That’s the first thing I notice. The weight across my shoulders. The familiar scent that is masculine and clean.
Cam.
A blanket is tucked around me, careful and neat, like Cam didn’t want to wake me. My chest does a small, traitorous flutter.
He came home.
He saw me.
I stay still.
Not because I’m half-asleep, but because I don’t want to test whether the moment will break if I move.
I curl deeper into the blanket, allowing the warmth to spread.
I replay fragments instead. The way he stood at the edge of the stage at my last rehearsal. The way his hand hovered before touching me. The way he stayed.
I catalog these things like evidence, trying to decide if they mean what I want them to mean or if I’m just tired enough to believe.
Somewhere in the kitchen, there’s movement. A cupboard opening. A soft clink of ceramic.
He’s here.
Relief settles into my chest before I can stop it.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
I don’t look at it.
I don’t need to. I know the press is already twisting things. I can imagine the headlines:
Lila Hart falls fast.She doesn’t see patterns.She confuses intensity for care.
I set the phone down and stare at the floor like it might steady me.
I replay our kiss instead.
Cam’s mouth. Cam’s hands. The way he looked at me—steady and unguarded.
But the doubts crawl in anyway. Threading themselves through the silence.
I hear the low grind of the coffee beans. The click of the kettle.
Standing up from the couch, I stretch, and lay the blanket down with extra care.
I step into the kitchen and there he is.
Broad shoulders. T-shirt and jeans. One hand braced on the counter, the other steadying the mug like he needs something solid this morning.
Cam looks tired.
Not just physically. Withdrawn. Like he’s folded himself inward to keep something from spilling out.
He glances up when he senses me. His eyes soften immediately.
“Morning,” he says.
It’s gentle. Careful.
