Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Lila
Istand center stage in the empty theater, adjusting my in-ear while the band runs the opening bars. Manny is near the wings, half-focused on the security feed, half-focused on me.
Normal. Controlled. Quiet.
At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.
The problem is the news cycle doesn’t care about rehearsal schedules.
Rumors about me and Cam broke an hour ago.
A blurry parking-lot video. A headline built entirely out of implication. Pop Icon Seen With NFL Star Amid Scandal. Support or Romance? Inside Lila Hart’s New Relationship.
Nothing official. Nothing confirmed. Just rumor central.
My phone buzzed nonstop until I handed it to Sasha and told her to make it disappear.
I take a breath and start the verse. My voice slides into place, smooth and familiar, like it’s trying to convince my body everything is fine.
For a few seconds, it almost works.
Then the noise starts.
Not from the stage. From the house.
A man’s voice cuts through the empty seats, sharp and loud enough to echo. “You don’t love him!”
The band stumbles. My stomach drops.
I look up.
He’s standing halfway down the aisle. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. No badge. No lanyard. Just jeans, a hoodie, and a look on his face that’s too intense to belong in a rehearsal space.
“You don’t even know him,” he shouts, walking faster now. “I’m perfect for you, Lila.”
Security moves immediately. Manny’s voice snaps through his radio. Two guards break from the wings and head straight for him.
But the man dodges them.
Not well. Not skillfully. Just enough.
He breaks into a run.
Straight toward the stage.
Logic fires in my head like a checklist. He’s unarmed. He’s already being intercepted. He’s not actually a threat.
But my body doesn’t care about logic.
My chest tightens hard and fast, like something clamps down around my lungs. My fingers go numb around the mic. The distance between me and the edge of the stage suddenly feels wrong. Too short. Too exposed.
The man is tackled within seconds. Security has him on the ground, voices firm, controlled. He’s still shouting, words tumbling over each other now, frantic instead of confident.
It’s already over.
My knees still wobble, and I can't seem to take a full breath.
And then Cam is there.
Not rushing. Not calling out. Just stepping into my space with a quiet certainty that makes the air feel different, like something has finally decided to hold.
He positions himself between me and the aisle without looking back, body angled just enough that I don’t have to see anything else if I don’t want to. The theater narrows to the line of his shoulders, the back of his jacket, the solid reality of him occupying space so I don’t have to.
One of his hands lifts like he might reach for me—then stops. Drops back to his side.
“Hey,” he says, voice calm, even. “I’ve got you.”
My legs disagree with the idea of staying upright.
Cam notices before I do. His hand comes to my elbow, not grabbing, not pulling—just there, solid and certain, like a marker my body can orient around.
“Easy,” he says quietly, and somehow that word doesn’t sound like instruction. It sounds like permission.
He guides me down without haste, without spectacle, until I’m sitting on the edge of a stage riser. The wood is cool through my jeans.
My chest is still locked too tight. My breath skims the surface of my lungs like it’s afraid to go deeper.
Cam crouches in front of me.
“Hey,” he says again, softer. “Look at me.”
I try.
My eyes don’t quite cooperate at first. The lights feel too bright, the quiet too loud. Everything seems sharpened at the edges, like the world is overexposed.
“That’s it,” he murmurs when my focus finally lands on his face. “Just here.”
His eyes are steady. Not searching. Not asking questions. Not trying to pull anything out of me. Just present, warm, and unafraid of how long this might take.
I latch onto that steadiness because I don’t have anything else.
I try to match his breathing.
The first breath catches halfway in. The second one stutters.
Cam doesn’t react.
He doesn’t correct me or slow his breathing down theatrically. He just keeps breathing the same way he already was, giving my body something consistent to follow if it wants to.
I hear Manny’s voice somewhere off to the side, low and controlled. The band has stopped playing, but no one rushes the stage. Someone dims the lights a fraction, softening the edges of the space.
No one crowds me. No one asks questions.
Cam's hand settles lightly on my forearm, warm through the fabric of my sleeve. My body responds before my pride can object, leaning subtly into the contact. Relaxing.
“Just breathe,” he says quietly.
This time, the breath goes deeper.
It still shakes on the way out, but it’s real. My lungs finally commit.
“Good,” he says, just once.
My shoulders drop. The roar in my ears fades to a dull hum.
“You’re safe,” Cam says. “He’s gone. Manny’s got it handled.”
I nod once. Small. Careful.
My hands are still trembling, but the shaking is receding now, leaving behind that hollow, overworked feeling that always follows. Like my nervous system ran a marathon.
I become aware, slowly, of how close he is.
Of how much space he’s taking up so I don’t have to.
I hate the weakness in my knees. Hate how familiar this all feels.
I’ve been on bigger stages than this. Louder ones.
I’ve smiled through worse comments hurled from closer distances and told myself it was fine.
I used to be able to handle this.
Doctors call it stress. They give me breathing exercises and hydration plans and tell me to slow down, as if fear only lives in muscles and not in the memories those muscles are guarding.
I should be better by now.
Cam doesn’t say any of that.
He doesn’t ask if I need water. Doesn’t suggest sitting back or standing up. Doesn’t rush me toward recovery like it’s something to complete and move past.
His hand rests lightly on my arm, steady and warm, a reminder of where I am without trying to steer me anywhere else. My breathing evens out fully now, the tight band around my chest loosening one notch at a time.
I notice things again—the low hum of the lights, the faint echo of footsteps somewhere backstage, the clean scent of the stage floor.
I notice him.
His brows soften slightly. His voice drops even lower. “Could happen to anyone,” he says. “It doesn't mean you're broken.”
The words slip past my defenses before I can brace against them.
Not broken.
Not dramatic. Not fragile. Not too much.
Something inside me gives with a quiet, painful snap. This time it isn’t panic clawing its way up. It’s something messier. Less contained.
I blink hard, angry at myself for being this close to tears over a sentence that simple.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
It feels insufficient. Inadequate.
He nods once, like he understands that too. “Anytime.”
I don’t let myself believe it. I’ve learned better.
But I’m tired. Tired of bracing. Tired of pretending my body isn’t keeping score even when my mind insists everything is fine.
Right now, Cam feels like the only person in the room who isn’t waiting for me to pull myself together so they can move on.
My breathing settles completely.
The fog clears.
I don’t realize I’ve leaned forward until my forehead brushes his shoulder.
The contact registers all at once. Too close. Too intimate. My body goes rigid on instinct alone, heat flaring along my skin where it shouldn’t.
The fabric of his shirt is warm beneath my cheek. Solid. Real.
His hand doesn’t move.
He doesn’t flinch or pull away or make it into something I have to explain.
I lift my head slowly, heart thudding again—but differently now. Not fear. Awareness.
His gaze meets mine immediately. No surprise. No judgment. Just recognition. Like he felt the shift too and chose not to interrupt it.
I scoot back at once, the loss of his warmth sharp and immediate. My pulse stutters, irritated by how quickly my body notes the absence.
I straighten, smoothing my hands over my sleeves like I can erase the moment if I press hard enough.
My chest is tight for a different reason now.
I ignore it. After all, my body has already proven unreliable today.