Cameron watched the line land.

It feels like you.

And the second something in her face softened around it, he felt it like a quiet win he had no business feeling quite that good about.

Not because he’d been trying to get her. Not because he’d said it for effect.

Just because it was true, and Lucy’s little look-down, the dry joke about paying rent there, the way she reached for the cabinet instead of meeting it head-on—all of it told him it had gotten past her defenses anyway.

That did something warm and stupid to his chest.

He didn’t push it. Didn’t grin like an idiot, even though some part of him wanted to.

He just leaned there in the edge of her kitchen and let her have the save.

When she held up the mismatched glasses and informed him—very seriously—that she did, in fact, own real wine glasses but didn’t trust either of them with stemware at the moment, Cameron laughed softly under his breath.

“That feels smart,” he said. “I respect the risk assessment.”

He took the amber glass when she offered it, and when her fingers brushed his, his hand almost tightened reflexively around the tumbler just to keep from doing something dumber, like catching her hand instead.

Everything tonight had started feeling like that.

Small things. Brief things. And somehow each one had more weight than it should have.

He took a sip mostly because she did, because it gave him something to do while he looked at her leaning against her counter in that warm little kitchen like she had always belonged there and he was the only one late to the fact.

Then she offered to show him the rest.

And Cameron had the immediate, ridiculous instinct to say only if you want to—like she hadn’t just invited him upstairs, poured him wine, and started opening doors in the exact opposite order of casual.

Still, something in him stayed careful with it.

Because he understood what this was, even if she was wrapping it in dry little comments and teasing edges.

This was her letting him in.

Not just into the apartment. Into the parts of it that felt personal.

Into the version of her life that existed when nobody else was around to watch it.

So when she motioned for him to follow, Cameron did.

Quiet. Easy. Not making too much of anything even while some part of him was making too much of absolutely everything.

The bathroom got a smile out of him immediately.

Not because it was a mess—it wasn’t, really. Just lived-in, lined with more bottles and jars than any sane man could name, warm little brass details and candles and clipped-back pieces of her life tucked into corners.

He glanced at the claw clip on the counter and lifted his brows. “That thing looks like it could take down a deer.”

The line came easy, low and fond, and he meant it exactly the way he said it—not mocking, just amused in that gentle way that came from seeing her in details.

Then she moved on.

And when she opened the bedroom door, Cameron felt the shift before he could name it.

The living room had felt like Lucy in the version she gave the world. The kitchen felt like Lucy in motion—comfortable, warm, quick-witted, a little disarmed tonight in a way that made him feel strangely honored to be witnessing it.

But this—

this felt quieter than both.

The room glowed soft and low under the bedside lamp, all warm patchwork and worn wood and rumpled pillows and that particular kind of beauty bedrooms had when they belonged to someone who genuinely inhabited them instead of arranging them. The cardigan on the chair. The books on the dresser. The disposable camera. The record sleeve. The band posters and old photographs.

Nothing about it tried too hard.

It was just… hers.

Cameron stood in the doorway a little behind her and looked past the details into the thing underneath them, the same way he had downstairs.

Lucy had made herself a life here. A real one. One with texture and habits and favorite rooms and clutter that had stories attached to it. One that clearly hadn’t needed him in it to become whole.

That should have hurt a little, maybe.

Instead it mostly made him proud in a way he didn’t quite know how to say.

So when she admitted the bedroom was probably more her than the living room—less socially adjusted, in her words—Cameron’s mouth tipped.

“I can see that,” he said, voice softer now to match the room. “In a good way.”

He didn’t over-explain it. Didn’t need to.

He had the feeling she’d hear what he meant.

Then came the last room.

And Cameron knew before she even fully opened the door that this one mattered most.

He could tell by the way her voice changed before the space even came into view. By the slight lift in it. By the way something in her settled the second she looked inside.

And when he stepped up enough to see it, he understood why.

The room felt different immediately.

Not just because of the darker walls or the softer light or the faint red glow slipping from the darkroom setup toward the back. Not just because of the shelves lined with film canisters and cameras and paper boxes and the cluttered worktable that only looked chaotic if you didn’t know the person who worked there.

It felt like the center of something.

Like the kind of room a person built not to show off, but because some part of them needed it to exist.

Cameron went quiet.

Not performatively. Not because he didn’t know what to say.

Because he did know—and the feeling of it deserved a second before words got all over it.

He stepped in when she kept moving, slow and respectful, his eyes moving over the worktable, the hanging film, the pinned photographs of Bedford Falls caught at angles most people would never bother seeing.

That part got him.

Not the technical side of it, though he could appreciate that too. The devotion got him.

The patience. The noticing. The evidence of hours spent here because she wanted to, not because anybody was asking for it. The fact that this wasn’t one romanticized little hobby tossed on a shelf when it stopped being cute. It was everywhere in the room—in the chemicals and negatives and prints and sharp little systems only she understood.

He looked at the photographs on the line and recognized the town, and then didn’t recognize it at all.

Or maybe that wasn’t right.

He recognized it better.

Like she’d managed to catch the version of Bedford Falls that lived between things. The part most people missed because they were too busy moving through it to stop and look.

He’d grown up here. Had spent his whole life in these streets and windows and corners.

And somehow she’d made them look newer. More worth keeping.

When she admitted this was the room she’d save first in a fire, he looked over at her standing there in the low red glow with her wine glass in hand, and that smile she gave him—small and real and unguarded enough to make him feel it—hit him all over again.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”

And he did.

He understood the feeling of a room that held the truest version of you. A place that didn’t need translation.

Then she drifted farther in, and he followed a little more fully this time.

Not crowding. Just closer.

Close enough to look where she looked. Close enough that when she picked up the print and said the room made her look like she belonged in a very specific kind of indie film, Cameron huffed a soft laugh and shook his head once.

“Only moderately?” he asked. “That feels generous.”

But even the teasing came quieter in here.

The room seemed to ask that of him too.

And when Lucy started talking about what photography had been back then—high school, carrying a camera because it gave her something to do, somewhere to put herself when she didn’t know where else to fit—Cameron’s expression changed.

Because he remembered that girl.

Not in theory. Not in some vague nostalgic blur.

He remembered her with a camera around her neck at games, at bonfires, at town events, sitting on truck hoods or curbs or in the passenger seat beside him, raising it toward weird little moments nobody else would’ve bothered with.

He remembered thinking she looked pretty when she was focused. Remembered the way she disappeared a little when she was looking through a lens—as if the rest of the noise of being young and watched and expected to be a certain kind of girl all fell away when she had something real to look at instead.

He hadn’t understood then what it would become.

He could see it now.

When she said he’d known she liked it but nobody had thought it would turn into this, Cameron’s gaze moved slowly around the room again and then back to her.

“I should’ve,” he said.

The words came out before he had time to polish them, which was probably why they sounded true.

She looked at him, and he lifted one shoulder slightly.

“I mean it.” His voice stayed low. Steady. “You always had it bad.”

A tiny beat.

“For this, I mean.”

His mouth pulled crooked after that, taking some of the weight off it before it got too intense too fast. But the warmth in his eyes didn’t go anywhere.

“It’s just… bigger now.”

More hers. More serious. More obviously stitched into the shape of her life.

When she deadpanned about becoming a slightly emotionally unstable woman with access to eBay and a developing kit, Cameron laughed outright then, the sound low and easy in the dim little room.

“That’s on the internet,” he said. “You can’t be trusted with niche interests and a shipping account. Nobody can.”

But then she stepped closer.

Not all the way. Just enough.

Enough that the room stopped feeling like something he was being shown and started feeling like something he was being allowed into.

And when she held the photograph out to him, Cameron took it carefully, like the gesture itself had weight.

“This morning,” she said. Before breakfast.

He looked down at it.

Main Street in the early light. The bookstore window softened gold. The reflection of town laid over glass in that layered way that made it feel half real, half memory. The kind of shot he never in a million years would’ve thought to stop for, and yet the second he saw it, it felt obvious that it mattered.

