Page 67 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

I snort, dipping my own brush into a dusty rose that I insisted would “balance the vibe.”

“You said that about thelava lamp.”

“And I stand by it.”

I shake my head and step back, assessing our shared color choices. The left wall is forest green, the right is a warm honey wood, and now this one’s turning into a pastel mash-up of soft mint and pink.

It should be chaos.

But somehow... it works.

Just like us.

I crouch to open a crate of old camp décor, sifting through twinkle lights, enamel mugs, and a faded pennant that readsCamp Lightring 1996.

Jason leans over my shoulder, brushing paint off his fingers onto my arm—on purpose.

“Hey!” I swat at him, grinning.

“You looked too clean,” he says, all innocent.

“You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

Unfortunately, I do.

By mid-afternoon, the place is a gorgeous mess. Paint splatters everywhere, including a pink splotch on Jason’s shoulder in the shape of a questionable heart. We’ve strung the fairy lights—with a ladder, thank god—and hung two mismatched tapestries to frame the bed.

We eat sandwiches on the floor, our knees knocking occasionally. I brush glitter off the pillow he’s leaning on.

“This feels... unreal,” I say softly.

Jason nods. “Like summer camp and a Pinterest board had a baby.”

“Exactly.”

We sit in the quiet for a beat.

Then he says, almost too casually, “Julie asked if I’d be open to taking the guidance counselor position next season.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.” He sets the sandwich down on his knee. “Apparently she thinks I’ve got the right instincts for it.”

“Youdo,” I say, without hesitation.

He shrugs, suddenly unsure of himself. “It just… surprised me. People don’t usually look at me and think ‘trusted emotional support entity.’”

My heart squeezes.

“I do,” I say.

He looks at me. Really looks.

And whatever smartass comment was forming on his tongue just melts.

“Yeah?”

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