loverofmine99

[loverofmine99]

patrick drunk-calling art one night when theyre in their late twenties, mumbling and rubbing his brow as the inside of his parked car (makeshift bed) spins around him uncomfortably. his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth; his tastebuds picking up the sour tang of some alcohol he can’t recall the name of. it doesn’t matter. why would it?

the ringing of the line sounds like an alarm. a trill like a blaring tornado siren, an overplayed song at a high school party, a resigned hum from a familiar pair of lips, an agonizing wail that makes your face heat up and crumple into a grimace. it almost reminds him of the noise art’s childhood alarm clock used to make when patrick would sleep over at his place in the summertime. it had some smiley, gaudy cartoon character on it.

if he closes his eyes hard enough, swallows the dizziness like a dry pill and really focuses, he can still hear the way art used to breathe while he was dreaming. those summer evenings in the same bed would sometimes give the blonde nightmares, or so patrick assumed. the pulling of air into art’s lungs would stutter, like he was frightened by something inexplicably awful, and then smooth. it would only even-out like that when pat would reflexively offer a comforting hand on his arm. then there’d be a slight twitch in art’s back, like he was settling, like he subconsciously knew that his friend was there to save him from whatever was chasing him.. his friend was there to protect him..

patrick tries not to feel sick.

it only takes ten seconds for the call to be picked up. as soon as it is—something pat didn’t think would happen—he finds himself unable to stop from crying. he doesn’t mean to, but the alcohol numbs his fingertips, and he suddenly notices a deep, stinging scratch on the back of his free hand that he doesn’t remember getting, and art says “hello?” in a way that makes him realize that he’d deleted his contact and probably forgotten his number. even after all those years of dialing it. it was a greeting that oozed confusion and lacked the tenderness he needed in that moment.

it starts out like a wet sniffle, but it dissolves into heavy sobbing before patrick can even get a single word out. he raggedly whimpers into the open palm he brings up to half-heartedly smother his cries. smears his skin with his snot and dripping salt. he hopes that when he finally gathers the courage and the strength to speak, art will still be on the line.

please, he thinks as he loses himself in it all, please stay. listen to my breathing, and realize that i need saving. stroke my hair, shake my shoulder, hold my arm. something is right on my tail, and my feet are starting to slow in their efforts. i love you, art. please, wake me up.

[loverofmine99]

꣑ৎ　────　summertime !

♡ tags / warnings — Soft domestic fluff, beach day, warm melancholy, fatherhood, slow-burn romance, mutual pining, found family energy

♡ — Patrick Zweig is learning how to be a father—quietly, gently, and imperfectly. On his daughter’s first beach day, you tag along: the friend, the co-parent figure, the one who’s been beside him through every messy, beautiful moment. As sand sticks to juice boxes and the tide rolls in, you watch him become the man he never thought he could be—warm, steady, and heartbreakingly good.

♡ taglist — @pittsick @nozhdyved @forgetmenotnympho @lov3lylxvender @museboos

♡ notes — very..very very very late Father’s Day post ?.. lol..🫡

It was her first time seeing the ocean.

Not in books or on the tablet or in the background of lullaby videos you played when she wouldn’t sleep but real, shimmering, loud and endless. The waves crashed and retreated like they were trying to pull her name back out of the world.

Patrick held her hand tighter, just for a second, before she pulled forward, stumbling on chunky toddler legs toward the wet, glittering stretch of sand.

“She’s gonna eat it,” you warned with a smile, squinting behind your sunglasses.

“She’s already got a handful,” he sighed.

Indeed, in her tiny clenched fist, was a proud scoop of gritty beige sand, which she triumphantly brought to her open mouth like it was a gourmet snack.

Patrick knelt with a groan—dad knees—and gently caught her wrist.

“Nope. No eating the beach today, sweetheart,” he said softly, brushing her curls back with a sandy knuckle. “That’s a one-star meal.”

She pouted. Looked up at him like he was the one who ruined her whole afternoon.