Of course she’d seen that. Of course she’d kept it.

He didn’t look up right away.

Not because he was trying to be dramatic. Because he wanted to actually look at it.

Wanted to see it the way she’d seen it, or at least get close.

And when he finally lifted his eyes, Lucy was watching him instead of the print.

That landed too.

Then she told him the room was probably the most honest thing about her.

And God.

He felt that one.

Not as pressure. Not as some grand reveal he had to react to perfectly.

Just as the kind of truth a person only offered when they were trying, a little, to let themselves be known.

So when she told him not to be weird about it, Cameron’s mouth curved slightly.

Not amused at her. Softly wrecked by her, maybe.

He stepped a little closer still, the photograph loose but careful in his hand, and answered in the same quiet tone the room seemed to pull from both of them.

“I’m not being weird.”

A beat.

Then, because she’d earned the real version and because anything less would’ve felt cheap in here—

“I just think it makes sense.”

His eyes moved once around the room, then back to her face.

“That this is the most honest thing about you.”

He glanced down at the photograph again, then toward the line of prints clipped to the wall, the fogged bookstore window, the rain on the marquee, Honey Bee after closing, all those small pieces of town she’d decided were worth saving.

“You always noticed things other people walked past,” he said.

The words were simple, but there was history inside them.

He remembered her in high school with that camera. Remembered her paying attention in a way that made him feel like the world around them had more texture when she was in it.

“I think this room just looks like what happens when you keep listening to that.”

The honesty of it hung there quietly between them.

No performance. No overdoing it.

Just him standing in the red-soft edge of her darkroom holding a photograph she’d taken that morning and looking at her like he was seeing not a surprise, exactly, but the fuller shape of something that had always been there.

His thumb brushed once, absentmindedly, along the edge of the print.

Then his mouth tipped a little at one corner again, enough to ease the intensity without breaking it.

“So no,” he said gently. “Not weird.”

A beat.

“Though I am gonna need a minute with the fact that you made the courthouse look kind of emotional.”

That got the humor back in just enough to let them breathe.

But his eyes stayed warm on hers.

And when he handed the photograph back, he did it carefully—like the print mattered, yes, but more than that, like the trust of being given it did.

His fingers brushed hers again when he passed it over.

This time he didn’t move away immediately.

He let the quiet hold for one extra second in that room that was apparently the most honest thing about her, and looked at Lucy in the low glow like he understood, at least a little, what she’d just handed him.

Not just a tour. Not just a room.

Something closer to proof.

And Cameron, for once in his life, was careful enough with something precious to know not to crowd it just because he wanted to get nearer.

Lucy didn’t take the photo back right away.

Her fingers stayed curled lightly around the edge of it where his had just been, her thumb brushing once over the corner like she hadn’t fully registered that he’d let go yet.

And then—

she exhaled.

Long. Slow. A little too loud in the quiet of the room.

“God,” she muttered, almost under her breath, tipping her head back for a second like she was appealing to the ceiling. “I hate this.”

It wasn’t sharp. Not really.

If anything, it sounded… overwhelmed. Softly exasperated in a way that had more feeling in it than irritation.

She finally pulled the photo in, setting it down on the table beside her without breaking it, just… needing her hands free for a second. One of them dragged through her hair, pushing it back off her face before she looked at him again.

And there it was.

That look.

Less guarded than usual. Less careful. Like she’d decided, somewhere between the kitchen and this room, she didn’t have the energy to keep editing herself down to something easier.

“I hate how…” she started, then huffed quietly, like the sentence itself was annoying her. “How you’re being.”

Her hand gestured vaguely at him, like she didn’t have the patience to list it all out cleanly.

“Like—mature. And honest. And…” she squinted at him a little, like the word personally offended her, “…nice.”

A beat.

“And don’t get comfortable, because I’m still deciding how I feel about the ‘cute’ part.”

Her mouth twitched, but it didn’t quite land as a joke.

Not fully.

Because underneath it—

there was something heavier sitting there.

“It would’ve been a lot easier,” she said, quieter now, “if you came back exactly the same.”

Her eyes flicked away from his face for a second, landing somewhere near the hanging prints before drifting back.

“Cocky. A little careless. Too used to getting your way. That version of you made sense.”

A small shrug.

“I knew how to be mad at that guy.”

Her arms folded loosely across her middle—not defensive, just something to hold onto while she said it.

“And I was,” she added. “Mad.”

Another breath.

“Like… longer than I let on earlier.”

Her voice softened more on that, not breaking, just… settling into something more honest than she usually let it be out loud.

“You hurt me,” she said plainly.

No dramatics. No raised voice.

Just the truth.

“And I didn’t really deal with it in some healthy, well-adjusted way either.” A faint, humorless huff. “I just… stopped trusting people for a while.”

Her gaze dropped briefly to the floor, then lifted again.

“Didn’t date. Didn’t let anyone get close enough to mess things up like that again.”

There was no accusation in it.

No pointed edge.

Just context.

Just the shape of what had followed him, even after he left.

“And I got used to that,” she went on. “To it just being… me. My shop. My apartment. My life. No one else really in it in that way.”

Her hand moved slightly, gesturing around the darkroom.

“All of this?” she said softly. “This is what happened after you left.”

Not bitter.

Just real.

“I figured out how to be okay on my own. How to build something that felt like mine without needing anyone else to make it feel… complete or whatever.”

A small pause.

Then she looked at him again.

Really looked.

“And then you come back,” she said, almost like she was still trying to wrap her head around it, “and you’re not that guy anymore.”

Her eyes moved over his face, slower now. Taking him in instead of bracing against him.

“You’re… this.”

There was something warmer in her voice now.

Something softer than frustration. Softer than defense.

“You listen. You think before you speak. You don’t just… assume everything’s yours because it used to be.”

A faint, almost disbelieving smile pulled at one corner of her mouth.

“You’re kind,” she said.

Like she was still adjusting to the word.

“And it’s—” she shook her head once, quieter now, “it’s really inconvenient.”

That earned the smallest flicker of humor back into her expression.

But it didn’t last long.

Because the truth underneath it was still sitting there.

“It’s just…” she hesitated, then let out a breath. “It’s harder to hate you when you’re like this.”

A beat.

“And hating you was a lot simpler than…” she gestured between them, vague but unmistakable, “…this being something again.”

The room felt smaller for a second.

Not in a bad way.

Just closer.

More real.

Lucy shifted her weight slightly, her shoulder brushing the edge of the table as her voice softened again.

“But at the same time,” she said, quieter now, “this is kind of… amazing.”

Her eyes held his.

No sarcasm. No deflection.

“I’m really glad you grew up.”

A small, genuine smile finally settled in.

“And I’m really glad you came back like this.”

She exhaled, softer this time.

Because that part mattered more than she probably wanted it to.

“I always knew that version of you was in there somewhere,” she admitted.

Her gaze flickered, almost shy for a second before settling again.

“It just used to get buried under… everything else.”

The confidence. The attention. The being the best without needing to try too hard.

All of it.

But now—

now she could see him without it.

And it changed things.

Lucy tilted her head slightly, studying him like she was still recalibrating in real time.

“I like this version,” she said.

Simple.

Honest.

And maybe the most vulnerable thing she’d said all night without trying to wrap it in something safer.

A small pause.

Then, softer—

“Which is… mildly terrifying, if we’re being honest.”

But she didn’t look away this time.

Didn’t take it back.

She just stood there in the low red glow of her darkroom, a few feet from him, letting him see exactly where she was—even if she was still figuring out what to do with it.

Lucy let the quiet sit there for a second after she said it.

Like she’d surprised even herself a little.

Like the words had come out cleaner than she’d planned and now there wasn’t anything left to hide behind.

Her eyes stayed on his.

Searching, maybe. Or just… taking him in without the filter she’d been using for years.

Then something in her shifted.

Small.

Decided.

