Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Cam
Itell myself I’m heading to the kitchen.
That’s the excuse I give as I move down the hall, replaying the rehearsal incident like it’s game tape I can’t turn off. The guy who broke toward the stage. Manny and security intercepting him clean. Lila going pale anyway. Logic losing to muscle memory.
She’d been safe. She knew it. Everyone knew it.
Her body didn’t care.
I’m still wound tight when I pass the studio.
That’s when I hear the music.
At first, I think it’s background noise. Air moving through vents. A track bleeding through headphones. Then a note lifts—clear, soft, unmistakably human—and my feet stop without consulting me.
Lila’s voice.
Not loud. Not polished. Not doing anything it does onstage.
This is quieter. Thinner. Like she’s singing to keep herself upright.
The studio door is barely cracked. Less than an inch. Just enough for sound to escape. Just enough to feel accidental.
I shouldn’t listen.
I stop anyway one beat like my body forgot how to keep walking.
She isn’t rehearsing.
There’s no count-in. No band. No structure. Just a simple melody she keeps circling, like she’s trying to find a safe place to land and keeps missing it by inches.
Her voice wavers not in a technical way. In a human one.
The lyrics drift out in fragments. I don’t catch all of them. I catch enough.
Something about being tired of holding it together. Tired of being the calm one. Tired of being told she’s fine when she isn’t.
My chest tightens, sharp and unwelcome. I press the back of my head against the wall and close my eyes, grounding myself like this is somehow my moment to get under control.
I’ve heard her sing before. Everyone has. Her voice is everywhere. It’s big. Confident. Unbreakable.
This version isn’t trying to be any of that.
This version sounds like it’s stitching itself together in real time.
The melody dips lower, rougher, and something in my gut twists. I picture her on the other side of the door, eyes closed, shoulders tense, letting sound carry what she doesn’t want to think about.
I want to knock. To do something useful. Anything.
I don’t.
Because this isn’t for me. And she isn’t mine to keep.
Her voice softens. The song slows, like she’s losing steam. One last line trails off, unfinished, and the silence that follows is heavier than the sound was.
I open my eyes.
The hallway feels different now. Charged. Like I just crossed a line without moving an inch.
I don’t move right away.
I tell myself I’m giving her privacy, but the truth is I’m stalled. Like my brain needs a second to catch up to whatever just happened in my chest.
I walk to the kitchen on autopilot, open a cabinet, close it again. My hands don’t know what they’re looking for.
This is supposed to be simple. Clear lines. Clear roles. I’m here to be a presence. A buffer. A body that stands between her and whatever comes too close.
Not someone who stands in the hallway listening to her unravel.
I brace my hands on the counter and stare at the dark glass of the window. The city stares back, distant and impersonal. Safer than whatever is happening inside me.
I think about the rehearsal.
About how fast her color drained.
I recognized that look.
It’s the same one players use when they pretend a hit didn’t rattle them. When they insist they’re good and wave off the trainer while their hands shake.
The body keeps its own score.
Hers just happens to be louder when it decides it’s done pretending.
I don’t blame her for it. I don’t think she’s weak.
But I know she does.
I heard it in the song. In the way her voice tightened around certain words, like she was angry at herself for needing anything at all.
That… sits wrong with me.
I straighten, roll my shoulders, try to shake it off. This isn’t my place. This isn’t my damage. Getting emotionally invested is how you lose control of the situation.
And control is the only thing keeping this from getting messy.
Footsteps sound softly behind me.
I turn just as she steps into the kitchen.
Her hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, a few strands already slipping free. No makeup. No armor. She looks smaller like this. Not fragile. Just unguarded.
She startles slightly when she sees me, then relaxes when she realizes it’s just me.
“Oh,” she says. “Hey.” Her voice is normal again. Controlled. Like she didn’t just leave pieces of herself in the studio.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
I don’t know how to acknowledge what I heard without crossing a line. I don’t know how to pretend I didn’t without lying.
So I split the difference.
“Hey,” I say back. Neutral. Steady.
She moves toward the kettle, hands busy, eyes down. Normal behavior. Safe behavior. I can see the effort it takes.
There’s a pause. Thick. Weighted.
I want to tell her she doesn’t have to explain herself. That her body didn’t fail her today. That she doesn’t owe anyone strength on demand.
I don’t.
Because saying any of that would mean admitting how much I heard.
So I stay where I am. Grounded. Present. Quiet.
And for the first time since this arrangement started, I realize something uncomfortable.
Being her protector is easy.
Seeing her like this—and still telling myself I can keep my distance—
That’s the challenging part.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
I glance at the screen.
Tessa — ERS.
Of course it is.
I step farther into the kitchen, lowering my voice out of habit even though Lila is across the room with her back to me, filling the kettle like she’s concentrating on not being perceived.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“Hi, Cam!” Tessa sounds relentlessly upbeat, like this is a Tuesday and not a situation that could crack open a man’s spine if he’s not careful. “Just a routine check-in. We’re touching base with both of you today. Early-stage alignment, comfort levels, that sort of thing.”
I lean my hip against the counter and stare at the floor. “Okay.”
She doesn’t take the hint.
“So,” she continues, “how’s the dynamic feeling so far? Any friction? Any surprises?”
I think about the hallway. The song. The way her voice sounded like it had been carrying weight for years without complaint. I think about the rehearsal floor and how fast her body gave up on pretending it was fine.
I think about how instinctively my body moved to hers. No planning. No contract language. Just reflex.