He was so gentle, you thought. And tired, in a way that ran deep beneath his tan and his lean build and the way his board shorts clung to still-tennis-strong thighs. He hadn’t played in over a year, but you could still see it in his stance. His quiet readiness. The ghost of control.

But today, he wasn’t a star, or a player, or a legend.

He was just a dad.

Your… friend? Co-parenting partner? Something soft and strange between the lines? You weren’t even sure what you both were to each other.

And God, was he beautiful when he smiled at his daughter like that.

You laid out the blanket as Patrick settled his daughter down beside you, and she immediately began piling sand onto your legs like you were the base of her future kingdom.

“She’s going to bury you,” he warned.

“She’s making me part of the beach. It’s spiritual,” you said. He chuckled low and warm, then sat beside you, legs stretched out toward the sun.

For a moment, it was just quiet. The kind that fills your chest in the middle of July. when there’s no rush, no plan, no performance to keep up.

You reached into the cooler and handed him a juice box. “Thanks,” he said, grinning. “Nothing like warm apple juice from a foil pouch to really say vacation.”

He leaned back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sun, eyes closed.

His daughter babbled to herself, dropping handfuls of wet sand onto your shins, singing a made-up song. A gull called overhead. The breeze tugged at your hair.

“You’ve gotten good at this,” you said quietly.

“At… drinking juice?”

“At being a dad.”

He didn’t open his eyes right away. When he did, they looked golden in the light.

“I’m trying,” he said. “Some days I feel like I’m just guessing. But she smiles. She sleeps. She sings that weird song about her toes. So I guess I’m doing okay.”

“You’re doing better than okay.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And something passed between you—tender, wordless, slow.

After lunch (sand-covered sandwiches, half-eaten grapes, juice spilled in the bag), his daughter crashed, mid-sentence, curled up on his bare chest under the shade of the beach umbrella.

You sat beside him, your book forgotten in your lap. “You can nap too, if you want,” you whispered.

He shook his head gently. “Can’t. Not when she’s like this. She sleeps better if I hum.”

“You sing to her?” you asked, smiling.

“She doesn’t care that I’m off-key.”

You watched the rise and fall of her tiny back against him. The way Patrick’s hand never stopped moving. stroking her hair, tracing her shoulder blade. His face was soft. Quiet.

You didn’t know you could ache like this—for something that wasn’t yours, but almost was.

He spoke again, low. “You ever think this could’ve been different?”

“What?”

“Us.”

You blinked. Patrick wasn’t looking at you, just at the sea. Voice steady. Like it was just a breeze, this question.

“You and me. If we’d met before. If I wasn’t already—y’know. Someone with… history. With a kid. With all this shit.”

You swallowed. Carefully.

“I think…” You reached over, brushed a grain of sand off his shoulder. “I think you’re exactly who I would’ve wanted.” You murmured and He finally looked at you. “But it’s not before,” you added. “It’s now. And you’re here. And she’s perfect. So…”

Patrick’s throat moved as he swallowed, eyes still on yours. You didn’t kiss. But it felt like you had. You stayed until the sky turned gold.

Patrick carried his daughter back to the car, her head heavy on his shoulder, her curls stuck with salt and dreams. You walked beside him, fingers brushing once. Twice. On the third time, he took your hand.

And didn’t let go.

[loverofmine99]

with the recent uptick in immature, vitriolic, and bigoted asks being sent out to blog users in challengersblr, i want to make something abundantly clear:

if you are the kind of person to be sending these sorts of things to individuals, especially the lovely ones in this niche corner of the internet who provide you with incredible free writing (whom i’ve had the pleasure of getting to know), you are not welcome on my blog.

i don’t want you interacting with my posts; i don’t want to interact with you. i’m going to naturally assume that you are either not an adult, a childish and miserable one if you are, or someone who’s just generally incapable of understanding when it’s better to just move on with your own life instead of choosing to stir up another’s.

if being kind takes more energy out of you than being mean does, and you opt for the latter, that is a you problem.

don’t make it everyone else’s.