She stepped forward.

Slow enough that it didn’t feel rushed. Close enough that the space between them disappeared before either of them could pretend it wasn’t going to.

Her hand lifted almost absently, like she hadn’t fully thought it through—just followed the instinct—and her fingers brushed along his jaw.

The scruff there caught lightly against her skin, rough in that soft, grounding way that made the moment feel even more real.

She exhaled a quiet little breath through her nose, her thumb grazing just under his cheekbone.

“Yeah…” she murmured, almost to herself.

A tiny shake of her head, like she was still wrapping her mind around it.

“I really like this version of you.”

It came softer this time.

Not defensive. Not layered in jokes.

Just… true.

Her hand stayed there, cupping his face now, her fingers settling a little more confidently like she’d decided she was allowed to touch him like this.

Her eyes flicked briefly to his mouth, then back up.

And that was it.

That was all the hesitation she gave herself.

Lucy leaned in.

This kiss wasn’t rushed.

Wasn’t surprising.

It was chosen.

Her lips met his slow and sure, like she meant it this time in a way that didn’t need to prove anything—just… feel it.

Her hand stayed at his jaw, thumb brushing faintly as she kissed him, grounding herself in the fact that he was actually here, actually real, not just some version of him she’d rewritten in her head over the years.

There was warmth in it.

And something steadier underneath.

Not just excitement.

Something closer to trust, beginning again.

She lingered there a second longer than she probably needed to, like she wasn’t in a rush to pull away this time.

Then, just barely, she eased back.

Not far.

Still close enough that her breath brushed his lips, her hand still resting against his face.

Her eyes stayed on his, softer now, but clearer too.

Like she’d made a choice.

And wasn’t immediately trying to take it back.

Cameron didn’t interrupt her.

Not once.

He stood there in the low red wash of the darkroom with the photograph still fresh in his hand and let her say every bit of it, even the parts that landed hard enough to make something in his chest pull tight.

Especially those parts.

Because she was finally giving it to him straight—not the cleaned-up version, not the polite one, not the easier story people told after enough time had passed and everybody wanted to pretend the damage hadn’t gone that deep.

The real one.

That she had been angry longer than she let on. That he had hurt her. That what he’d done had reached farther into her life than one bad spring and one ugly breakup and a town full of whispers.

He felt that.

Not as surprise. He’d known, somewhere. Maybe not in all the exact shapes of it, but enough.

Still, hearing her say it plain in that quiet voice of hers—he hurt her, and after that she stopped letting people close enough to do it again—made him go very still.

His jaw shifted once. Not defensively. Just the physical effort of standing there and taking a truth he had long since earned.

And when she said all of this—her shop, her apartment, this room—was what had happened after he left, Cameron’s eyes moved slowly around the space again.

The photographs. The worktable. The life.

He understood what she meant.

Not as accusation. As fact.

This was the architecture of the years he hadn’t been here for. What she had built instead of reaching back. What she had made out of the empty space after him.

And God, there was something brutal and beautiful in that all at once.

He didn’t try to defend himself. Didn’t reach for an excuse. Didn’t say he’d been young, or stupid, or any of the other useless things men said when they wanted forgiveness without having to sit all the way inside what they’d done.

He just listened.

And then she said the part that nearly undid him.

That it would’ve been easier if he had come back the same. That she’d known how to be angry at that version of him. That this one—the one who listened, who didn’t assume, who was careful and kind—was harder to hate.

Harder to hate.

The phrase hit him in such a specific place it almost made him laugh if it hadn’t hurt first.

Because there was honesty in that too. Because it was Lucy, and Lucy had never really dealt in pretty lies when she was brave enough to tell the truth.

Then she said she was glad he’d grown up.

Glad he’d come back like this.

And something in Cameron’s face changed before he could stop it.

Not dramatically. Not enough to interrupt her.

Just a quiet unraveling at the edges. A softness that came from being seen in a place he hadn’t expected her to reach yet, maybe ever.

He looked at her the whole time.

At the way her voice shifted when she stopped fighting it. At the way she held herself when she was saying something vulnerable and didn’t quite know where to put her hands. At the little flicker of almost-shyness when she admitted she’d always suspected this version of him had existed under the rest of it somewhere.

That one hit worse than anything else.

Because part of him had wanted to tell her that for years. That he hadn’t been empty back then, just buried. That being liked too easily and praised too often and never made to really answer for himself had turned him into somebody lazier with people than he should have been. That none of that excused what he did, but it had made him worse than the best parts of him were ever meant to be.

But she was already saying it.

Not to let him off the hook. Just because she could finally see it.

And when she told him she liked this version—said it simple, honest, with that faint thread of fear underneath it that made it even more real—Cameron’s throat worked once before he could answer.

He didn’t get the chance.

Because then she moved.

And he forgot everything again.

Not in the wild, dizzy way Cherry Street had hit him. This was quieter than that. Deeper.

She stepped into him like she’d already decided. Lifted her hand to his face like the touch belonged there. Let her fingers find the scruff at his jaw, and Cameron’s whole body went still in the way it did when something mattered too much to fumble.

He looked down at her with all of it open on his face now. No point hiding it. Not after what she’d just said. Not after what she’d just handed him.

Her thumb moved lightly under his cheekbone. She told him, softer now, that she really liked this version of him.

And Cameron nearly smiled—not because it was funny, not because he took it lightly, but because hearing it twice somehow made it even harder to breathe around.

His hand started toward her waist before she even leaned in. Not grabbing. Just finding her, steady and warm, like he needed the anchor of her there.

Then she kissed him.

Slow. Chosen. Certain.

Cameron kissed her back like a man who understood exactly how much trust lived inside that choice.

No rush. No hunger trying to outrun the feeling. Just warmth and care and that deep, almost aching gratitude that had been building in him since the second she started speaking and hadn’t let up once.

His hand settled more firmly at her waist. The other came up, fingertips brushing lightly at the side of her neck, then into the line of her hair with a tenderness that would’ve embarrassed him in front of anybody else and meant absolutely nothing to him here.

Because she was kissing him in the room that was the most honest thing about her. Because she had just told him what he had cost her. Because she had also, unbelievably, told him she liked who he was now.

He kissed her like he knew those things belonged together. Like he knew he didn’t get one without the other.

When she eased back only slightly, Cameron stayed close.

Close enough to feel her breath. Close enough that his thumb could still rest warm at the side of her neck. Close enough that if either of them moved half an inch, they’d be kissing again.

He looked at her for a long second.

Really looked.

At the softness in her face. At the clarity there now. At the fact that she wasn’t retreating from what she’d just done.

And when he finally spoke, his voice came out low and roughened around the edges in a way that made it clear he wasn’t putting this on.

“You don’t have to hate me less just because I finally figured out how to act right.”

It wasn’t self-pity. Wasn’t fishing.

Just truth.

His thumb moved once, gently, against her skin.

“But I’m real glad you do.”

The smallest smile touched his mouth after that. Warm. A little wrecked. Not enough to turn the moment into a joke, just enough to let it breathe.

Then it faded again when his eyes searched hers.

“I’m sorry, Lucy.”

There it was.

Not polished. Not broadened into a speech. Not followed by some explanation that would only drag the center of it away from where it belonged.

Just her name and the apology she should have gotten cleanly a long time ago.

His hand at her waist drew her a fraction closer, not enough to claim, just enough to say he was still here in it with her.

“For hurting you,” he said quietly. “For making it so easy to stop trusting people. For leaving you to carry all that without me here to answer for it.”

He didn’t look away when he said it.

Didn’t soften the truth. Didn’t try to make himself more comfortable inside it than he deserved.

“I hate that that’s part of what came after me,” he said.

The room had gone even quieter somehow.

Or maybe that was just his heartbeat in his ears. The soft red light. The fact that she was still touching his face.

His gaze flicked over her features once, almost reverent now, and when he spoke again it came more gently.

“But I’m not sorry you built all this.”

