Chapter 37
Chapter thirty-seven
Lila
Idon’t remember deciding to move.
One second I’m backstage, half-hidden by curtains and cables, breath trapped somewhere between my ribs and my throat. My mic is heavy in my hand, a dead weight I don’t know what to do with.
And then—
I’m running.
My boots pound against the stage floor as I burst out of the wings, lights flaring so bright they smear the edges of everything. The stadium erupts, my name crashing over me in a wave, but it all blurs into one soundless rush.
Go.
My heart slams so hard it hurts. Each beat echoes the same command. Louder than fear, louder than doubt.
I don’t look at the crowd. I don’t look at the cameras swinging wildly to follow me. I don’t look at the screens where my face must be enormous and exposed and impossible to hide.
I look at him.
Cam stands at center stage like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact second. Shoulders squared but relaxed. Hands loose at his sides. Open in a way that steals the breath from my lungs.
Steady.
Mine.
The distance between us disappears too fast and not fast enough. When I reach him, my hands fly up on instinct, grabbing his like they’re the only solid things left in a spinning world.
They feel warm.
Real.
Strong.
“Cam,” I breathe.
The word shakes its way out of me, wrecked with relief and disbelief and a love so sharp it feels like it might split me open.
His thumbs sweep over my knuckles, slow and grounding, like he’s reassuring himself that I’m really here.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
Soft. Almost broken.
The sound of his voice—close, unfiltered, not blasted through speakers—does something dangerous to my chest. I laugh, a sound that’s half sob and half hysterical joy, and it bubbles out before I can stop it.
I lift one hand from his and cup his jaw, fingers trembling against warm skin and familiar stubble.
“You absolute idiot,” I whisper, leaning in so only he can hear me. “Why would you say something like that live on air?”
His mouth curves, slow and tender, the kind of smile that undoes me because it’s just for me. Not charming. Not practiced.
Honest.
“Because I meant it,” he says.
Just that.
No qualifiers. No jokes. No retreat.
My vision blurs, and this time it’s definitely tears. They gather fast, clinging to my lashes, spilling before I can blink them away. My chest cracks wide, like something locked tight inside me finally gave up.
All the hurt.
All the fear that loving him meant standing alone again in the end.
It all dissolves under the warmth in his eyes.
“I love you,” he says again.
Quieter now. Lower. Like he’s speaking directly into the space between us, like the rest of the stadium doesn’t exist.
And somehow, for the first time, I believe him without bracing for impact.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I rise onto my toes, fists curling into the front of his shirt, anchoring myself there, and I kiss him.
Not for the cameras.
Not for ERS or headlines or contracts or whatever story the world is going to spin tomorrow.
For us.
The kiss is soft at first. Careful. Lips meeting lips like a question asked with reverence. His breath catches, warm and familiar, and my entire body answers before my mind can interfere.
Then his hands slide to my waist.
Holding.
Anchoring.
Cherishing.
The way he always did, like he’s aware of exactly how much pressure I can take and not an ounce more. The kiss deepens, warm and certain. Real in a way that feels almost sacred.
The stadium explodes.
The sound is enormous, shaking the air, but it feels far away.
None of it touches us.
I only pull back when my lungs start to burn. My forehead rests against his, noses brushing, both of us breathing hard like we just ran a mile straight into each other.
His eyes are dark and bright all at once.
Mine are definitely wrecked.
Tears cling to my lashes, but I’m smiling so wide my face aches. It feels unguarded. Unrehearsed. Like the smile I forgot how to wear.
“Welcome back,” I whisper.
Cam huffs a breath that sounds like a man finally exhaling after holding it for far too long. His forehead presses more firmly to mine, his mouth brushing mine once more, brief and reverent.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Good to be here.”
The crowd keeps roaring, but for the first time in a long time, the noise doesn’t feel like something I have to survive.
It feels like something that can’t touch us.
Because we chose each other.