Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Lila
Iwake up warm.
That’s the first thing I notice. The weight across my shoulders. The familiar scent that is masculine and clean.
Cam.
A blanket is tucked around me, careful and neat, like Cam didn’t want to wake me. My chest does a small, traitorous flutter.
He came home.
He saw me.
I stay still.
Not because I’m half-asleep, but because I don’t want to test whether the moment will break if I move.
I curl deeper into the blanket, allowing the warmth to spread.
I replay fragments instead. The way he stood at the edge of the stage at my last rehearsal. The way his hand hovered before touching me. The way he stayed.
I catalog these things like evidence, trying to decide if they mean what I want them to mean or if I’m just tired enough to believe.
Somewhere in the kitchen, there’s movement. A cupboard opening. A soft clink of ceramic.
He’s here.
Relief settles into my chest before I can stop it.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
I don’t look at it.
I don’t need to. I know the press is already twisting things. I can imagine the headlines:
Lila Hart falls fast. She doesn’t see patterns. She confuses intensity for care.
I set the phone down and stare at the floor like it might steady me.
I replay our kiss instead.
Cam’s mouth. Cam’s hands. The way he looked at me—steady and unguarded.
But the doubts crawl in anyway. Threading themselves through the silence.
I hear the low grind of the coffee beans. The click of the kettle.
Standing up from the couch, I stretch, and lay the blanket down with extra care.
I step into the kitchen and there he is.
Broad shoulders. T-shirt and jeans. One hand braced on the counter, the other steadying the mug like he needs something solid this morning.
Cam looks tired.
Not just physically. Withdrawn. Like he’s folded himself inward to keep something from spilling out.
He glances up when he senses me. His eyes soften immediately.
“Morning,” he says.
It’s gentle. Careful.
And then nothing happens.
No smile that lingers. No mention of being gone all of yesterday. No are you okay? Nothing about the kisses.
He turns back to the coffee.
The silence stretches. Not awkward. Not hostile. But empty.
It's reasonable. He’s dealing with a public nightmare. Lawyers. Leaks. Headlines that slice instead of inform. Cam isn’t a talker on his best days. I knew that walking into this.
Still.
I lean against the island and scroll my phone once, then lock it again. I don’t want to be the first to bring up doubts. I don’t want to make this heavier than it already is.
But some small, treacherous part of me is waiting.
For reassurance. For acknowledgment. For anything that says that kiss mattered to him too.
The kettle clicks off. He pours. Steam curls between us.
He doesn’t look at me again.
My chest tightens, slow and sneaky.
I’ve had relationships before with men who went quiet instead of honest. Who retreated behind “being busy” and “handling things” until I started apologizing for wanting clarity.
I shake the thought away.
This is different.
Cam is different.
But the feeling is the same. The doubt slips in, quiet and insidious. It doesn’t accuse. It just asks questions I don’t want to answer yet.
Maybe he regrets it. Maybe the kiss was adrenaline. Maybe calling me his wife scared him.
My phone buzzes again.
I don’t look right away. I already know it’s going to hurt. My body braces before my mind catches up, shoulders tightening like I’m about to take a hit.
When I finally glance down, it’s a clip.
A podcast logo I recognize. Bright colors. Laughing hosts frozen mid-grin.
And my ex’s name.
I put in one earbud, and push the button.
“Look,” my ex says easily, leaning back like he’s settling into a barstool instead of dismantling me in public, “I’m not surprised she rushed into something again. I just feel bad for Camden Drake. He could do so much better than her.”
One of the hosts chuckles. The sound makes my stomach flip.
“Lila hates being alone,” he continues, shrugging. “She makes everything about herself. That’s just who she is.”
They laugh.
I stare at the screen, frozen, even after the clip has finished running.
I lock my phone and set it face-down on the counter with more force than necessary.
Cam looks up instantly.
His brows pull together. His posture shifts, subtle but unmistakable. Protective. Alert. Like something in him has keyed in on the fact that I’m not okay.
“What is it?” he asks quietly.
The concern in his voice almost does me in.
I shake my head too fast. Too practiced. “Nothing.”
I pick up my mug so he won’t see my hands shake. The tea has gone lukewarm.
“It's fine,” I add, because apparently one lie isn’t enough.
He doesn’t buy it. I can tell. His gaze stays on me, searching, like he’s trying to find the right place to step without making it worse.
But he doesn’t know what to say.
Cam is a fixer. A protector. He knows how to stand between things and absorb impact.
He doesn’t know how to argue with words that have already rooted themselves inside someone else’s head.
What I want—what I need—is simple and impossible at the same time.
I want him to say, He’s wrong about you.
Cam opens his mouth like he’s about to try. Then closes it again. His jaw tightens. He looks frustrated with himself, with the situation, with the fact that he can’t seem to bridge the gap between us.
The silence stretches.
Cam grabs his keys. “I’m off to practice.”
He hesitates by the door.
Not long. Just long enough for my chest to lift with hope.
He turns back toward me. His mouth opens slightly, like there’s something there. An explanation. A reassurance. A reference to something that would anchor us in reality instead of letting things drift into maybe.
I hold still on the couch. I don’t smile. I don’t prompt.
I wait.
He nods once instead.
Small. Unreadable. Polite in a way that hurts.
“Bye,” he says.
“Bye,” I reply, automatically.
He leaves.
The door clicks shut.
***
I sit on the couch for a while without moving. The smell of his coffee lingering around me.
My blanket is laying over the armrest.
I fold the blanket. Carefully. Precisely. Wanting to hold onto his thoughtfulness and care.
The couch is cold.
I sit there longer than necessary, letting the quiet harden around me until it feels manageable.
By the time I stand, the softness has been packed away again, stored somewhere I can’t access without permission.
I replay the kiss, searching it now for warning signs. For angles. For anything that looks like calculation instead of tenderness.
Then I replay this morning. Cam’s silence. His careful distance. The way he stopped himself from saying more.
It could be just stress. Fear. Two bad days colliding into misunderstanding.
But one question loops in my head, even though I want to squash it like a bug.
Can I really trust Cam with my heart?