His fingers spread a little at her waist, his eyes shifting briefly around the room before coming back to hers.

“The shop. This place. This room.” A beat. “The version of you that learned how to make a life that’s yours.”

There was pride in it. Real pride. Not distant admiration, not nostalgia dressed up to sound noble.

He meant it.

“I think it’s incredible.”

The word sat between them, plain and unguarded.

And then, because she’d been honest enough to say the terrifying part, Cameron gave her his own.

“I liked you before,” he said, voice softer now. “Probably in a way I was too young and too selfish to understand right.”

A breath.

“But this version?”

His mouth tipped faintly, something fond and a little awed threading through it.

“I like her more.”

That got him close to smiling again, but the look in his eyes stayed steady. Grounded. Entirely serious underneath the warmth.

“The one who built all this and still let me upstairs anyway.”

There was something about that line that nearly broke into a joke, but he didn’t let it. Not yet. Not when the truth of it mattered more.

He let his knuckles brush lightly along her jaw, mirroring the way she’d touched him, and the gesture came with none of the old swagger she’d once known from him. Just care. Just a man trying not to mishandle something precious because he knew exactly how lucky he was to have been trusted with it at all.

“You can be terrified,” he said quietly. “I’m a little terrified too.”

A faint exhale of a laugh moved through him then, soft enough not to fracture the moment.

“Seems fair.”

He stayed there with her, hand at her waist, the other against her face, and let the honesty settle fully this time instead of running from it.

Then his gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes.

“And for what it’s worth,” he murmured, “I like this version of you too.”

His thumb traced once, lightly, just beneath her cheekbone.

“The one who tells me when I’ve got her messed up.” A beat. “The one who built a darkroom and a whole life and still looks at me like this anyway.”

There was wonder in that. Quiet, genuine wonder.

Not because he thought he deserved it. Because he knew he didn’t, not automatically.

And maybe that was exactly why it meant so much.

He held her there for one more beat, letting her see all of that on his face if she wanted to.

Then he leaned in again.

Slow enough to let her stop him. Close enough to ask without words.

And when his mouth found hers this time, the kiss carried all the things he hadn’t dressed up because there hadn’t been any point: apology, gratitude, relief, and that deep, steady care that had been growing in him all night until it no longer fit behind anything as flimsy as charm.

His hand stayed gentle at her jaw. The other steady at her waist.

He kissed her like he meant to be careful with this version of her. With this version of them. With the room. With the trust. With all of it.

And when he pulled back, it was only far enough to look at her again.

Still close. Still holding her. Still very obviously not rushing to fill the quiet just because silence made him nervous.

This one didn’t.

Not with her. Not here.

So Cameron stood in the red-soft honesty of Lucy’s darkroom with her hand still warm against his face and let the moment stay exactly what it was:

Not simple. Not clean. Not easy in the ways that cost nothing.

But real.

And maybe, for the first time between them, that was better.

Lucy felt the apology before she answered it.

It moved through him differently than everything else had tonight.

Not like a line.
Not like a moment he’d rehearsed because he knew eventually he’d owe her one.

It sat heavier than that. Quieter. Like he had been carrying it for a long time and finally put it down in the right place.

And God, that did something to her.

Not because it erased anything.

It didn’t.

Nothing was ever going to undo being eighteen and heartbroken in a town too small to hide in. Nothing was ever going to reach backward and untangle all the nights she’d laid in bed replaying things she should’ve said, or the way she’d spent years teaching herself not to need too much from anyone because once had been enough to learn the lesson.

But hearing him say it like that—
cleanly,
without protecting himself inside it,
without trying to make the pain prettier than it had been—

that mattered.

It mattered more than she wanted it to.

Her hand stayed against his face, fingers curved warm along his jaw, and for a second she just looked at him.

Really looked.

At the honesty in his face.
At the quiet ache of it.
At the fact that he didn’t look away when he said the ugly parts out loud.

That alone almost undid her.

Because once upon a time, Cameron Tate had been very good at skating over things with a smile and a shrug and just enough charm to keep the room from asking harder questions.

This Cameron—

this one stood still inside them.

And that was so unfairly attractive she almost wanted to be annoyed about it.

Almost.

Instead, her thumb moved once against the scruff at his cheek, slow and absentminded, like she needed the contact there to keep herself grounded.

Her eyes dipped briefly when he said he hated that that was part of what came after him.

And something in her chest softened in a way that felt old and new all at once.

Because she believed him.

That was maybe the most startling part.

She believed him.

Not in some naïve, romantic, this fixes everything kind of way.

Just…
plainly.

She believed that he hated what he’d done.
She believed that he saw it now.
She believed that the man standing in her darkroom wasn’t saying these things because he thought they’d earn him access to her, or forgiveness, or some fast, clean redemption arc he could wear like a medal.

He was saying them because they were true.

And for Lucy, who had spent years distrusting polished men with easy answers and nice smiles and no real weight under them—

that was not a small thing.

When he said he wasn’t sorry she’d built all this, her gaze flicked up again.

And when he looked around the room as he said it—
the shop, this place, this room, the life—

her throat tightened just slightly.

Because she knew what it meant for him to see it and not flinch.

To see what she had become without him and not take offense to the fact that she had become something at all.

To look at her life and not act like he’d missed his rightful place in it, but instead… admire what she’d built in his absence.

That felt enormous.

Her fingers curled just a little more securely against his cheek.

Then he said he thought it was incredible.

And Lucy actually had to let out the smallest, quietest breath through her nose before she rolled her eyes a little—not because she didn’t feel it, but because she did.

Too much.

“Okay,” she murmured softly, almost like a complaint. “You really need to stop being this emotionally competent in my house.”

It landed light, but her voice had gone too tender for it to fully count as a joke.

Because then he said the part that made her heart do something truly inconvenient.

That he’d liked her before.
That he’d been too young and selfish to understand it right.
That he liked this version of her more.

Lucy’s face changed before she could stop it.

Not dramatically.
Just enough.

Her expression softened in that helpless, unguarded way it only seemed to around him now when he said something that hit too close to the center of her.

And for a second, all she could do was look at him.

At the steadiness in him.
At the warmth.
At the complete lack of performance in any of it.

He wasn’t trying to charm her.

He was just… telling her the truth.

And maybe that was why it got through so easily.

Her eyes flicked down for half a second, not out of retreat but because she needed a second to gather herself before she said something too embarrassingly sincere and then had to fake her own death.

Still, when she looked back up, the softness was still there.

“You really are making it very difficult,” she said quietly.

A beat.

“To maintain any kind of emotional upper hand.”

Her mouth curved faintly.

But the smile faded almost as soon as it arrived, because there was something bigger pressing at the back of it—something she didn’t really want to joke over.

So she didn’t.

Instead, Lucy let her hand slide a little more fully against his face, her palm settling warm at his cheek, her fingertips drifting just slightly into the hair at the nape of his neck.

And when she spoke again, it came quieter.

Honester.

“I know it doesn’t fix it,” she said.

Her eyes held his.

“And I’m not pretending it does.”

That mattered enough to say clearly.

Because she wasn’t trying to skip steps.
Wasn’t trying to collapse years of pain into one beautiful apology and call it healed because it would be more convenient for the pacing.

But—

“It does matter,” she said softly.

The apology.
The way he said it.
The way he stayed in it.

“All of it does.”

A pause.

“And I think…” she exhaled gently, the words catching just slightly as she figured them out in real time. “I think part of why this all feels so weird is because I spent a really long time assuming if I ever saw you again, I’d either feel nothing…”

Her mouth tipped faintly, sad and fond all at once.

“Or I’d still be angry enough for it to make sense.”

A beat.

“But this?”

Her eyes moved over his face, slower now.

“This is not what I pictured.”

Her voice softened further.

“And I don’t hate that.”

That was maybe the closest she could get to saying the full shape of it without her heart trying to physically leave her body.

Because she didn’t hate it.

She liked it too much, actually.