[loverofmine99]

was going to maybe try to watch a new movie tonight but i feel josh’s romeo and juliet calling to me like the green goblin mask

[loverofmine99]

Every-time you stumble upon a blog which says MDNI or 18+ it as much for the sanity of the person posting, as it is for protecting users younger than that. Which well-adjusted adult wouldn’t feel disgusted talking about sex to a child? Do you think those feelings of disgust and guilt disappears because we are online?

I’m not going to preach about why it’s dangerous for minors to be in these spaces. Kids shouldn’t be engaging with adults who explicitly talk about sex because it will change how they view the act. And in all fairness, if you’re a minor who remains in mdni places, I know nothing I could say would change your mind.

Now that being said, being MDNI is my boundary. You may think it’s okay to stay here because you feel like you have the maturity to do so, but I do not feel comfortable with it. It feels as much of an intrusion to me as taking my diary and reading it through, because I post here with the trust and assumption that everyone is an adult. Any blog who is MDNI is posting with that trust, which you’re then taking and abusing. The autonomy of posting is taken away without us ever realizing, and in these few moments where the truth comes through, it leaves us feeling awful. We are the ones stuck with that guilt and hurt.

At the end of the day, I don’t care if you think you’re mature enough to be here. I’m sorry, I really don’t, but I care to know I am able to express my terms safely and on my terms. The presence of minors ruin that alone.

[loverofmine99]

Here are little red cards for anyone living in the US that you can print out and keep, that list out all your rights incase you ever came in contact with an immigration agent.

30+ languages for anyone and everyone who needs it. Know your rights!

[loverofmine99]

ik i just run a tumblr smut page BUT!!!

FUCK ICE, free palestine, free congo, FUCK trump, FUCK musk, no one is illegal on stolen land, and if u disagree, FUCK YOU TOO!!!

i’ve said this before but if u support that fuckass orange in office, idc if ur a silent follower or ur like is ur only form of interacting with me, just know, i don’t want it!!! and u are a terrible person!!! 😛

[loverofmine99]

ROMEO & JULIET (2021) dir. Simon Godwin

[loverofmine99]

Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.

Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.

Romeo & Juliet (2021) dir. Simon Godwin

[loverofmine99]

Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.

Josh O’Connor as Romeo Montague in ROMEO & JULIET (2021) dir. Simon Godwin

[loverofmine99]

just a silly little confession- i’m training to be a pilates instructor and grippy socks are required in the studios so no one slips and falls off the machines and so while shopping for new grippy socks today i saw these and just had to get them because they reminded me of art & patrick 😋 💙❤️

[loverofmine99]

[loverofmine99]

TACO BELL.

The sour reek of beef and grease seeps into the fabric of the car, clinging to the seatbelt, the dashboard, his fingers. Patrick chews like it's a punishment, like maybe if he bites hard enough, he can grind the memories down to nothing. But it’s all there—the sauce, the salt, the same thin napkins that used to stick to the inside of Art’s wrist when they were seventeen and stoned and brilliant.

He tears open a packet of Fire sauce with his teeth and lets it scorch his tongue, because pain is honest. Because the Taco Bell bag in his lap crinkles just like the one that sat between them that night, hotel room lit by bedside lamp and laughter, and her silhouette in the doorway like a goddamn tennis trophy come to life.

She had tasted like beer foam and bubblegum lip balm. He remembers that. He remembers Art’s mouth too—tentative, surprised. Like Patrick had dared him and he’d said yes without knowing he’d never stop saying yes until it was too late.

He presses his head against the cold window. Outside, a streetlamp flickers. Inside, wrappers rustle. Tashi had never liked Taco Bell. But she ate it anyway, because they did. Because everything that mattered was passed hand-to-hand in that room: beer, a blunt, a mouth, a dare.

He won that match. Got her number. Got her body. Lost everything else.

The wrappers rustle again when he shifts, knees pulled to his chest in the driver’s seat of a car that used to be clean. That used to smell like leather polish and lavender sachets, back when his nanny still packed his tennis bag and wiped his forehead with a monogrammed towel. Back when his biggest concern was whether the fish fork went to the left or right of the plate, not where he’d park for the night without getting towed.

