Page 78 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

Idon’t do surprises.

Not because I don’t like them—but because they make me nervous. The planning. The what-ifs. The vulnerability of it all. But tonight? I want to give him something real.

Jason’s spent weeks pouring himself into this camp. Into these kids. Intome.

And for once, I want to be the one who shows up.

So I sneak out right after dinner, clutching my little basket of half-burned tea candles and pilfered supplies from the mess hall. I already got a head start setting up while Jason was wrangling post-talent show cleanup. Hazel helped—her price was three extra s’mores and the promise not to tattle to the kitchen witches.

The dock’s quiet when I arrive. The lake’s like glass, moonlight painting the water in soft silver brushstrokes. The woods hum around me, full of frogsong and crickets and the occasional whoosh of something winged overhead. But it feelssafe.

Our little world.

I lay out the blanket first—Jason’s flannel one, the one he’s claimed as “too manly to be plaid” but always smells like pine and his cologne.

Then the lanterns—tiny floating spheres, enchanted to flicker like fireflies. I borrowed them from the drama shed. Maybe stole. It’s fine.

And finally, the food.

Okay, so it’s not gourmet. But I packed it all myself. Grilled veggie skewers. A thermos of spiced cider. A jar of wild berry jam I got from the camp store and slathered onto still-warm biscuits like an actual domestic woodland creature.

And, of course, a s’mores kit—complete with handmade marshmallows I spentway too longtrying to shape into hearts.

I sit on the end of the dock, fingers twisting nervously in my lap, waiting.

Jason shows up ten minutes later, barefoot and glowing with curiosity. He stops at the tree line, staring.

“Babe?”

I stand, suddenly awkward. “Surprise.”

He walks down the dock slowly, his eyes flicking over the blanket, the food, the candles.

“You did this?”

I nod, heart doing acrobatics in my chest. “I just… wanted to do something for you. Forus.After everything.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second.

Then he smiles. Soft and kind and Jason.

“You trying to make me cry?”

I laugh, suddenly light. “Maybe just a little.”

He drops down onto the blanket beside me and pulls me into a hug. His chin rests on my head.

“This is perfect.”

I breathe him in. “You’ve been doing so much—for the kids, for camp. I wanted to do something that was just for you. Something… slow.”

We settle in, side by side, feet dangling off the dock into the cool lake water.

Jason grabs a biscuit and takes a dramatic bite. “Okay, this is dangerously good.”

“Thank you. I may or may not have bribed the kitchen staff for their secret butter spell.”

His eyes widen. “No wonder it tastes like victory.”

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