“I’m serious,” he says. “It felt intimate.”
I let out a short laugh. It comes out wrong. Sharp. Defensive. “You think hugging a friend and talking music is intimate?”
“I think it looked like more than that.”
“That’s on you,” I snap, then force myself to slow down. Breathe. “Cam, I wasn’t flirting. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
He shifts beside me, frustration radiating off him. “You forgot I was even there.”
“That’s not true.”
“You didn’t look at me once.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “Because I was working.”
“So was he.”
“Yes,” I say sharply. “Because that’s literally his job.”
The car feels smaller. Hotter.
“Bas is…” Cam hesitates, quieter now. “He’s in your world. He belongs there."
“Is that what this is about?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
I shake my head, already feeling the familiar ache bloom. “Cam, you’re reading meaning into something that doesn’t exist.”
“It exists to me.”
The words drop between us.
I see it immediately. There is nothing I can say to make him understand.
The way his jaw tightens. The way he turns toward the window, reflection hard and distant, like a version of him I don’t recognize.
Silence stretches.
Heavy. Unfinished.
The turn signal clicks. The car slows.
I face forward again, shoulders squaring, my armor sliding back into place.
Neither of us apologizes.
***
The next morning settles into something fragile.
Not peace. Not resolution.
A truce.
Coffee cools untouched on the counter. Both our phones stay face-down like they might explode if we look at them wrong. We move around each other carefully, the way you do with something breakable.
Polite. Functional. Careful.
