If there's one thing I've learned about Sinclair in the last two weeks, it's that she has a sixth sense for trouble.

Not the run-away kind—oh no, that would make my life so much easier.

The run toward it with a smile and probably a lighter in her pocket, kind.

Tonight, trouble smells like overripe water balloons, kettle corn, and cheap sunscreen.

Willow Creek's Summer Kickoff is supposed to be wholesome: barbecue smoke rolling over the park, kids with butterfly face paint, dads failing at cornhole, moms guarding folding chairs like territory lines on a map. The cover band on the gazebo is loudly butchering "Africa," and the dunk-tank water looks like it was last changed during the Eisenhower administration.

Idyllic. Picturesque. And a little boring.

Except someone—someone with an infuriating grin and a ponytail that bounces when she's up to no good—has converted it into a war zone.

I spot Sinclair crouched behind the lemonade stand, elbow-deep in a rubber tub of neon balloons like she's shucking ammunition. She's scanning the crowd with sniper focus. Our eyes lock. Instead of freezing like a guilty civilian, she lifts a hot-pink balloon and mouths, Catch me.

Like hell I will.

"Don't even think about it, Sinclair," I call, heading her way.

She pops up, winds back, and nails me square in the chest from twenty feet. The balloon detonates, ice-cold water soaking my shirt and sliding down my spine. The crowd cheers like I just took a pie to the face on live TV.

"That was a warning shot!" she yells.

"That was assault!" I wring out my collar.

"Then haul me into the station, Fireboy."

Old Man Harper hollers, "Yeah, spray her down! For the greater good!"

Mrs. Halloway shouts, "Five bucks says she hits him again before he takes two steps!"

A teenager near the snow-cone cart goes, "I've got twenty on the EMT!"

So that's how it's gonna be. Half the town's already watching, phones out, wallets open.

The problem is, I'd like nothing more than to have her at my mercy. Just... maybe not tangled up in my turnout straps in public.

Before I can retaliate, a wolf pack of teenagers charges past, armed with grocery bags stuffed with balloons. One clips my shoulder and bursts. Sinclair vanishes behind the funnel cake stand like a cartoon villain disappearing in a puff of powdered sugar.

New mission: hunt her down.

I cornered her two minutes later in the alley between the dunk tank and the hot dog truck. She's at a spigot filling balloons, a puddle forming at her boots. She's so focused, she doesn't notice me until my shadow crosses her hands.

"You know," I say, leaning on the fence, "most people buy their fun at these things. You seem determined to manufacture chaos for free."

She looks up, all faux innocence. "Public service. Hydration is important in this heat."

"Hydration," I repeat, eyeing the bucket. "Looks like homicide by latex."

Her grin is pure challenge. "You gonna stop me, Hart?"

"No," I say, stepping closer so only she hears. "I'm going to win."

Her eyes sparkle. "Big talk from a man who still owes me a shirtless whipped-cream calendar photo."

"I thought we agreed it was whipped cream or humiliation."

"I'm a multitasker."

From the next stall, a vendor yells, "Make him wear the T. rex costume!"

Another voice: "Put it on him mid-battle!"

My eye twitches. "You're organizing the crowd now?"

She shrugs. "Found family."

She turns to knot a fresh balloon—and I pickpocket three out of the tub like a raccoon with a moral waiver. A teenager in a referee shirt (absolutely not official) blows a pilfered whistle and yells, "NO RULES!"

I rapid-fire: thwack, thwack, splat. She squeals, slings one back, misses me by an inch, and annihilates a "Kiss the Chef" apron hanging on a grill. The apron sags in slow motion, dripping onto a tray of buns. The grill guy doesn't even blink—just flips a sign to SOGGY DOGS HALF OFF.

We break cover at the same time—me sprinting past the snow cone cart, Sinclair cutting behind a face painting line where a kid with a tiger muzzle hisses at me like I deserve it. I duck behind a cotton candy machine; she pegs the glass dome, and it looks like Blue Raspberry melted.

"Stand and fight!" she taunts.

"Come out and lose!" I fire back.

We both lunge for a stray balloon rolling across the grass. Our hands meet first—warm, slick from water, too aware—and for half a second, her grin flickers into something else. Then she snatches the balloon and smacks it into my chest point-blank.

I stumble backward into a stack of hay bales, soaking and swearing. The teens notice and whoop like they just saw a celebrity trip. One of them—the ringleader in a backward cap—blows a ref's whistle he absolutely should not have and shouts, "Teen Team! Regroup! Operation Soak the Fire Guy!"

"I'll soak you, Captain Fortnite," I mutter, but they've already vanished, leaving grape-purple footprints and the smug echo of a whistle. I pivot to give chase...and realize I've been outflanked.

The teens swarm like mosquitoes, deploying from behind picnic tables and a suspiciously mobile trash can. Sinclair's pelting them on the left; I'm running interference on the right; we're both losing.

