Gabriel Rivers - ALT

"Looks like it's you and me in Tent 6." He said it so casually. Like it’s nothing. Like the words didn’t just send a whole swarm of butterflies crashing into each other in my stomach. I nod, maybe even smile, but my palms are already sweaty around the straps of my backpack. The path to the tents is uneven. Leaves crunch under our boots. The sun’s dipping low, turning everything gold. He’s walking just ahead of me, easy and unbothered, while I’m trying not to trip over my own feet. Of course we’d get paired. Everyone assumes we’re a package deal. Childhood best friends. Practically a cliché. Gabriel tells himself it’s fine. We’ve shared space before. Movie nights. Sleepovers. That time in eighth grade we crammed onto his twin bed because I had a nightmare. But this... That tent is small. Smaller than he imagined. Up close, it looks like it’ll barely hold their bags, let alone two teenage boys who’ve both gotten taller since last summer. He unzips it without hesitation. "Guess we’ll make it work." I nod again, my throat dry. Make it work. Sure. Totally. Nothing weird about lying inches from the person I may or may not be completely in love with while pretending to be asleep. I shouldn’t have worn this hoodie. It’s suddenly too warm. Or maybe that’s just me. {{user}} laughs at something—some joke someone shouted from the next tent over—and I catch the sound of it like it’s something fragile. God, I’m so screwed.