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Whitney stands. “I’m going to let you boys talk.” There’s a perceptive note in her voice. She squeezes Cameron’s shoulder as she passes, then heads toward the stairs.

Cameron watches her go, his body angled away from me. He doesn’t want to be alone with me.

“Let’s go upstairs, Cam.”

He shakes his head, still not looking at me.

I lean forward, my elbows on my knees. “Cam. I’m not leaving.”

He doesn’t respond.

“You heard me on the phone. I told Gwen I’m where I want to be. I told her I’m not going back. I’m with you, always.”

Cameron’s head drops. Then he stands, slowly, and walks toward the stairs.

I follow him.

Halfway up, he reaches back and pinches the fabric of my sleep pants between his fingers. “Really?”

“Well, it is a classic tartan.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. He likes it.

We reach his bedroom, and he closes the door behind us.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Earlier, when I couldn’t talk— I wasn’t thinking about leaving. I was trying not to cry.”

Cameron turns to face me. His eyes are red, and I realize he’s been crying.

“I thought you were going to choose them,” he says. “I thought you were going to leave me again.”

“No.” I close the distance between us, cradling his face in my hands. “No, Cam. I’m choosing you. I’ll always choose you.”

“But your family⁠—”

“Isn’t really my family. Not anymore. Maybe they never were.” I run my fingers along his jawline. “I’ve spent years away from them—at boarding school, at university. That house isn’t my home. It never was.”

“But you’ll lose everything.”

“I don’t care about the money. I don’t care about the car or the frat or any of it.” I lean my forehead against his. “I care about you. I want to be here with you. That’s all that matters.”

Cameron’s hands come up to grip my wrists. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers. “Together. I’ll help you. My mom will help you. We’ll figure out the tuition and the housing and everything else.”

“I can’t let you do that. I have to take care of this on my own.”

He kisses me then, soft and sweet and full of promise.

He glances down at my tartan pajama pants, then back up at me. “You’re wearing me,” he says, and now he’s grinning.

I groan. “Shut up.”

His grin widens, playful and warm. “Let’s see it again.”

I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my pants and push them down to my knees.

Cameron’s fingers trace the edge of the tattoo. “Still can’t believe you did this,” he murmurs.

“I wanted something permanent.”