“She’s…” I stop.
Careful.
“She’s different than I expected,” I say finally.
“And how does that land for you?” Tessa asks.
I don’t answer right away.
Silence is safer than whatever the truth would sound like.
I swallow. “It’s fine.”
Tessa laughs lightly. “Cam. ‘Fine’ isn’t an emotion. It’s a dodge.”
I almost smile despite myself.
“Look,” I say, keeping my voice low. “She’s been through a lot. Today was… intense. I’m just making sure she has space.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Short. Calculating.
“That’s good,” Tessa says carefully. “Protective instincts are a strong indicator of match stability.”
I stiffen. “I’m not”
“I know,” she cuts in gently. “I’m not assigning motives. Just observing behavior.”
That somehow feels worse.
“She trusts you,” Tessa adds. “That’s not something Lila gives easily.”
I don’t answer.
Because if I do, I might say something unprofessional. Something honest. Something like I didn’t know someone could sound like that when they sing or I don’t want to be another man who disappoints her.
None of those belong in an ERS file.
“So,” Tessa continues, all business again, “any concerns I should flag?”
“No,” I say. “No concerns.”
“Good,” Tessa replies. “We’ll keep monitoring. Call if you need us.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly.
The quiet rushes back in, heavier now. More aware of itself.
Lila turns then, eyes flicking to my face. “Everything okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just a check-in.”
She nods too, like that answers something. Like it’s enough.
It isn’t.
But I don’t correct it.
Because the truth is sitting too close to the surface now, and I don’t trust myself not to let it show.
The kettle clicks off behind her.
The sound is small, domestic, but it snaps the quiet clean in half.
I clear my throat. “You okay?”
The question feels inadequate the second it leaves my mouth. Too broad. Too loaded. Too likely to make her lie.
She nods anyway. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
There it is.
The same word I used with Tessa.
I don’t push. I don’t tell her I heard her sing. I don’t tell her that her voice is still sitting in my chest like something unfinished. I don’t tell her that I can hear the difference between fine and surviving.
I just watch her.
She stirs her tea. The spoon clicks softly against the mug. Once. Twice. A third time before she realizes what she’s doing and stills her hand.
Her shoulders are tense. Her jaw too tight.
Finally, she exhales through her nose, a short, frustrated sound. “I hate that my body does that.”
My chest tightens.
“Does what?”
She hesitates. Then shrugs, like she’s brushing lint off herself. “The spiral. The fainting. The whole thing.” Her mouth twists. “It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s not.”
She laughs quietly. No humor in it. “It is when you used to be able to handle this stuff without blinking.”
That stops me.
“Used to?”
She keeps her eyes on the counter. “Crowds. Fans. People yelling my name.” Her fingers tighten around the mug. “I toured for years without it phasing me. I did meet-and-greets. I walked red carpets. I smiled through chaos.”
Her voice dips. “Now my doctors call it ‘stress response.’ Like that explains anything.”
I don’t interrupt.
She swallows. “It makes me feel weak.”
There it is.
Not fear. Shame.
“I’m not weak,” she adds quickly, like she needs me to know. “I know that. Intellectually. I just…” Her shoulders lift, then fall. “I can’t control it.”
I take a step closer without realizing I’ve decided to. I stop a careful distance away. Close enough to be present. Far enough not to crowd.
“Your body learned something,” I say.
She looks up at me then, startled. “What?”
“How to protect you.”
She frowns, processing.
“I’ve seen men twice your size freeze when they’re overwhelmed,” I continue. “I’ve seen guys who look invincible shut down because something hit too close to home.” I keep my voice steady. “Your nervous system isn’t broken. It adapted.”
Her eyes shine. Just a little.
“I don’t want to be someone who needs saving,” she says softly.
The words land heavy.
I shake my head. “That’s not what this is.”
“What is it, then?” she asks.
I hold her gaze.
“This is you standing back up,” I say. “Even when your knees want to buckle under you.”
She nods once. Just once.
The moment stretches. Quiet. Charged.
Neither of us moves.
And I’m suddenly aware of how close we are. Of the way her breath has evened out.
Her mouth parts, just slightly, like she might say something. Or like she might not. The difference feels dangerous.
I tilt forward before I can stop myself. Not fast. Not dramatic.
Close enough that my breath changes. Close enough that her eyes flick to my mouth.
I stop.
The space between us hums, tight and electric, like a wire pulled too tight. Her breath ghosts my collarbone. I can feel the warmth of her without touching her at all.
What am I doing?
I straighten abruptly, stepping back like I’ve touched something hot.
She blinks, processing the shift.
Then mercifully she exhales and lets out a soft huff of a laugh.
“Well,” she says lightly, lifting her mug like a shield, “that would’ve made the ERS paperwork very awkward.”
The joke lands. It saves us.
I almost smile.
Almost.
Because my chest still feels tight, and my pulse hasn’t gotten the memo that we’ve decided to pretend nothing just happened.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Probably frowned upon.”
She grins, quick and easy, like she didn’t just feel the same pull I did. Like humor is a switch she can flip to keep herself safe.
Maybe it is.
She turns back to the counter, stirring her tea again even though it doesn’t need it. The spoon clicks once. Then stills.
A moment passes.
But the feeling doesn’t disappear.
I watch her shoulders tense again, just a little, like she’s putting armor back on.
And I realize something that settles heavy and undeniable in my chest.
Stopping myself was the right call.
But now I know exactly how close I came.
And how much I wanted not to stop at all.