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“You’re speaking like a riddle.”

“Good, maybe it’ll make me sound more interesting.”

Unfortunately for me, Theo doesn’t have to try too hard for me to think that. Not lately. My brain used to be filled with studying and not much else. But it’s like it’s built an entirely new room where it sits and writes notes about Theo.

Who even am I?

We listen to music as we drive. Theo hums along to the songs he knows, bobs his heads to the ones he doesn’t. Occasionally he’ll ask “Too hot? Too cold?” and adjust the temperature according to my answer.

When we turn into a graveled lock facing a forest of trees and hills, I say, “This is where we have the back-and-forth where I joke about you killing me and you say if you were going to you would have done it already.”

“Glad we can speed past that conversation.” He keeps driving.

We’re in the shade and darkness of nature for just a few seconds before it opens up to a clearing surrounding a calm, wide lake, barely rippling. The roads here are sturdier, the dirt smooth.

There’re a couple of cars spread out, trunks open and facing the water. Some tents are propped up, and I spot a few people with a tiny fire spread between them.

“We’re going camping?” I ask.

“Day camping,” Theo says, finding a spot away from other people, then reversing. “My dad and I used to come here all the time when he was stressed out at work. In the summer we’d fish; in the fall we’d make s’mores; in the winter we’d build snowmen.”

The thought of chocolate and marshmallows make my mouth water. “Please tell me we’re going to make s’mores.”

He reaches over and unbuckles my belt for me. “Only if you keep that excitement on for the rest of the day.”

I get out and catch Theo’s frown when I beat him to opening my door. I follow him to the trunk and my eyes go wide when I spot all the boxes and equipment stuffed into it. The first thing he takes out is a large, folded camp chair. I watch as he brings it to a designated camping space, even dirt and a direct view of the water.

When he unfolds it, he comes over, places his hands on my shoulders, and leads me to it until I sit.

“Shouldn’t I help you set up?” I ask.

“You’re the one on do-nothing duty,” he says, reaching into his pockets. He removes these small white packets, folds them until they snap, and then places the warmers in my hands. “I’ll set up.”

Seconds later, he reappears and drops a wool blanket over me. “I promise I’m warm,” I say.

“Shush,” he says, and begins unloading his trunk.

Do I feel a little bit bad when he starts heaving over different pieces of equipment—a minute firepit, camping cookware—and begins setting up this half-tent thing behind me? A little. But I’m so cozy and the lack of anything else but the warmth in my hands, and the sight of Theo humming to himself like he’s enjoying the process, makes me stay rooted in place.

When he takes out a small speaker and starts playing light indie music, I close my eyes and take it all in. A couple of days ago I was having a mental breakdown in class trying to remember the answer on a quiz, and now there’s no textbook near me, no bright fluorescent classroom lighting, just the sound of music and wind and Theo’s humming.

It all feels too nice.

I jolt awake, dropping the heating pad in my hands. There’s a second of panic, then I remember where I am. The sun is setting, the mirror of it sinking into the lake, and Theo sits inches beside me on an identical chair reading a thick book.

He turns, catches my eye. “Welcome back.” He reaches down, then hands me a thermos. “Hot chocolate.”

“Thanks.” I take it. Even though I’m wearing the giant gloves Theo gave me, my stomach still flutters when our hands touch. I take a sip, and it’s just sweet enough and still hot enough to burn my bottom lip. I lick it clean. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

“Second time,” Theo says. “Maybe you’re comfortable with me.”

I roll my eyes, then take in all he’s done. Behind us, the half tent blocks some of the harsher winds, and there’s a set of string lights hanging around it. By our feet, the mini firepit hosts a tiny fire on thin sticks, and beside it is a picnic basket.

“I can’t believe you set this all up on your own,” I say.

“It’s easy to do.”

Probably not for other people. Definitely not me. “You said you came here a lot with your dad. Did he teach you?”