She smiled down at her phone, trying to stifle a laugh. I didn’t have to guess who it was. Her mom. The same woman who’d told her not to come home tonight. Camille turned the screen toward me, cheeks flushed.
Mom:Don’t rush home. The kids andI
are having fun.
Camille buried her face against me, giggling into my shirt. “She’s incorrigible.”
I chuckled, pressing my lips to her hair. “Smart woman.”
She swatted my chest lightly but didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned closer, her hand sliding across my ribs to rest over my heart.
Then more messages crossed the screen.
Mom:I’m serious.
Mom:And no, I won’t let Zeke eat cereal
for dinner, stop worrying.
Mom:Have fun. XO.
Camille groaned, burying her face in her hands.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. A real one, the kind that shook through my chest. “Sounds like she’s your biggest wing man.”
“She’s embarrassing,” she mumbled, though her shoulders shook with her own laugh.
“Embarrassing or not,” I said, leaning a little closer, “she’s right.”
The rain kept tapping against the windows, filling the silence that grew between us. She shifted closer, her knee brushing mine, and I could feel her pulse in the air, the push and pull of wanting and holding back.
“This place feels like you,” she said softly.
“Yeah?”
That’s how the night began. Not with nerves or rushing, butwith laughter, trust, and the quiet certainty that something ordinary had turned extraordinary. Two glasses on the coffee table, a single sock left behind in our scramble, curled at the foot of the couch. A small sign that my apartment was ours, even if just for tonight.
Her eyes flicked up at me, wide, searching. And there it was again. The weight of all her hesitations, the careful walls she’d built. I felt it in the way her breath hitched, even as she leaned toward me.
So I didn’t push. I just reached over, brushed a curl back from her cheek, and let my hand linger for a second longer than necessary. “No pressure, Camille. Not tonight. Not ever. ”
Her lips parted, and she whispered, “Okay.” A beat later, she looked at me, her brown eyes solemn. “What if…” I swallowed hard. “What if you don’t like what you see?”
My brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“My body.” The words slipped out before she could stop them, quiet and raw. “The stretch marks. The stomach. The parts of me that don’t look the way they used to.”
My hands found her face, holding her firm but gentle as I led her to meet my eyes. “Camille, I likeyou.All of you. Every curve, every mark, every scar, because they’re you. And I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”
“You’re beautiful,” I said quietly, the words confident and certain. “Not just when you try, not just when you hide in the right clothes. Always. And it drives me crazy that you can’t see it.”
She blinked fast, not knowing what to do with that. “You have to say that,” she whispered. “You’re supposed to say that.”
I shook my head, a small grin tugging at my mouth. “Nope. If I were supposed to, I’d just nod when you talk down about yourself. But I’m not. Because it isn’t true.”
She groaned, covering her face with both hands. “You’re so annoying.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, prying her hands away, brushing my beard against her knuckles before pressing a kiss there. “Annoying enough to keep reminding you until it finally sticks.”