Liked the way he stood in her space without taking it over.
Liked the way he listened.
Liked the way he touched her like he understood she was not some thing he had recovered, but a person choosing him back in real time.

And maybe most dangerously of all—

she liked how safe she felt with him right now.

That was the part she almost didn’t say.

Almost.

But her hand was still on his face and he was looking at her like that and they were standing in the one room in the apartment she had already admitted was the truest thing about her, so really, she was out of excuses.

Lucy swallowed lightly.

Then said it anyway.

“You feel…” She stopped, almost laughed at herself, then pushed through it. “You feel safe now.”

There.

The words settled between them with a softness that somehow hit harder than anything sharper could have.

Her thumb brushed once beneath his cheekbone again.

“And that’s really not something I give out lightly.”

Not anymore.

Not after him.
Not after what came after him.
Not after all the years she’d gotten very good at being self-contained because self-contained didn’t ask for much and therefore didn’t get blindsided when it didn’t receive it.

But him now?

He made her want to unclench.

That was terrifying.

And lovely.

And so, so unfair.

Lucy’s mouth curved again, smaller this time. More intimate.

“Which is rude, by the way,” she murmured. “For you. Personally.”

A tiny shake of her head.

“Showing back up all… emotionally literate and broad shouldered and good with flowers.”

The line softened the air just enough for her to breathe again, but the warmth in her eyes didn’t go anywhere.

If anything, it deepened.

Because underneath all the teasing and all the dry little attempts to keep herself from combusting in place, the truth was sitting there plain as day now.

She liked him.
She liked this.
She liked the man standing in front of her so much it was beginning to stop feeling theoretical.

And maybe that was the scariest thing of all.

Or maybe—

maybe it was just the most honest.

Lucy stepped in closer again, barely any space left between them now, close enough that her wine-warm breath brushed the edge of his mouth when she spoke.

“I think,” she said softly, “if I’d met this version of you first…”

She stopped.

Not because she didn’t know the rest.

Because she did.

And it felt too revealing to say all of it out loud.

So instead, her eyes flicked to his mouth and then back to his eyes, and she gave him the tiniest, most helpless little smile.

“…I would’ve been in a lot of trouble.”

It landed exactly how she meant it to.

Soft.
Fond.
A little awed by her own bad luck.

Or maybe her good luck, depending on how she wanted to frame it.

Then, because there was only so much honesty she could survive in one standing position without doing something about it, Lucy leaned in again.

This time slower.

No urgency.
No uncertainty.

Just intention.

Her lips found his with a quiet kind of certainty that felt almost more intimate than hunger. Her hand stayed at his face, her other resting lightly against his chest now like she needed the steady rise and fall of him there to remind herself this was real.

The kiss deepened after a second—not because she rushed it there, but because it naturally did.

Because she wanted to.

Because she was done pretending she didn’t.

Her fingers curled slightly at the back of his neck, holding him there just enough to make it clear she was the one keeping them in it now, and there was something so quietly emotional in that realization she nearly lost her footing inside it.

Not physically.

Just… inwardly.

Because this wasn’t eighteen.
This wasn’t fantasy.
This wasn’t memory.

This was now.

This was Cameron in her darkroom, older and better and apologizing properly and looking at her like she was something worth learning instead of just winning.

And God.

Yeah.

She kissed him like she knew that.

When she finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.

Her forehead almost brushed his.
Her hand stayed on his face.
Her eyes opened slowly, finding his again in the low red light.

And for a second, all she did was smile.

Small.
Soft.
A little disbelieving.

Like maybe she still couldn’t quite believe this was where the night had ended either.

Then, in a voice barely above a murmur, she said—

“I really, really like the man you came back as.”

And this time, she didn’t try to take it back.

Lucy smiled before she even meant to.

It was still there from what she’d just said—small and warm and a little disbelieving—and when she looked at him and saw the way he was looking back at her, all steady and a little wrecked and so obviously feeling every bit of this too, something in her just… gave.

Not in a bad way.

Not like surrender.

More like relief.

Like she was finally tired of stopping herself halfway to what she actually wanted.

Her hand stayed at his face, thumb brushing once across the line of his cheek, and then she leaned in again.

She kissed him softly at first.

Not tentative.
Not shy.

Just… happy.

There was a smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth when her lips met his, and she could feel it there between them—feel the warmth of his answering smile almost immediately, like neither one of them could quite help it now.

It made the kiss sweeter somehow.

Lighter for one second.

Then it deepened.

Not because she pulled away and decided to try again.

Because she didn’t pull away at all.

That was the difference this time.

Lucy just stayed.

Stayed close.
Stayed in it.
Stayed with her mouth on his and her fingers sliding from his cheek into the hair at the nape of his neck as if she’d quietly decided she was done pretending she didn’t want more than these careful little almosts.

Her other hand flattened more fully against his chest, feeling the steady warmth of him through his shirt, the rise and fall of his breathing changing beneath her palm as the kiss shifted into something fuller.

Slower.

Longer.

The kind of kiss that stopped feeling like punctuation and started feeling like its own conversation.

And God, she liked this.

She liked the way he kissed her back without trying to take it over.
Liked the steadiness of his hand at her waist.
Liked the quiet patience in him even now, like he was still letting her set the pace no matter how badly he clearly wanted her too.

That alone did something ridiculous to her.

So Lucy leaned in a little more.

Rose just slightly onto the balls of her feet again without thinking about it, because he was taller and she liked the tiny stretch of it now, liked the way it brought her closer, and she let her mouth part more fully against his as the kiss deepened another shade.

Still not rushed.

Still not messy.

Just more.

More feeling.
More trust.
More of the thing they’d both been skirting around all day finally being allowed to exist without immediately apologizing for itself.

Her fingers curled lightly at the back of his neck, holding him there just enough to say stay here, stay here, stay here without needing words for it.

And when she smiled again against his mouth—because she couldn’t help it, because some soft, delighted part of her still couldn’t believe this was actually happening—she didn’t stop to laugh it off.

She just kissed him through it.

Warm and lingering and a little breathless now.

Her body had gone loose in the best way, all the tension she usually kept tucked into her shoulders and jaw and ribs quietly unwinding the longer she stayed this close to him. The red glow of the room blurred at the edges, the shelves and hanging prints and worktable all fading into background while Cameron became the only thing she could really feel with any clarity.

The warmth of his hand.
The scruff at his jaw when her fingers drifted back there.
The way he fit into her space now without feeling like an intrusion at all.

That part almost got her worse than anything else.

Because this didn’t feel wrong.

It didn’t feel forced.
It didn’t feel reckless.
It didn’t even feel like they were borrowing something fragile they’d regret in the morning.

It just felt…

right.

And that was terrifying enough that Lucy probably should have stopped and made a joke and thrown some dry little comment over the whole thing before it got too sincere.

But she didn’t.

For once—

she didn’t.

Instead, she kissed him like she was letting herself have it.

Like she was done rationing every soft thing down to a safer size.

Her thumb brushed once beneath his ear, and she tilted her face just slightly, keeping the kiss unbroken, unhurried, letting it go on until it became impossible not to feel the shape of it changing them both a little.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

When she finally eased back, it wasn’t because she wanted to stop.

It was because she needed one breath.

Just one.

And even then, she barely gave it to herself.

Her forehead hovered close to his, her lips still only a breath from his, and she let out the smallest, quietest laugh—soft and a little stunned by her own lack of self-control.

Then she looked at him through her lashes, her fingers still threaded loosely into the hair at the back of his neck, and murmured, voice low and warm and a little smile-dragged—

“Okay…”

A tiny breath.

“That one was better.”

And before he could answer—
before he could say anything charming or sweet or dangerous enough to undo her all over again—

Lucy leaned in and kissed him once more.

Lucy didn’t move.

If anything, she leaned a little more.

Her weight settled more fully into him, her body fitting against his like she’d quietly decided this was where she was staying for a while. His steadiness made it easy—effortless, really—and she let herself rely on it in a way she normally would’ve caught and corrected by now.