Once, at six, he spilled ketchup on a linen napkin and cried for an hour. Now there are cheese stains on the ceiling of his CR-V and a family of ants living in the folds of the backseat. His nanny would faint. His mother would be disgusted. Patrick thinks, if he saw himself from the outside, he’d be disgusted too.

But he’s not outside. He’s here. In this hollow, sauce-slick purgatory. And in here, it all loops. The hotel room. The dorm fight. The match he didn’t show up to. The scream that broke something clean in his chest.

He can still feel it: Tashi’s voice cracking as she shouted at him to leave. And then Art—Art, who had always been softer, slower to choose, slower to cut—"Patrick, get the fuck out."

That had done it. That had finished the ruin. The Taco Bell he ate that night stayed down like gravel.

He’d walked to the nearest one after storming out of her dorm, cigarette lit with shaking fingers, needing a taste of something that used to mean safety. Something that meant the three of them. And then she tore her knee, or her Achilles, or whatever it was that ended her the first time, and Patrick wasn’t there. Not on the sidelines. Not where he should’ve been. He was in the parking lot, biting into a chalupa, thinking about the way Art used to hum when he chewed.

He hadn’t known, then, that those little noises were the last symphony of affection he’d ever get.

Now, in 2019, it’s all wrappers. The CR-V is a tomb. Tashi’s old scrunchie is looped around the rearview mirror. Art’s hoodie still lives under the passenger seat, stiff with time and salt and maybe tears.

He eats Taco Bell because it’s $5 and open late. Because it’s a habit. Because sometimes the pain hits right behind his molars, like memory. Because this is the only altar he has left.

The sauce packet in his hand reads: "Will you marry me?"

He laughs so hard, he almost chokes. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and keeps eating.

He’d forgotten how funny Art could be when he was high. Always whispering things into Patrick’s ear that weren’t jokes until they both started laughing. Always pushing one foot under the table to tap his ankle, to test him. In those days—those Mark Rebellato days—everything was a test. How long could they go before a coach noticed the smell of weed on their clothes? How far could Patrick press before Art pushed back? How much could he give without calling it love?

The first time they went to Taco Bell was after a night match. They were fifteen. Patrick was leaner then, mouthier. Art still had baby fat in his cheeks and the most pathetic tolerance for weed. Patrick had dragged him behind the dorms and lit a joint with a shaky Bic, and Art had coughed so hard he cried.

They’d walked two miles to a Taco Bell with one working light in the sign. Patrick ordered for both of them. Art didn’t know what to get. Patrick chose the Crunchwrap, obviously. And cinnamon twists. Always cinnamon twists.

Art had said he didn’t like them. Patrick told him he was wrong. The next night, Art bought his own. But he never got the quesadilla.

Too spicy, he said. The chipotle sauce made his nose run. So Patrick, grinning, started ordering him cheesy roll-ups instead—kid food, barely melted cheese in a tortilla—but Art loved them. Claimed they were better than sex. Patrick never said what he thought about that.

There were so many nights like that. Passed soda cups and shared trays, knees knocking under plastic booths, grease shining on their lips that hadn’t kissed yet. Not properly. Not until Tashi.

But the truth is, Patrick had loved Art long before that hotel room. Long before that match. He just hadn’t known what to call it.

Now, he calls it hunger.

He shifts again, lets the seat creak beneath him. He knows he should move to the back, stretch out, try to get what passes for sleep these days. But he hates the silence. Hates the dark. Hates the way the wrappers sound like voices when they crinkle—like the echoes of nights he can’t crawl back into.

Still, gas costs money. He can’t let the car run. Can’t leave the radio on. The cold settles in, sticky and slow.

Patrick twists, awkwardly folding himself into the backseat. It’s too small. It always has been. His knees press into the door, his spine curves wrong, but he doesn’t care. He reaches beneath the seat and pulls out Art’s old hoodie. Uses it as a pillow.

On his wrist, Tashi’s scrunchie digs into his skin. He doesn’t take it off.

The wrappers crackle softly when he exhales.

