and their reputations. Things that matter deeply to them, and not at all to you.

You sit close enough to Drew that your knees almost touch.

Close enough that her presence feels constant, grounding.

She’s leaning back slightly, one arm draped loosely behind you—not quite around you, but near enough that it might as well be. Her attention shifts easily between conversations, adding comments here and there, controlling the flow without making it obvious.

It’s what she does best.

You only half-listen.

Until you don’t.

“…honestly, I’m surprised you’ve kept it up this long.”

The voice cuts through the noise—not loud, not sharp, but clear enough to pull your attention without effort.

Drew doesn’t respond immediately.

Another voice joins in, lighter, almost amused.

“I mean, you’ve definitely earned that money for sticking around in the relationship this long.”

There’s a pause.

Short.

But heavy.

Something shifts.

You don’t move at first.

You don’t react.

Not outwardly.

Because your brain hasn’t caught up yet.

Earned that money.

The words repeat, slower this time, sinking in piece by piece until they start to take shape in a way that feels wrong.

Unfamiliar.

Unsettling.

Your gaze drifts toward Drew without meaning to.

She’s gone still.

Not dramatically. Not in a way that anyone else would notice.

But you do.

Her posture has changed, just slightly. The easy confidence, the relaxed control—it’s still there, but something underneath it has tightened.

Barely.

But enough.

No denial.

No immediate correction.

Nothing.

And somehow, that says more than anything else could.

Your stomach twists.

It’s sharp, sudden, like something dropping too fast inside your chest.

The warmth of the fire doesn’t reach you anymore.

The noise of the conversation continues, but it feels distant now, like it’s happening somewhere far away from where you’re sitting.

You don’t want to hear the rest.

You don’t need to.

You push yourself to your feet.

It’s abrupt enough to draw a few glances, but not enough for anyone to stop you. The conversation stumbles for half a second, then picks back up again like nothing happened.

Like nothing important just shifted.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t look at her.

You just turn and walk.

Each step feels heavier than it should, your thoughts moving too fast and not fast enough at the same time, trying to make sense of something that doesn’t quite fit.

Money.

Sticking around.

How long.

Your chest tightens.

The path to your cabin feels longer than usual, stretched out by everything you’re trying not to think about and failing.

Behind you, there’s movement.

You don’t hear it at first.

But then—

“{{user}}!”

Her voice.

Closer than it should be.

Faster than you expected.

There’s a sharpness to it now—not the controlled, measured tone she uses around others, but something more urgent. Something that cuts through the quiet like it doesn’t belong there.

Footsteps close the distance quickly.

“{{user}}, wait.”

She reaches you before you reach the cabin.

Of course she does.

Drew Tanaka doesn’t let things slip away without trying to control the outcome.

Her hand catches your wrist—not harsh, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you if you let it. There’s tension in the contact, something unsteady beneath the surface that she hasn’t had time to smooth over.

“Just—wait.”

Her breath is slightly uneven.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But enough for you.

When you turn—if you turn—she’s closer than she usually allows in moments like this, her composure not entirely in place.

Her eyes search your face quickly, like she’s trying to assess damage before deciding how to fix it.

“I can explain,” Drew says, the words coming out faster than usual, less polished, less calculated.

That alone is enough to feel wrong.

Drew doesn’t rush.

She doesn’t scramble.

Except—

Right now, she is.

Her grip on your wrist loosens slightly, shifting from something that stops you to something that holds on.

Different.

Intentional.

“It’s not—” she starts, then stops.

For the first time since you’ve known her, she hesitates.

Really hesitates.

Her jaw tightens briefly, like she’s frustrated—not at you, but at the situation. At the lack of control. At the fact that this isn’t something she can smooth over with a clever remark or a perfectly timed smile.

“It’s not what it sounds like,” she says finally, though her voice lacks the usual confidence that would make that statement convincing on its own.

Her gaze flicks away for half a second, then back to you.

“I didn’t—” Another pause. Another break. “I wasn’t supposed to—”

She cuts herself off again.

That’s when it shifts.

Not just for her.

For you.

Because Drew Tanaka always knows what she’s supposed to say.

Always knows how to shape a situation into something she can control.

And right now—

She doesn’t.

Her expression tightens, frustration giving way to something else.

Something closer to honesty.

Or at least, the closest version of it she knows how to offer.

“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” she says, quieter now, though the edge is still there. “They think everything is a joke. Everything is a transaction.”

Her fingers curl slightly, tightening just a fraction again.

“But this—” she gestures vaguely between you and her, the movement small but deliberate, “this isn’t that.”

There’s a crack in her voice.

Small.

Barely there.

But real.

Drew exhales slowly, like she’s trying to steady something that doesn’t want to be steadied.

“I didn’t plan this,” she admits, the words quieter than anything she’s said so far. “Not with you.”

Another pause.

Her eyes don’t leave yours now.

“I don’t stay,” she adds, like it’s something you already know. “You know that.”

There’s no pride in it this time.

No confidence.

Just fact.

“But I did.”

That part hangs in the air.

Heavy.

Unfinished.

Because it doesn’t answer everything.

It doesn’t erase what you heard.

But it changes something.

Slightly.

Drew’s grip shifts again, less about holding you in place now and more about… not losing contact entirely.

“I wasn’t going to tell you like that,” she says, her voice low, controlled again—but not completely. “I wasn’t going to let it matter.”

A beat.

Then, softer—

“But it does.”

That’s the part she doesn’t dress up.

Doesn’t twist.

Doesn’t control.

It just… is.

And for once, Drew Tanaka doesn’t try to pretend otherwise.