But she didn’t correct it.

Not tonight.

Her hand stayed at his chest, fingers lightly curled in his shirt, and she tilted her head back again, looking up at him through her lashes. The red glow softened everything—his features, the edges of the room, the way her own smile lingered like she couldn’t quite get rid of it even if she tried.

And she didn’t try.

Not when he was looking at her like that.

Not when she felt like this.

There was something almost playful in her expression now—something that hadn’t been there earlier, something lighter but still threaded through with all the warmth that had been building between them all night.

Her thumb traced a small, absent circle against his chest.

“…you know,” she murmured, voice soft and a little amused, “you’ve seen the darkroom.”

A tiny pause.

“The living room.”

Another faint smile tugged at her mouth.

“The chair.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his more directly now, that spark of mischief growing just a little stronger.

“And technically,” she added, dragging the word just slightly, “you’ve already been invited into my bedroom…”

Her brows lifted a fraction, like she was letting that settle between them on purpose.

Then her mouth curved—slow, knowing, just the smallest bit teasing.

“…and you didn’t even make a comment about it.”

A beat.

“Which, honestly, feels like a missed opportunity.”

Her fingers tightened just slightly against his chest, not pulling, just holding him there with her.

Not pushing.

Not rushing.

Just… nudging the moment forward in her own way.

Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth again, then lifted, softer now but still carrying that same quiet confidence she hadn’t had earlier.

“I mean,” she added, almost under her breath, “I gave you a full tour.”

A tiny, breathy laugh slipped out.

“Very generous of me.”

But the humor didn’t pull her away.

She stayed right there—leaning into him, held up by him, her face tipped up toward his like she wasn’t afraid of where this was going anymore.

If anything—

she looked a little excited by it.

The second Lucy said bedroom like that, Cameron’s whole face gave him away.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

A slow blink. A little shift in his mouth. The faintest pull of heat low in his stomach that climbed fast and mean the second she looked up at him with that spark in her eyes and called him out for not saying anything about it.

Because she was right.

It had absolutely been a missed opportunity.

And the only reason he hadn’t taken it was because he’d been working overtime all night not to be the kind of man who ruined good things by grabbing at them too fast.

Which got significantly harder when she was standing in the red glow of her darkroom, leaned into him like she belonged there, one hand curled in his shirt, looking up at him like that.

He let out a breath through his nose that was almost a laugh.

Almost.

His hand spread a little wider over her waist instead, steadying there like he needed the anchor before he trusted himself to speak.

“That’s true,” he said, voice low and a little rough now. “I did miss that one.”

His thumb moved once against her side.

“In my defense, I was trying real hard not to get kicked out before I made it through the tour.”

That got the smile in his mouth a little crooked again, warmer at the edges, but his eyes stayed locked on hers. Stayed there in that open, boyish, slightly wrecked way that seemed to happen around her whether he meant for it to or not.

“Also,” he added, quieter now, “you looked real pretty standing in it.”

The line came out without polish.
Without strategy.

Just honest.

Very him.
Very now.

And maybe that was what made it land the way it did—because he wasn’t tossing it out like a smooth line. He was saying it because he’d been thinking it from the doorway on and apparently no longer had enough self-control to keep it to himself.

His gaze dipped to her mouth, then lifted back to her eyes.

“The room,” he said, because apparently he still had some survival instinct left. “But you too.”

A little late.
A little helpless.
Enough to make it worse.

He smiled at his own recovery like he knew it wasn’t helping, then looked at her with that same soft heat still sitting under everything and let himself enjoy the fact that she was smiling too. That she was teasing him. That she was leaning into him instead of away.

Because Lucy didn’t do anything halfway when she’d really made up her mind.

And tonight she kept making up her mind in his direction.

That was doing dangerous things to him.

When she said she’d given him the full tour—very generous of her—Cameron huffed a quiet laugh and dipped his head, his forehead nearly brushing hers again.

“You have,” he murmured. “Been an unbelievably gracious host.”

The words carried a smile, but his hand had shifted lower by then, settling at the small of her back in a way that felt more intimate than even the teasing. Not grabbing. Not presumptuous. Just firm and warm and like he wasn’t planning on letting too much space open up between them if he could help it.

His other hand came up slow, easy, fingertips brushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. The gesture made the room go quieter somehow. Or maybe that was just him. Maybe all the noise had been burning off him in layers all night until there was nothing left but this—Lucy in front of him, wine on her breath, red light at the edge of her cheek, looking at him like she wanted him to answer properly.

So he did.

“I noticed the bedroom,” he said softly.

There was no swagger in it.
No wink.
No cheap edge.

Just the truth, given back warm.

“Believe me.”

The low Tennessee drawl in him deepened when he said it—not exaggerated, not put on, just there in the places it always lived when he was tired or happy or wanting something enough that he stopped editing himself.

And Lord, did he want her.

He’d wanted her in pieces all night.
Wanted her on Cherry Street when she kissed him like she was done waiting.
Wanted her on Main when she tucked under his arm like she belonged there.
Wanted her in the kitchen when she stood barefoot with the lilies and the wine and that open look on her face like she’d forgotten how to hide from him for a while.

But here, with her saying things like you’ve already been invited into my bedroom in that quiet, playful voice?

Here it sharpened.

Not into something careless.
Into something deeper.
Hotter.
A little harder to pretend wasn’t happening.

Cameron’s hand at her back pressed just enough to bring her in closer, his chest brushing hers more fully now. The movement was slow enough to ask, not take. And when she stayed right there—when she leaned into it instead of back—his eyes darkened a little in a way he didn’t bother hiding.

“I was just trying to be respectful,” he said.

A beat.

“First trip upstairs and all.”

His mouth tipped.

“Felt rude to stand in your hallway talking about your bedroom before I’d even met the emotionally compromised chair.”

That got his smile back for half a second, but it didn’t last long. Not with the way she was looking at him. Not with the way her thumb kept moving against his chest like she wasn’t even aware she was doing it.

He glanced down at her hand there, then back up to her face.

“Now, though?” he said, voice dropping.

The words sat between them.
Warm.
Dangerous in a softer way than before.

His thumb traced once along the line of her spine through the fabric at her back.

“Now I’m thinking I showed a whole lot of restraint for a man you marched through an apartment and then cornered in a darkroom.”

The line should’ve sounded cockier than it did.

It didn’t.

Because the smile on his mouth wasn’t smug.
It was fond.
Because there was too much wonder in him for smug tonight.

Because even now, standing this close to her, Cameron looked more grateful than victorious.

And that, if anything, made him hotter.

His gaze dropped to her mouth again. Stayed there this time.

When he spoke, it came quieter.

“Especially since you keep lookin’ at me like that.”

He didn’t say how.
Didn’t need to.

Like she was enjoying this.
Like she was done pretending she wasn’t.
Like she might kiss him again in the middle of his sentence and he’d probably thank God and lose all remaining ability to think.

His hand slid a fraction higher and then back down again at her waist, a small restless adjustment that told on him more than he meant it to. Told her that his control was intact, sure—but occupied. Working hard. Not effortless.

And then Cameron smiled, a little breathless around the edges now.

“Missed opportunity, though,” he murmured. “You’re right.”

His forehead brushed hers this time.
Barely.
Enough to make the air between them feel even thinner.

“So let me fix that.”

He gave her half a second.

Not for drama.
For choice.

Then he tipped her chin gently with two fingers and kissed her.

Not soft this time.

Not rough either.

Just deeper from the start—like all the heat he’d been keeping carefully banked had finally gotten permission to show up without wrecking the room. His hand at her back tightened, pulling her fully into him, and the first thing that left him was a low, involuntary sound that he couldn’t have hidden if he’d tried.

Lucy tasted like wine and warmth and the kind of trouble a smarter man might have recognized sooner.

