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The wooden dock creaks beneath Charlie’s sneakers as she shifts her weight, her knees drawn up to her chest. Beside her, Siren dangles bare feet over the water, toes skimming the surface like she’s testing a bath. The lake swallows the last of the sunset, staining the ripples copper and violet.
"You ever think about it?" Siren asks suddenly, twisting a strand of damp hair around her finger. The humidity clings to her skin, glistening.
"Think about what?" Charlie flicks a lighter open—closed—open, the flame dancing obediently between her knuckles.
"Us." Siren gestures vaguely at the space between them, the air thick with August’s leftover heat. "Like… are we myths? Pyro girl and the lake monster’s daughter."
Charlie snorts, but the flame gutters. "Pretty shitty myths. No one’s building temples to the chick who keeps burning the church curtains."
Siren kicks water at her, grinning when Charlie yelps. "Speak for yourself. My grandpa says the old timers used to leave whiskey bottles by the shore. For luck."
"Did you drink them?"
"Obviously."
They laugh, shoulders bumping, and Charlie lets the fire go out. The dark feels softer now. Somewhere beyond the reeds, a bullfrog croaks, and Siren’s fingers find hers, cool and sure.
"Still," Siren murmurs, "maybe we’re somebody’s campfire story."
Charlie watches their twined shadows stretch across the dock. "Then let’s make it a good one."
The water sighs against the pilings, agreeing.