I glance at the camera in my hand, still filming, and exhale slowly.
“Trouble in paradise,” I mutter under my breath.
From inside, Tyler snaps back, his voice sharp and tired.
“Yeah, you gave birth to this faggot. And I took just fifty bucks—you’ll live.”
There’s a pause. I hear something heavy thud.
“Then go work for it, you little leech,” she hisses. “Instead of whoring around school for free.”
“Oh, fuck you, Susie,” Tyler spits.
A second later, the trailer door swings open hard enough to rattle on its hinges. Tyler storms out, shoulders tense—then freezes when he spots me standing just outside.
He squints, then scrunches up his face like he’s physically offended.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
I sigh and glance down at my ill-fitting church suit.
“What I wear every Sunday afternoon,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, “You’ve seen me in them plenty of times.”
“Yeah, no shit.” He starts walking toward the gravel path, and I fall into step beside him. “You look like a pastor’s kid. Or the pastor himself.”
“Good,” I shoot back with a smirk. “I’m here to cast out the demons in you.”
He barks out a laugh—loud, sharp, and real. Just like always. And for a second, I feel the heat from earlier dimming off his skin, like the worst of it is melting away.
That laugh of his could do that. Even when the world’s on fire.
“Where are you headed?” I ask, adjusting the angle of my camera as we walk.
“Meeting up with Quinton.” He glances at me, then chews on his lip. “Do I look good?”
I grin and motion for him to walk ahead.
“Go stand in front of me. Let me get a full shot of that look.”
He rolls his eyes but walks a little slower, giving me a lazy spin like he’s on some crooked catwalk. The camera focuses on his outfit—baggy, low-slung jeans and a tight, white Betty Boop crop top that hugs his slim waist and shows off the delicate chain around his neck, his lip gloss catches the sun.
He looks bold. Free. Fierce in a way I admire but could never pull off myself.
Tyler’s always been good at dressing how he feels. Soft, loud, feminine, sharp. Whatever mood he’s in, he wears it like armor.
Me? I stick to what’s simple. Minimal. A good pair of jeans and jorts, soft tees, and hoodies I can bury my hands into. I don’t dress casually to disappear. I just like nice, quiet things. Things that feel like me.
But I do love a good crop tank—tight across the chest, just enough skin showing to feel brave. And makeup, too. Not too much. Mostly mascara and eyeliner. I have long lashes, so it always makes my eyes pop in this soft, sultry kind of way that I secretly like.
The contrast between us has always been loud. But maybe that’s why it works.
“Damn,” I mutter, still filming from behind as he throws a wink over his shoulder. “You’re gonna break that boy’s heart,”
“I hope so,” he grins, flipping me off playfully.
And just like that, the weight from earlier—his mom’s voice, the slurs, the slammed door—feels further away. Not gone. Never really gone. But for now, this moment is ours.
And I want to keep it forever.