He hates Taco Bell.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream

[loverofmine99]

happy birthday to josh o'connor who I unknowingly first encountered 12 years ago for his 30 seconds of screen time in doctor who where he died immediately ❤️

[loverofmine99]

it should be illegal to look this I good i think

[loverofmine99]

Sending all my love to Josh O’Connor

[loverofmine99]

CAMP COUNSELOR!PATRICK HEADCANONS

warnings: semi-explicit sexual content (dry humping, clothed orgasms, grinding, heavy making out, public risk of being caught), sexual tension in a workplace/camp setting, emotionally intense relationship, themes of longing, emotional repression, fear of abandonment, bittersweet separation, post-summer heartbreak, crying during/after intimacy, and unresolved romantic angst.

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @bambiangels, @pittsick, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

notes: hi lovelies! if you’d like to see more of camp counselor!patrick, i’ve created a c.ai bot of him (which actually inspired the making of these headcanons, fun fact). you can talk to him here :)

⟡ patrick kissed you for the first time in the craft shed, mid-storm, with your walkies hissing static in the background and the kids finally asleep in their sleeping bags like fragile bombs. it was supposed to be a quick, stupid thing—just to get the tension out. you grabbed his shirt. he pressed you against the wall like he’d been waiting weeks for permission. his hands didn’t even move at first, just held your face like he needed to memorize it. you kissed like you hated each other for how badly you wanted it. and when he pulled back, breathing hard, he whispered “you’re killin’ me, you know that?” and you hated how soft it made you feel. like maybe you wanted to kill him. or maybe you didn’t want anyone else touching you like that ever again.

⟡ you never fully fuck. the risk is too high. the kids are too close. your jobs matter too much. but that just makes everything worse—or maybe better. it’s all breathless makeouts in dark corners of the mess hall. his hand up your camp shirt during movie night in the rec lodge. dry humping behind the canoe racks while you’re both supposed to be organizing life jackets. he gets off on how quiet you try to be—his hand over your mouth, his teeth grazing your shoulder, both of you rocking together in the dark like you might combust if you stopped. sometimes you come just from grinding, from the thick press of him between your legs and the frantic rhythm and the way he tells you “fuck, you’re shaking—i’ve got you, you’re okay, keep going.” it’s obscene how good he is at making it feel like enough.

⟡ patrick isn’t supposed to like you. not someone who lives by laminated schedules and has a spreadsheet for sunscreen reapplication. but god, he’s addicted to you. you make the whole camp run like a machine and still find time to tie friendship bracelets with your girls before bed, or sneak extra marshmallows to the picky eater in your cabin. he watches you from across the field like a boy in love with the sun. sits with his first-graders during campfire night but only half-listens, eyes flicking to you as you shush your cabin, tuck stray curls behind your ears, bite your lip when someone sings off-key. you’re so put-together. so in control. and he wants to ruin that. wants to hear your breath hitch when he kisses your neck behind the arts building. wants to see your clipboard hit the ground because his hand’s down your shorts again. wants you to lose control—for him.

⟡ it starts as lust. of course it does. you roll your eyes at his jokes and mutter under your breath when he’s late to flagpole duty again—but every argument ends with him leaning in too close, smirking like he knows. and maybe he does. the way you start lingering near his cabin at night. the way you wear his hoodie one day “by accident” and don’t give it back. but somewhere between shared debriefs and early-morning setup shifts, it shifts. he starts bringing you snacks. starts leaving notes in your fanny pack like: you forgot your smile. i found it. -p or i stole you a popsicle. come find me. and you do. every time. it’s not just adrenaline anymore. it’s affection. familiarity. you start to know each other’s footsteps. moods. soft spots. he lets you see his softness without irony. and that terrifies you.

⟡ the campers love him. of course they do. he’s barefoot half the time, sunburned, trailing kids like a one-man parade. makes fart jokes. pretends to be a swamp monster. teaches them how to fish using gummy worms. they call him “coach p” even though you don’t have sports teams. and you hate how good he is at this. how easily he connects. how quickly kids go from sobbing to giggling with one dumb face or story. you run a tighter ship. you enforce quiet hours, give the best hugs, braid hair and bandage knees and write postcards to homesick girls so they feel like they matter. you’re the safe one. he’s the fun one. opposites. and somehow, it works. he teases you about being the “camp mom,” but you catch him watching you across the playground like he’s already imagining you holding his kid one day. he doesn’t say that out loud. but you feel it.

