“Ridiculously charming,” I corrected.
“More like ridiculously confident.”
“Same thing,” I shot back, and her laugh filled the cab again, warm and bright in a way that made me want to keep her talking just to hear it. I shook my head, biting back a smile. Her laugh tumbled out, unguarded, the kind that made the heaviness I carried feel lighter for a moment. And as the miles slipped by, the banter slowed, making way for a more intimate moment. She stretched her legs, bare knees brushing the dashboard, her head leaning lightly against the window.
“You know,” she said quietly, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the purse in her lap, voice almost lost under the hum of tires on asphalt, “I feel… different with you.” It was as if the quietness of the cab allowed her thoughts to surface, ones she’d been hesitant to voice. There was a warmth that flooded through me at her admission, a mixture of relief and vulnerability. Her fingers stilled for a moment, a subtle pause that seemed to carry words left unspoken. “Like I can breathe. Like, I don’t have to be everything all at once.”
For a moment, words wouldn’t come. She had seen right through to the part of me I kept hidden, the part that had learned to survive on silence and solitude. I thought about telling her how much I needed this, needed her, even when fear had its hand around my throat. The ache wasn’t just about comfort; it was the kind that made it clear I wasn’t here to drift—I was here to stay.
So I just reached over, laying my hand over hers on the center console. Not pushing. Not holding her tight. Just letting her know I was there. She turned her palm up, threading her fingers through mine like it was the easiestchoice in the world.
The rest of the drive, she alternated between roasting my playlist choices and humming along when I caught her knowing the words. Every time she laughed, the cab of the truck felt a little more like home.
By the time I pulled up to her place, I knew one thing for sure: I was already in too deep. She shifted in the seat, suddenly quiet, her fingers playing with the strap of her purse. I tried to find the right words, something clear enough to make her believe I wasn’t leaving, but they wouldn’t come.
So instead, I killed the engine and turned toward her.
“Thanks for tonight,” she said, voice low but controlled as she smiled softly, eyes searching mine, telling me she wanted to ask what I wasn’t saying. But she didn’t push. She just leaned in and brushed her lips across my cheek, quick and light, a promise she wasn’t ready to put into words.
I cleared my throat, forcing myself to let go of her hand. “Goodnight, Beautiful.” Pressing a kiss to her lips, I felt her smile. As I pulled away, her smile widened, “Goodnight, Hunter.”
Then I watched her walk up the path to her apartment, every part of me wanted to call her back, kiss her one more time, hold onto this night a little longer.
Chapter Fifteen
Camille
The butterflies hadn’t stopped since that kiss and instead followed me as I made the short walk from his truck to my apartment. They were in my chest, my stomach, my fingertips tapping nervously against my jeans. It was ridiculous, really. I was a grown woman, a mother of three, someone who had lived through abandonment and bruises and years of struggle. I had once believed in love fiercely, letting it sweep me up. It was in these moments that made the heartbreak later feel so much sharper. And yet, one kiss had undone me. I thought about his laugh, his blended choice of music, the way he didn’t pull away when I admitted my chaos. He’d kissed me anyway. Maybe even because of it.
By the time I kicked off my shoes and sank into the sagging couch, my cheeks still ached from smiling. And every time I replayed Hunter’s ridiculous impersonation of me ordering fries at a taco stand, laughter bubbled up again. My stomach hurt in the good way that lets you forget, just for a moment,how heavy life can be. But as the laughter faded, joy gave way to a quiet thread of doubt. What if this feeling was as fleeting as the sunset we watched, shadows stretching long over the ache I’d barely stilled? I tried to shake it off, clinging to the happiness a little longer.
I wasn’t ready to say it aloud, not even to myself, but I already missed him. Which was absurd. We’d just parted, his truck easing away as I stood there like a lovesick teenager watching taillights fade. The scent of him still clung to me, blending with the echo of laughter scraping against the hush. But beneath this aching hovered a fear I couldn’t shake… a voice murmuring warnings about opening my heart too quickly. Trust, once broken, is delicate. Even with warmth in my chest, I wondered if exposing too much would leave me defenseless again. I didn’t want to textI miss you already; it felt too raw, too soon. Still, I reached for the thought of her, aching to close the gap between yearning and caution.
My fingers drifted through my playlist until I found it. Taylor Swift’s “Love Story.” Too obvious? Maybe. Too cheesy? Definitely. But honest. That soft guitar intro had kept me company on lonely nights before, back when love was just a pipe dream. Tonight, though, it felt like more than a dream. It felt possible.
I hesitated, thumb hovering over send. My heart raced; my mind screamed too much, too soon.But the part of me that laughed with him over greasy tacos and sticky tables pressed anyway.
The link sent with a soft whoosh.
For a full minute, I stared at the screen, nerves crawling up my spine. Then my phone buzzed.
Hunter:You sending me Romeo and Juliet
stuff now? That’s dangerous.
A jolt of excitement shot up my spine. I couldn’t stop the small, nervous grin tugging at my mouth, heart pounding harder as I tapped out my reply.
Me:OMG, Hush. Just listen.
Hunter:Fine…You’re lucky I like you.
A few minutes later, another reply.
Hunter:Cheesy…but I may be grinning like an idiot.
I thought about how he’d smiled on FaceTime when Avery peeked into the screen, about how he hadn’t flinched when I told him stories of Zeke’s sass or Chloe’s stubborn streak. Instead, he’d leaned in, curious. Like he wanted to know them, too.
That thought gave me butterflies all over again. Still, fear coiled in my chest. Because I knew how it felt when men decided this life was too much. I’d seen the back of the door close before.
