The call ends.
The kitchen goes dead quiet.
I lower my phone to my lap. I don’t look at Cam.
Neither of us says a word.
My shoulders pull in.
Defensive. Braced.
I look up, sensing the shift. “Cam—”
He cuts me off.
“So which is it?”
His voice is low. Controlled. Worse than yelling.
My brows knit. “What are you talking about?”
“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between us. The air. The headlines. The silence thick enough to choke on. “Hot and cold. Public and private. One foot in, one foot out.”
Disbelief flashes through me. “Are you serious right now?”
“You aren't denying it.”
“Denyingwhat?” I snap. “That I hugged a friend? That I have a job?”
“You’re smiling at other guys and icing me out.”
“I told you already,” I say. My voice shakes despite my effort to steady it. “He’s a songwriter. I did nothing wrong.”
“Funny,” Cam replies, bitterness threading through his voice. “That’s not what it looks like.”
Silence slams down between us.
The kind that isn’t empty. The kind that bruises.
“If you wanted out,” I say, “you could’ve just said so.”
Something dark flickers across his face.
“You’re the one letting your ex and the internet rewrite our story,” he fires back. “I’ve been standing here taking hits while you decide whether I’m worth defending.”
The accusation burns.
“I don’t have to defend myself to you,” I say, heat rising. Old instincts snapping into place.
He nods once. Sharp. Final.
“So much for our 'mutually beneficial partnership'.”
I inhale, pride hardening into something brittle. “Maybe you should go.”
He stares at me for a beat too long. Then nods.
“Then I will.”