⟡ after lights out, he sneaks into your cabin through the back. not every night. but enough that you start sleeping on the left side of the cot automatically. you kiss with the urgency of people who might get caught. thighs tangled. teeth clashing. breath stolen in pieces. sometimes he just lays there, hand under your shirt, fingers slow on your ribs like he’s trying to map you. he talks softer here. asks about your family. your old job. why you came to camp in the first place. “what are you running from?” he asks once, into your shoulder. you pretend you didn’t hear him. you’re not ready to answer that. and he doesn’t push. just kisses the curve of your neck and pulls you closer.

⟡ dry humping with him isn’t a compromise. it’s a sickness. you’re both fully clothed, rutting against each other like desperate teenagers—panting, whispering, biting back moans in the dark. he grinds down hard, cock thick and leaking through his boxers, and you clutch at him like it hurts to be touched. your thighs get sticky. your shirt gets pulled halfway up. sometimes you come in your underwear with him barely touching you—just from how intense he gets. how he presses his forehead to yours and murmurs “you’re so wet like this—jesus, baby, you gonna come for me just like that?” and you do. and you can’t even feel embarrassed, because he’s coming too, hips jerking, cock twitching against your thigh like he’s been aching for you all day. because he has.

⟡ sometimes, after cleanup duty, he corners you in the kitchen. flicks off the light. lifts you onto the counter and stands between your knees like he owns the space. kisses you so slowly it almost hurts. tongue sliding lazy and wet against yours. hands tracing the shape of your waist like he’s not in a rush for once. “you’re the only reason i get through the day sometimes,” he admits into your mouth. and you don’t know how to answer. so you just pull him closer. and kiss him like you believe it.

⟡ the sneaking around gets easier. muscle memory. you both know which counselors leave which patrols and when. which spots stay dark the longest. you pass each other little smirks during meals, casual touches that mean meet me later. and it’s exciting. addicting. it feels like a secret universe just for the two of you—where your rules don’t apply and his bad habits don’t scare you and everything in the world stops mattering for a little while. until the sun comes up. until the whistles blow. until you’re back in your polos, pretending nothing happened, pretending you don’t miss his weight behind you.

⟡ patrick makes you laugh in the middle of moments you’re trying to be serious. mid-counselor meeting while you’re trying to propose a new bug spray schedule, he leans over and whispers “you’ve got a power complex and i support it.” you shove him. he grins like a child. but later, he shows up to your bug spray training and helps the kids fill out their logs. even makes a joke about mosquitos being “nature’s way of checking if you’re paying attention.” he teases you like you’re a joke. but treats you like a miracle. you hate it. you love it. you don’t know which is worse.

⟡ one night, you’re both out late walking a homesick camper back to their bunk. the kid holds your hand. patrick holds a flashlight. and when the kid falls asleep, curled between their stuffed animal and your knee, you both sit there. in silence. until patrick says, “i think i could do this. like—this. forever.” and you look at him. really look. not the barefoot troublemaker or the secret hookup or the guy who knows how to kiss your neck just right. just him. raw. tired. maybe a little afraid. “me too,” you whisper. and it feels dangerous. it feels real. it feels like the kind of thing you don’t come back from.

⟡ patrick never wears shoes. like, ever. he says it’s a “grounding practice,” but you’re 90% sure he just hates laces. his feet are perpetually dirty, half-burnt from the blacktop, always scratched up from god knows what—sticks, rocks, one infamous lego in the arts cabin. you make fun of him for it constantly. he calls you “foot-shamer general” and bows dramatically whenever you scold him. but then he gets a splinter and limps around for half a day and you end up crouched in the nurse’s station, tweezers in hand, while he pouts and calls you “florence fuckin’ nightingale.” you don’t smile. not out loud. but when you rub ointment into his arch, he exhales like your hands are made of fire.

