And if I was going to be part of her world, I had to prove I could handle that.
As I started the truck again, the low, insistent rumble was a comforting backdrop to the whirlwind of thoughts racing through my mind. Her scent still clung to my skin, and the ghost of her kiss lingered on my cheek, a gentle reminder of the night we’d shared.
This evening had been more than just a moment; it was a pivotal shift in my world, one that left me both exhilarated and introspective. I realized that Camille trusted me enough to let me in, a type of trust I hadn’t been certain I’d ever have with anyone again. It was as though the walls around myheart had been carefully dismantled, brick by brick, and in their place was new and uncharted but profoundly real.
Driving home, I knew I had to be patient, to prove that I could be part of the world that mattered most to her, the world where she was needed. And despite the uncertainty and the challenges ahead, the feeling that prevailed was worth waiting for, time and again.
ChapterThirty Two
Camille
Two days later, the glow had started to fade, and in its place came nerves.
Not because Hunter had done anything wrong. He hadn’t. He’d texted me, checked in, and made me laugh the way he always did. He’d been reassuring, consistent. Everything I said I wanted.
But that was the problem.
I was waiting for the crack.
History has taught me there was always one. The slow fade of texts. The excuses. The way interest turned into silence. I told myself not to compare, not to drag the ghosts of old relationships into this one, but it was hard to shake the memory of my ex walking out the door and never coming back. Or the others who’d sworn they could handle my life, only to realize it was heavier than they’d bargained for.
So even as I folded laundry, wrangled the twins, and helped Zeke build yet another rocket, the doubts spun in my head like a broken record. I tried to push the thoughts away. Focuson schoolwork. On the kids. On anything but the way my phone buzz made my stomach twist with both excitement and dread.
And when his name did pop up on the screen, I hesitated. Because part of me wanted to answer right away, to lean into the comfort of his voice. But another part wanted to wait just a minute, just long enough to prove to myself that I wasn’t too eager. That I could play it cool.
It was ridiculous. I knew it was ridiculous. But trauma has a way of turning simple things, like texting a man who makes you laugh, into a minefield.
By bedtime that night, I was stretched thin, nerves buzzing under my skin. I kissed Zeke’s curls, tucked the twins in, and lingered at their door as they drifted off. My heart ached with love for them—and fear. Because if Hunter became a fixture in their lives and then walked away, it wouldn’t just be me who was shattered this time.
It would be them too.
Back in my room, I curled under the blanket, phone in hand. His last message blinked on the screen, simple and sweet:
Hunter:How’s your night, beautiful?
My thumb hovered over the keyboard, nerves warring with giddiness and the desire to be honest with him: that my night was messy and loud, that I was scared, that I didn’t know how to trust good things when they showed up.
But instead, I typed back:Long day. Kids are finally down. How’s yours?
Simple. Safe.
His reply came a minute later.
Hunter:Quiet night. Boring without
spaghetti wars.
Me:Trust me, you’d be begging for
boring after two full days of
craziness.
Hunter:Nope. I’d trade boring for
that any day.
My chest squeezed. It was banter, light and teasing, but I could feel the truth under it.
