Chapter 60 - 8
Chapter 8: Meatloaf, Ghost Gunk, and the Pressure of Being a Fenton
—In which I learn my parents are actual ghost-slaying heroes, dinner is awkward, and Naruto gets deep.
You know that moment in a movie where the heroes sit around a campfire, eating canned beans, making s'mores, and laughing before the final boss battle?
Yeah, that was us. Except our "campfire" was a half-eaten bag of veggie chips, Tucker's glowing tech tablet balanced on a shoebox playing low-fi beats, and Sam low-key judging us both every time we dipped into her organic hummus without asking.
Still, it felt like a campfire moment. The kind where you kind of forget that in less than twelve hours, you'll be trying to do things your body was absolutely not designed for—like pull-ups. Which, by the way, are an abomination against gravity.
We talked for about an hour. Not about ghosts or missions or Naruto's weird flex about toddler bootcamps—seriously, that guy has a messed-up definition of childhood—but about normal stuff. Like what we'd eat if we survived training (spoiler: Tucker voted for chili dogs, Sam threatened to riot), or which Avenger we'd each be (I got Spider-Man, obviously), or what we'd do if one of us actually did gain super strength from this madness.
Tucker said he'd use it to carry all his tech gear without back pain. Sam said she'd smash the patriarchy. I said I'd finally move the couch by myself during vacuuming so my mom would stop calling me weak sauce.
Laughter echoed around the room—real, belly-aching stuff. For a moment, it didn't feel like we were gearing up for a two-month death march toward fitness. It just felt like us. Friends. A little older. A little weirder. A lot more determined.
Eventually, the snacks ran low, the yawns came in, and the playlist looped back to the first song. We all stood, stretched (which, turns out, is just groaning with extra arm movement), and exchanged those sleepy, "see you in the morning unless I die in my sleep" kind of goodbyes.
That's when Sam leaned in and kissed me.
Just like that. No warning. No dramatic slow-mo. Just a quick press of lips to lips—firm, familiar, and definitely better than any hummus.