⟡ patrick is always snacking. like constantly. he’s the kind of guy who has sunflower seed shells in every pocket, and a crushed granola bar melted into the lining of his backpack. once you caught him eating an entire packet of mini Oreos behind the cabins at 9am. when you stared at him, horrified, he just grinned and said, “i’m on the patrick plan: five meals, two breakdowns, and a little sugar every hour.” and it would be ridiculous—should be ridiculous—but then he starts bringing you snacks. peanut butter crackers when you skip lunch. little cups of gatorade when you look tired. he never says why. just hands it to you and walks away.

⟡ you’ve never seen anyone make kids laugh like he does. he’ll trip over a tree root, fall into a mud puddle, and still turn it into a game. his group is always in chaos—missing shoes, crooked name tags, one kid trying to eat a bug—but they worship him. like he hung the moon. and it drives you insane. because he lets them get away with everything. but he also remembers all their birthdays. carries bug spray for the ones with sensitive skin. draws secret tattoos on their wrists with marker so they can feel brave during nature hikes. you can’t even hate him for it. because he’s good. stupidly good. in a way that makes you ache.

⟡ you both learn each other’s bodies like a survival skill. where he likes to be scratched. the spot on your inner thigh that makes your hips twitch. how to kiss without leaving marks. how to slide hands under shirts without rustling too much fabric. he knows how to undo your bra with one hand. you know how to straddle his lap without messing up your bunk. he’s a master at unbuttoning your shorts just enough to slip his hand in, fingers warm and rough and so good while he kisses you slow and deep like there’s no one else on the planet. and when you come, gasping into his neck, he holds you there. murmurs your name like it’s something precious.

⟡ sometimes, when you’re doing head counts, he’ll sneak up behind you and whisper the wrong number just to mess with you. “twenty-four, baby. we lost one. check the lake.” you threaten to kill him. every time. but he’s already laughing, ducking away, and god—god—you love him. even when you hate him. maybe especially when you hate him. it’s easier than saying the real thing. than admitting it’s not just a fling. not just camp hormones. it’s him. it’s always him.

⟡ on a hot july night, the two of you end up swimming in the lake after hours. no lights. no one watching. just skin on skin and silence. you float on your back. he watches you like you’re something rare. precious. “you ever think about next year?” he asks. and you hate the question. because of course you have. and of course you haven’t. and everything feels too fragile to say out loud. so you just splash water in his face and tell him to race you to the dock. he lets you win. barely.

⟡ he knows when you’re stressed. doesn’t ask. doesn’t prod. just finds you. hands you a popsicle. leads you to the dock. doesn’t say a word until your breathing slows. then he leans in and says something so stupid—so insufferably funny—you end up wheezing. head in your hands. tears in your eyes. and he’s just sitting there watching you, face soft with something dangerous. something that sounds a lot like forever.

⟡ there’s a spot behind the camp kitchen where the staff sometimes sneak cigarettes. you don’t smoke. he does. but you start meeting him there anyway. sometimes he just presses you into the wall, kisses you until your lips are raw. sometimes he just talks. tells you stories about foster homes, old bands he used to love, that one time he thought he could live in his car. you listen. every time. and when he exhales smoke into the air and mutters “i don’t think i’ve ever felt safe like this,” you don’t say anything. you just hold his hand. and hope it’s enough.

⟡ patrick’s hoodie smells like sunscreen and grass and cedarwood soap. you wear it more than he does. he pretends not to notice. but one night, you give it back. folded. clean. and he looks at you like you just ended something. you can’t explain why it hurts so much. but later, when he shows up at your cabin, he’s wearing it. and when he kisses you, it’s deeper than usual. slower. like he’s begging you not to leave first.

⟡ the kids figure it out way before either of you admit anything. it starts small. one of your campers catches you smiling at patrick during breakfast lineup and immediately starts whispering about it like it’s breaking news. another swears they saw him looking at you during talent show night with “googly eyes.” suddenly there are questions. “do you like coach p?” “do you think he likes you back?” “if you got married would we get invited??” you deny it. every time. cool. calm. collected. until one of the boys from his cabin asks patrick, dead serious: “if you kiss miss [your name], do you have to sign a form or something?” and he chokes on his juice box.

