Cam looks up instantly.
His brows pull together. His posture shifts, subtle but unmistakable. Protective. Alert. Like something in him has keyed in on the fact that I’m not okay.
“What is it?” he asks quietly.
The concern in his voice almost does me in.
I shake my head too fast. Too practiced. “Nothing.”
I pick up my mug so he won’t see my hands shake. The tea has gone lukewarm.
“It's fine,” I add, because apparently one lie isn’t enough.
He doesn’t buy it. I can tell. His gaze stays on me, searching, like he’s trying to find the right place to step without making it worse.
But he doesn’t know what to say.
Cam is a fixer. A protector. He knows how to stand between things and absorb impact.
He doesn’t know how to argue with words that have already rooted themselves inside someone else’s head.
What I want—what I need—is simple and impossible at the same time.
I want him to say,He’s wrong about you.
Cam opens his mouth like he’s about to try. Then closes it again. His jaw tightens. He looks frustrated with himself, with the situation, with the fact that he can’t seem to bridge the gap between us.
The silence stretches.
Cam grabs his keys. “I’m off to practice.”
He hesitates by the door.
Not long. Just long enough for my chest to lift with hope.
He turns back toward me. His mouth opens slightly, like there’s something there. An explanation. A reassurance. A reference to something that would anchor us in reality instead of letting things drift into maybe.
I hold still on the couch. I don’t smile. I don’t prompt.
I wait.
He nods once instead.
Small. Unreadable. Polite in a way that hurts.
“Bye,” he says.
“Bye,” I reply, automatically.
He leaves.
The door clicks shut.
***
I sit on the couch for a while without moving. The smell of his coffee lingering around me.
My blanket is laying over the armrest.