Cameron kissed her like he’d been trying very hard to be good and had finally reached the exact point where good had become impossible in the face of her.

Still careful.
Still listening.

But no longer pretending he wasn’t affected.

His mouth moved with hers slowly at first, then a little more insistently when she stayed in it—when she answered him right there, right then, no hesitation. The hand at her waist slid around to the curve of her lower back, holding her there with a steadiness that bordered on possessive only because he wanted so badly to keep feeling the exact shape of her against him.

Not ownership.
Just want.

Pure and unmistakable.

His other hand stayed at her jaw for a second longer before slipping into her hair at the nape of her neck, fingers spreading there, gentle and warm and just firm enough to tilt her how he wanted when the kiss deepened another shade.

And Jesus.

That did it.

Because Lucy didn’t kiss like she was unsure anymore. She kissed like she meant to be here. Like she was choosing this and knew he knew it.

Cameron had spent years playing baseball—had known the exact electric split-second before a pitch hit a glove, before a bat connected, before a body committed fully to motion and there was no taking it back.

This felt like that.

That clean, charged moment of knowing something had landed.

He kissed her until the room blurred at the edges, until the little red light and the shelves and the photos all fell away and there was only her mouth, her hands, the warmth of her body leaning into his like she trusted him to hold what she gave him.

That part almost undid him more than anything else.

So when he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.

It was because if he kept going at exactly that pace, he was going to stop pretending he had patience left at all.

His lips brushed once, twice, against hers as he eased back just enough to breathe, and the look on his face when he opened his eyes was wrecked in the sweetest way possible. Warm. A little dazed. Entirely too pleased with her.

“Bedroom,” he murmured, voice low and smiling now against her mouth, “definitely worth noticing.”

The line should have been flippant.

Instead it came out rougher than that, like he meant every word and was only barely managing to keep the mood from swallowing him whole.

His thumb stroked once at the small of her back.

Then he looked at her—really looked—and the smile in his eyes softened again.

“You gonna keep saying things like that,” he asked quietly, “or is this the part where I’m supposed to act like a gentleman and recover?”

There was playfulness in it, yes.

But underneath it was that same Wally-like sincerity she kept pulling out of him tonight—the sense that even when he flirted, he was still telling the truth. He was not recovered. He was not remotely normal about any of this. He was standing in Lucy’s darkroom holding her close and trying not to grin like some awestruck idiot because she had just all but admitted she was glad he’d seen her bedroom and maybe wanted him to think about it.

He tipped his head and kissed the corner of her mouth this time.
Then the line of her jaw.
Not fast.
Not greedy.

Deliberate enough to feel like an answer.

His hand flexed once against her back when he felt her lean into it, and that nearly got a curse out of him.

Instead he breathed out a quiet laugh against her skin.

“Lucy,” he said softly—like it had slipped out warmer than he meant it to, because it had—“you are not making it easy to stay respectful in the room with the red lighting.”

The second the words left him, he smiled against her jaw like he knew exactly what he’d done and wasn’t sorry in the least.

Not too slick.
Not too polished.

Just warm southern instinct and a man a little too far gone to monitor every word before it escaped him.

He drew back enough to see her face again, eyes bright now, mouth still close enough to distract him all over.

“But I am trying,” he added.

A beat.

“Real hard.”

That one sat lower.
Hotter.

And because he was only human—and because Lucy had spent the last several minutes being funny and vulnerable and gorgeous in equal measure—his gaze flicked once toward the hall behind her, then back to her with the smallest crooked smile.

“So,” he murmured, fingertips spreading at her waist again, “you wanna stay right here and keep distracting me in your chemical cave?”

A tiny pause.

“Or you wanna let me take another look at that bedroom…”

His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth, then lifted again.

“…seeing as I was a little distracted by what was standing in it the first time?”

The red light of the darkroom felt like it was pulsing in time with Lucy’s heart. She looked up at Cameron—really looked at him—and felt that familiar, terrifying slide of her defenses.

She was twenty-four now, not sixteen. She wasn't the girl who had been shattered by a high school betrayal, and he wasn't the boy who had walked away without a backward glance. But as he stood there, his thumb tracing her spine, the sheer sincerity in his eyes told her that the heart she’d kept under lock and key for six years was already halfway back in his hands.

She was ready to give it to him. She just wasn't ready to let the night end in the one way that felt too final, too fast.

"The chemical cave is a little cramped, don't you think?" she whispered, her voice finally finding its footing.

She didn't give him a choice. She reached out, her hand sliding down his chest until her fingers hooked into his belt loop, and she tugged. She walked backward, leading him out of the red haze and into the cool, silver-lit hallway, her eyes never leaving his. Cameron followed in a daze, his footsteps silent on the hardwood, his presence a heavy, warm weight that seemed to swallow the air between them.

The bedroom was quiet, smelling of her perfume and the faint, lingering scent of the lilies in the kitchen.

Lucy stopped when the back of her knees hit the edge of the mattress. She didn't wait for him to lead. She reached out, her fingers sure and steady as she found the button of his jeans. She felt him hitch a breath—a sharp, ragged sound—as her knuckles grazed the heat of his stomach. She popped the button and slid the zipper down with a slow, deliberate rasp.

She pushed the denim over his hips, letting the heavy fabric pool around his ankles, and then she sat.

Lucy sank onto the edge of the bed, her legs parting just enough to let him stand in the cradle of her thighs. She looked up at him, her blonde hair shimmering like silk in the dim light, her eyes dark with a desire that was six years deep.

"I’m not ready to go all the way tonight, Cam," she murmured, her voice a soft, uncompromising command. She saw his jaw tighten, but he didn't pull away. "But I’m not done with you."

She gripped his hips and pulled, hard, bringing him down as she fell back against the pillows. They hit the bed in a tangle of limbs and heat, the mattress yielding beneath them. Lucy didn't let him breathe. She rolled, straddling his waist, her hands frantic as they mapped the hard, athletic planes of his chest.

The kiss they shared was desperate—raw with everything they hadn't said for a decade. The room was filled with the sound of them: the wet friction of their mouths, the rustle of sheets, and the low, guttural groans Cameron couldn't seem to swallow. Every time she moved, he made a sound that vibrated through her whole body, a wrecked "Jesus, Lucy" that made her feel entirely, dangerously powerful.

She sat back on her heels, her gaze dropping. With one steady, predatory motion, she hooked her thumbs into the elastic of his boxers and pulled them down, finally revealing him to herself in the silver light.

It had been a lifetime.

Lucy leaned forward, her blonde hair spilling over his thighs like a curtain, shutting out the rest of the world. She leaned down to devour him, her mouth finally claiming the only man she’d ever truly let in, wanting to leave him so breathless and broken that he’d never doubt she was his.

The room had narrowed to the silver-lit space between her hands and the jagged, heavy rhythm of Cameron’s breathing. Pale blonde silk spilled over his thighs as Lucy leaned forward, her hair creating a private curtain that shut out the rest of the world, leaving only the two of them in a heated, desperate orbit.

It had been years since she’d allowed herself to be this close to him—even longer since she’d allowed anyone this close at all. The power of it, the raw physical reality of the man who had once shattered her heart now trembling and defenseless under her touch, was a heady, intoxicating weight.

She didn't rush. She wanted to taste the anticipation, to feel the way his pulse thrummed against her lips.

Starting slow, her tongue traced the salt and heat of him, swirling around the sensitive head with an agonizing deliberation that made his breath hitch and stall. She could hear the sharp, fractured catch in his throat—a sound that was half-groan and half-prayer. Cameron’s hands flew to her head, his fingers burying themselves deep in her blonde strands, not to pull her away, but to anchor himself to the mattress as his knuckles turned white.

She looked up at him once, her eyes dark and heavy, catching the way his head was thrown back against her pillows. His jaw was set so tight it looked painful, his eyes squeezed shut as he lived in the sensation she was crafting for him.

"Lucy," he choked out, the name a wrecked, low rasp that vibrated through the mattress.