We hit the same cover point behind the bounce house, shoulder to shoulder, breathing hard and half-crying with laughter. Through the mesh, toddlers are slow-motion bouncing to the cover band's attempt at "Don't Stop Believin'." Surreal doesn't cover it.

"Truce?" she pants.

"For what, thirty seconds?" I say.

"Long enough to annihilate the youth and restore order," she says, deadly solemn.

"Copy that." I load two in each hand. She mirrors me.

"On my signal."

"Don't call me—"

"Go!"

We burst from cover and flank the teens. Balloons arc. Teens shriek. The crowd starts coaching like this is Friday night lights.

"Left flank, Hart!"

"Duck, Sinclair!"

"Watch the kid with the backpack—he's got a slingshot!"

"Ten bucks says she nails him in the face!"

She almost does—"accidentally," she claims. I'm unconvinced.

We drive them toward the fountain where the mayor is attempting to give his annual "community spirit" speech. His mic squeals. He blinks water off his glasses. The bronze trout statue in the fountain gets force-fed a grape balloon and burps purple.

Old Man Harper has taken a lawn chair on the edge of the fountain and is hucking balloons underhand with the grim determination of a man paying off a grudge from 1982. Mrs. Halloway is collecting money like she's running a telethon. A teenager wheels out a shopping cart as a tank, complete with a cardboard sign: TEEN DIVISION HQ. It immediately tips over in the grass. A small child begins chanting, "Water! War! Water! War!" as if summoning rain.

"Feel good about terrifying minors?" Sinclair asks, breathless.

"Ecstatic," I say. "They started it."

"Maybe your ego did."

"Your mouth definitely did."

Her lips twitch like she's about to say something that will haunt me; instead, she launches a perfect curveball that detonates on the Teen Tank's command center. The crowd roars.

Purple shrapnel rains over the fountain; a rogue grape balloon ricochets off the bronze trout and slaps the mayor's note cards. He sputters into the mic, feedback shrieks, and half the kids chant "SCI-ENCE!" while Old Man Harper wheezes, "Bull's-eye!"

That's all the market needs, three heartbeats later, the kettle corn lady wheelies out her chalkboard like a bookie with buttered fingers and, tongue between teeth, scrawls: HART vs. SINCLAIR — LIVE ODDS. A ring of townsfolk crowds in, cheering every update.

"Two-to-one on Violet!"

"Even money if he uses the hose!"

"Three-to-one they 'accidentally' kiss!"

Nguyen jogs past, dripping and delighted. "Cap, the band says they'll stop playing if we take out the drummer. He's got a balloon stash."

"Negative," I say. "I require the drummer for cover noise."

"Copy." Nguyen salutes with a neon-green balloon and sprints away, because my life is a cartoon.

Sinclair bumps my shoulder with hers. It's casual. It is absolutely not casual. "Ready, Captain?"

"Don't call me—"

"—Captain." She grins—and bolts.

I tear after her around the kettle corn tent and skid to a halt in front of a full teen militia. They've formed a cornhole phalanx boards up like riot shields, and their commander unveils a Super Soaker roughly the size of a trombone.

"Incoming," I warn.

Her eyes go wide as she sees the cannon. "That's a pressure washer with delusions of grandeur."

"Cover me," I say, already ripping a garden hose off a stake. One twist of the spigot and the hose snarls awake; I thumb the end and send a righteous arc over their line while the cover band heroically switches to the Mission: Impossible theme (cowbell included). Teens scatter; the trombone cannon gives a tragic dribble and dies.

"Hydration," Sinclair calls over the spray, deadpan. "Public service."

"Hydration with malicious intent," I shoot back, and let the hose fly one more time for good measure.

We sweep left to right until the teens retreat toward the gazebo, slipping on the flooded grass, squealing, laughing, swearing they'll "get us back at Homecoming." One of them salutes me solemnly. I salute back, equally solemn. We have forged peace through mutually assured dampness.

The barrage thins to pitiful splats, the Super Soaker wheezes its last, and even my hose gives a dramatic sigh—like the battlefield remembered it's a park.

When the last balloon hits its mark and the hose drips to a stop, the park slowly exhales. The kettle corn lady changes the chalkboard to: ROUND 1 WINNERS: PUBLIC SAFETY (barely). The crowd breaks into applause for absolutely no reason except that this town claps when planes land.

Sinclair and I collapse on the grass by the gazebo, soaked and steaming under the string lights. My shirt is glued to me. Her braid is a dark rope down her back, and little rivulets run from her hairline to the hollow of her throat. She's grinning like she just robbed a bank and got away with it.

"I'll admit," she says between breaths, "you have decent aim."

"I'll admit," I say, matching her, "you're terrifying when you're happy."

She snorts. "That explains your face."

We lie there a heartbeat too long, trading our usual barbs, except they're softer around the edges, like we're testing how far we can push without breaking the spell. I catch myself staring at her mouth. She catches me catching myself. The world tilts.

