Cameron’s nostrils flare.
“You don’t know,” he repeats, voice rising. “You don’t know.”
I try again—slow, calm, palms open. “Cam. I’m not making promises I can’t keep. I’m trying to?—”
He doesn’t let me finish.
Maybe he can’t. Maybe his grief is too big, and he needs somewhere to put it, and I’m standing right here with my face and my history and my timing that couldn’t be worse if I tried.
Cameron’s fist comes fast.
I see it, but I don’t move.
It’s not because I’m brave. It’s because I deserve it.
The punch lands on my cheekbone—solid, sharp impact that snaps my head to the side and lights my face up with heat.
My vision spots for half a second.
I taste copper.
I blink once, steadying on the driveway, breath coming out hard.
Cameron stands there with his fist clenched, chest heaving like he ran a mile in two seconds.
His eyes are wild.
And then, for the briefest moment, he looks horrified. Like he can’t believe he actually did it.
But he doesn’t apologize.
He just stares at me like he’s daring me to make him.
I roll my jaw slowly, wincing. My cheek is already throbbing. Great.
I touch my face once, then drop my hand.
“Feel better?” I ask, voice rough but steady.
Cameron’s breath shakes. He swallows hard.
“A little bit, actually,” he says, and the admission sounds like it costs him something. “Yeah.”
I nod once. “Okay.”
The porch light hums above us. Somewhere down the street, a dog barks once and then stops, like even it knows to shut up.
Cameron rubs his hand over the back of his neck, jaw still working. His eyes flick toward the front window, toward Sloane’s room, then back to me.
His voice is lower now. Less explosive.
More dangerous.
“Talk,” he says. “Now. Before I do it again.”
I inhale slowly, forcing the words to come out clean.
“I didn’t ask for that call,” I say quietly.