⟡ your campers start acting weird about it. suddenly you’re being paired with him for every buddy activity. he’s always the first one they vote to sit with you during meals. one of the girls makes a beaded necklace with both your initials and gives it to you, just beaming. “it’s for luck.” you wear it under your shirt. patrick finds it later when he’s got his hands up your back, and you feel him stop. go still. “this mine?” he murmurs. and when you nod, he presses his mouth to your collarbone like a thank you.

⟡ the final week is crushing. your schedule’s full of extra activities and farewell events and everyone’s overtired and overstimulated—but it’s not just exhaustion. it’s grief. because every day is a countdown now. every shared glance with patrick. every lunch tray passed. every secret kiss behind the maintenance shed. every time he passes you the walkie with his fingers brushing yours. it’s all starting to feel like goodbye.

⟡ you and patrick start holding onto each other longer at night. not talking. not even kissing sometimes. just curled up together in your bunk, breathing in sync. he strokes your spine with the back of his fingers and whispers things you’re not sure you’re meant to hear. “wish i met you earlier.” “you feel like home, you know that?” and worst of all: “you think we’ll be like…okay, after?” you don’t answer. you just bury your face in his neck. pretend time doesn’t exist.

⟡ the last night of camp, your kids do skits and cry and give each other bracelets and someone plays “riptide” on ukulele again even though no one asked. patrick’s sitting on the bench behind your group, legs spread, arms around two of his boys who are both pretending they’re not crying. you catch his eye. he mouths: “you okay?” and it breaks you. because no. you���re not. but you nod anyway.

⟡ you sneak away after lights-out. meet him down by the docks. it’s chilly. the lake’s glass. he’s already sitting at the edge, feet in the water, hoodie up, face unreadable. when you sit beside him, he doesn’t say anything. just leans over, head on your shoulder. “can we not talk?” he asks. “just…be here?” and you stay there until sunrise. neither of you say a word.

⟡ the kids give you goodbye letters. glitter pens. tissue flowers. one of them writes “i hope you and coach p get married. he looks at you like my dad looks at my mom in old photos.” you read it in the storage closet. alone. and cry so hard you choke.

⟡ patrick doesn’t do goodbyes well. he makes jokes. high-fives. spins a camper over his shoulder and calls it a “final swirl.” but you can tell he’s unraveling. later, after dinner, he corners you behind the lodge. “i don’t know how to not see you tomorrow,” he says. voice thin. “i don’t know how to wake up and not look for your dumb clipboard and your ponytail and your bossy little voice telling me to shut up and act right.” and you kiss him before he can finish. slow. quiet. ruined.

⟡ the morning everyone leaves, it’s chaos. suitcases. hugs. snot. sobbing campers. last photos. your hands are shaking. his too. he loads up the last van, then just…stands there. doesn’t even look at you at first. just wipes his mouth like he’s trying to pull it together. “don’t forget me,” he says. and it’s not fair. it’s not fair. because you won’t. not in a million years.

⟡ after the buses are gone, you find something in your cubby. it’s his bandana. the red one he always wore tied around his neck or arm or forehead like a cartoon cowboy. it smells like cedar and lake water and sweat. there’s a note with it. not long. just:

for the next time you miss me more than you should.

—p.

⟡ the first week after camp, everything hurts. you fold laundry like you’re in mourning. you smell sunscreen and feel your stomach turn. you walk past a lake and almost cry. you check your phone and feel sick with how much you want his name to light up the screen. he texts you two days later: “Yo! My new job has air conditioning. It’s unnatural. Also I miss you. A lot. :( I’ll send gummy worms if you say it back.” you don’t answer for a while. then: “miss you more. send two packs.”

⟡ he does. in a padded envelope. no note. just worms. and you hold them to your chest like they’re flowers. like a promise. like a maybe.