Then a shadow falls across us. Old Man Harper, holding a dripping balloon aloft like a sacrament. "Truce over?" he rasps, and lets it drop—splat—right between us.

Water splashes our cheeks. Everyone within ten yards howls.

"Pay up, Jerry! I told you she'd win!" Mrs. Halloway crows from the chalkboard.

Sinclair laughs and springs to her feet, hand outstretched. I take it. Our palms slide, hold, linger a beat longer than necessary. Electricity, meet denial.

"This isn't over," she says.

"It's never over with you," I reply, standing. "Next time, you're wearing the T. rex costume."

She clutches imaginary pearls. "Not a chance, Hart. If anyone's going Jurassic, it's you."

"Fine. When you lose the Games, I'm scheduling your whipped-cream debut at dawn."

She arches a brow. "Dawn light is flattering. Thank you for caring."

"Don't read kindness where there is none."

"Don't threaten dairy you can't handle."

I'm grinning. She's grinning. Which means. We're a problem.

We start toward the lemonade stand to help clean up, putting on my best "I behave in public" face, when a cold weight sneaks into the back pocket of my station pants.

I turn. She's already three paces away, innocent as a church bell. The pocket squishes ominously.

"Sinclair," I warn.

"What?" she asks, all eyelash and sin.

"Nothing," I say. "Just thinking about how you're going to look in foam."

Her lips curve. "Great. I was thinking the same about you."

We reach the lemonade stand. The vendor thanks us; the kettle corn lady erases the odds and writes INTERMISSION. The cover band switches to "Stand by Me" and somehow makes it sound like "Stand By Meh." Teens sag under picnic tables, wringing out shirts, plotting revenge.

Nguyen appears at my elbow, holding two extra-large lemonades and a Ziploc bag of emergency dry shirts he definitely procured from thin air. "Captain, EMS just stole the mayor's towel to mop the gazebo. Do we intervene?"

"Absolutely not," I say, taking a lemonade. "That towel knew the risks."

He nods, then vanishes. I tip the cup back. It's tart and ice cold, and my brain thanks me in seventeen languages.

Sinclair sidles up, bumping my shoulder with hers. "Truce for cleanup?"

"Thirty minutes," I say. "No offensive operations."

"Define 'offensive.'"

"Anything you do."

She grins. "Copy."

We ferry busted balloon shrapnel to the trash and right overturned chairs. A little girl with a unicorn painted on her forehead solemnly hands me a soggy balloon remnant like a fallen comrade. "Thank you for your service," she whispers.

"Anytime, ma'am," I tell her.

Sinclair watches me tuck the remnant into my pocket and mouths, softie. I mouth back, liar. She winks.

I'm now a dead man.

***

When the mess is mostly contained, we end up back by the fountain, alone for the first time all night. The trout burbles; string lights paint gold bars across her cheekbones. The air has that after-storm feel, charged and cool, like the whole night is holding its breath.

She steps closer and flicks a stray confetti star off my collarbone. Her fingers linger a second longer than they should. "There," she says, voice softer than any wisecrack I've ever heard from her. "Presentable."

My mouth does something traitorous: it wants to kiss her. My hands do something equally reckless: they want to bracket her hips and pull her the last inch.

"Still sure you're winning?" she asks, barely above the fountain's whisper.

"Positive," I say, lower than I planned. "When you lose, I'm setting that shot as my lock screen and the group chat icon."

Her smile slides wickedly. "Guess we'll see if you like the taste of whipped cream as much as you talk about it."

I lean in. She tips her chin up. The world narrows until a balloon hits the trout and pops like a gunshot.

We both jerk, bumping chests, then jump apart like teens caught in a church hallway. From somewhere behind a shrub, a teen giggles and scampers. I'm going to deliver a very stern lecture about appropriate aquatic warfare.

We exhale at the same time and start laughing—helpless, breathless, a little wrecked.

"This town is relentless," she says.

"So are you," I say, and it comes out like a compliment disguised as a complaint.

She looks at me like she heard the compliment anyway.

"See you at drills in the morning?" she asks.

"I'll bring the hose," I say.

"I'll bring bail money," she says.

We turn in opposite directions like that was a plan. I get five steps before I hear the unmistakable squish of the balloon in my back pocket shifting. I reach for it—

SPLAT.

Cold waterfalls down my leg. The crowd—what's left of it—erupts in a final cheer. I close my eyes. Breathe. Open them to find Sinclair looking over her shoulder at me, wearing the smuggest smirk known to mankind.

I point at her. "War."

She points back. "Warm up."

We walk away grinning like fools. And if the kettle corn lady adds ROUND 2 TOMORROW to the chalkboard with a little heart between our names... well. I'll pretend not to see it.

Because it's never over with Violet Sinclair.

And I'm starting to think I don't want it to be.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! 🤞🤞