Most men want to be the hero in the story. They want my fear to be a problem they solve, not a thing they admit they also have.
Cam’s gaze drops again, and I brace for him to stop there. To retreat. To lock the door on his heart the way he usually does.
But tonight… something in him is different.
Something loosened on that stage. Something unlatched.
“I pushed you away too,” he says.
My breath catches.
“The lawsuit, that wasn’t the first issue I’ve had with women,” he continues, voice low. “Usually they only want to be with me for the attention. Money. Benefits.”
He says it like he’s reciting facts he’s had to memorize for survival.
“And when the shine wears off,” he adds, “I get left behind.”
My chest aches.
Because I know that feeling, just from the other side.
Being wanted for the surface. Dropped when you have needs.
Cam’s fingers curl and uncurl once, like he’s fighting the urge to clench.
“So when things got complicated with you,” he says, “every insecurity I had lit up. I told myself you’d drop me the second the PR stopped being useful.”
I stare at him.
My throat tightens.
“Cam,” I whisper. “I never wanted you for PR.”
He lets out a small, humorless laugh. It’s not bitter. It’s tired.
“I know that now,” he says.
I reach out before I can overthink it. Hesitant. Slow. Like I’m approaching a wild animal that might bolt if I move too fast.
My fingertips land on the back of his hand.
His hand turns under mine, meeting me. Warm skin. Solid. A quiet acceptance.
We shift closer without thinking.
The walls between us feel thinner, like heat dissolving ice.
“I don’t want fear running my life anymore,” I say. My voice steadies as I speak. “Or running us.”
Cam looks at me with something warm and devastating in his eyes.
“Then we stop running,” he says.
It’s so simple it almost makes me laugh.
“We can choose each other?” I whisper. “That seems so easy.”
It feels naive to say it out loud.
