That’s it.
No explanation. No defense. No attempt to impress me with the effort.
No one has ever paid attention to the quiet things.
I take a sip to hide my reaction.
It tastes like relief.
“Thanks,” I say.
He nods and turns back to the counter, giving me space without saying a word. I notice how careful he is with lines. With distance.
I move to one of the barstools. Slow. Deliberate.
Cam stays on the opposite side of the island.
He pulls out breakfast ingredients. Fruit. Bread. Eggs. Nothing fancy. Nothing performative. "Would you like breakfast?"
I watch him crack eggs with one hand and feel an irrational spike of appreciation, which is annoying because basic competence should not be attractive.
“You don't have to make me breakfast,” I say, lifting the mug again.
“Didn’t seem right to leave you on your own this morning.”
The words land softly.
My throat tightens anyway.
Kindness is dangerous.
He slides a plate toward me. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Fruit.
I eye it suspiciously.
“You cook?” I ask.
“I can follow instructions and not burn things,” he says. “It’s not a personality trait.”
“That’s disappointing. I was hoping for a tragic culinary backstory.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Sorry to let you down.”
The exchange is small.
We eat in silence. Not sharp. Not awkward.
Comfortable.
Cam doesn’t watch me. Doesn’t push conversation. He occupies space like a mountain—solid, steady, not demanding attention.
I can’t remember the last time a man didn’t want something in return for decency.
Cam wants nothing from me.
At least, nothing he’s asking for.
My phone buzzes against the counter, sharp and sudden.