She didn't answer with words. She leaned in further, taking him deeper with a smooth, relentless intent. As she moved to take him fully, her throat met the solid reality of him, and a slight, muffled gagging sound escaped her. Her eyes watered in the dim light, the physiological reaction only adding to the raw, unpolished intensity of the moment.

The sound seemed to shatter whatever remained of Cameron's iron-clad restraint.

He let out a long, low curse, his hips bucking instinctively off the bed as his grip in her hair tightened. Lucy stayed there for a heartbeat, savoring the fullness and the overwhelming presence of him, before she began to move. She kept it rhythmic and devastatingly thorough, her hands sliding down to grip the hard bone of his hips, pulling him even closer.

She wanted him to feel the weight of every year she’d spent waiting in the silence he’d left behind. She wanted to leave him so breathless and broken that he’d never be able to look at her bedroom door again without remembering exactly how it felt to be entirely at her mercy. She was prepared to give him her heart tonight, but first, she was going to make sure he never forgot the taste of her surrender.

Cameron couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure he even remembered how. His entire universe had contracted to the silver-lit shadows of her bedroom, the faint, lingering smell of the lilies sitting out in her kitchen, and the devastating, all-consuming heat of her mouth. He felt the soft slide of her hair against his thighs, a ghost of a touch that sent shivers racing up his abdomen. This was her space. Her sanctuary. The place she had built when she was picking up the pieces he’d carelessly dropped. And she had brought him here.

When she made that sound—that soft, involuntary, muffled catch in her throat as she took him deeper—it was like a live wire snapping straight against his spine. It wasn't just the physical sensation, though that was enough to make his vision blur. It was the absolute, staggering vulnerability of the act. The fact that she was willing to be this exposed with him, to give him this much of herself after everything he had broken, was completely undoing him.

He swore again, the sound tearing out of his chest ragged, low, and entirely stripped of whatever pride he had left. His large hands were tangled in the cool silk of her hair, his fingers curling tight, but he forced himself not to pull, not to guide her, not to do anything that even vaguely felt like taking. He was just holding on because if he didn't anchor himself to her, he felt like he was going to shatter into a million pieces right there on her mattress. He was terrifyingly close to the edge, completely and entirely unmoored by the slow, agonizing drag of her lips.

He forced his eyes open, looking down through the hazy, dizzying fog of his own wrecked breathing. The moonlight filtering through the window caught the slope of her shoulders and the pale, beautiful curtain of her hair. The sheer reality of it—the undeniable fact that *Lucy Corbett* had let him into her most personal space, stripped him down, and was currently claiming him with this kind of fierce, unapologetic ownership—felt like a miracle he hadn't earned and was terrified to wake up from.

Six years ago, he had been a stupid, arrogant kid who walked through the world thinking it would just hand him whatever he wanted. He had been careless with the best thing he’d ever had. Tonight, under the heavy weight of her touch, he was a man who knew exactly what a second chance cost. He looked at the woman between his knees—stronger, sharper, and so incredibly beautiful it physically hurt to look at her—and felt perfectly, blissfully terrified of her. He loved her so much his chest ached with the sheer volume of it.
"Luce," he breathed out, his voice shaking so badly it barely sounded like his own. His hips jerked up to meet her against her hands, a helpless, involuntary response to the agonizingly slow, deep slide of her mouth.

He forced his hands to release her hair, terrified of accidentally being too rough, of falling back into the reckless boy who took things for granted. Instead, his hands dropped, his wide palms flattening against the mattress on either side of her head. He gripped the fitted sheet in his fists, his broad shoulders tensing, the heavy, athletic muscles in his arms and chest pulling visibly taut as he tried to give her exactly what she was demanding without losing his mind completely. He was practically vibrating with the effort of staying still.

He wanted to touch her everywhere. He wanted to drag her up his body, to bury his face in her neck, to wrap his arms around her waist and kiss the breath out of her lungs until she forgot the last six years even happened. But she had told him she wasn't done with him. She was leading this. And Cameron was going to let her take whatever she wanted, for exactly as long as she wanted it. Every deliberate, torturous drag of her tongue, every breathless, wet sound echoing in the quiet room felt like an absolution he was desperate for.

"Sweetheart," he gasped, his head falling back against the pillows with a heavy thud, his eyes squeezing shut again. His chest heaved, a fine layer of sweat pricking at his skin in the cool Tennessee night air. "Jesus, you're—God, I'm yours. I'm yours."

He meant it as a total surrender. He had walked into this apartment tonight hoping just to sit on her rust-colored velvet couch, listen to a record, and maybe, if he was incredibly lucky, earn a second kiss. Now, stripped bare under the silver light, completely at the mercy of the woman who had built a whole, beautiful, layered life without him, Cameron realized he didn't just want her to trust him again. He wanted to belong to her. He wanted to be the safe place she finally let her guard down in.

And as she pulled him deeper, leaving him totally, completely ruined in the quiet dark of her bedroom, he knew he already did.

The sound of his voice—that wrecked, gravelly vibration of her name—hit Lucy like a physical spark. Luce. He hadn’t called her that in years, not with that specific brand of desperation. Hearing it now, muffled by the silver-heavy silence of her bedroom, tasted better than the finest wine. It was the sound of a man who had finally realized he was no longer the one holding the map.

She didn't slow down. If anything, Cameron’s undoing only fueled her. She felt the way his large frame shuddered beneath her, the rhythmic, helpless hitch of his hips that spoke of a man right on the precipice. It was deeply, darkly satisfying to know that she was the one who had brought him there. For six years, she had carried the weight of what he’d broken; tonight, she was letting him carry the weight of her desire, and it was a burden he seemed more than willing to bear.

She heard him gasp out "sweetheart," a broken prayer against the headboard, and a fierce, protective sense of ownership flared in her chest. She wanted to leave a mark on him that no other woman could ever hope to erase. She wanted to redefine the very concept of pleasure for him, to make every memory of his life without her feel like a pale, flickering shadow compared to the blinding heat of this moment.

Moving with a slow, deliberate grace, Lucy reached up. While she continued the agonizingly deep, rhythmic slide of her mouth, her right hand began a slow trek across his heated skin. Her palm flattened against his lower abdomen, her fingers splaying over the ridged, tensed muscle of his abs. He was rock hard, vibrating with the effort of staying still for her, and she took a moment to just feel him. She tracked the line of his V-taper, her thumb grazing the dark hair that led down into the shadows, before her hand drifted lower to cup him—a grounding, possessive weight that drew a sharp, choked-off shout from his lungs.

She wanted him to feel adored, cherished, and completely consumed. But she wasn't done playing with the tension.

Slowly, Lucy broke the contact of her mouth, the sudden absence of heat causing him to let out a low, mourning whimper. She didn't let him breathe for long. She began to crawl up the length of his body, her knees pinning his thighs, her movements fluid and feline. She pressed soft, lingering kisses to the hollow of his hip, then moved to the center of his stomach, feeling the frantic pulse of his heart through his skin.

She dragged her tongue upward, tracing the line of his sternum until she reached his chest. With a deliberate flick, she licked over his nipple, catching the bud between her teeth for a fleeting, sharp second that made his back arch off the mattress.

"Luce," he choked out, his hands searching for her, but she caught his wrists, pinning them lightly as she moved higher.

She kissed the frantic pulse in his neck, tasting the salt of his skin, before trailing her lips along the sharp, stubbled line of his jaw. She hovered there for a heartbeat, her breath mingling with his wrecked exhales, letting him wait, letting him ache. Then, finally, she turned her head and captured his mouth.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was deep, hungry, and full of the six years of silence that had sat between them. She kissed him until the room spun, until he forgot his own name, until the only thing left in the universe was the taste of her and the absolute, undeniable truth that he belonged to her.

Lucy finally broke the kiss, but she didn’t pull away. She stayed right there, her breath hitching in time with his, her heart hammering against his ribs as she looked down at him in the silver-drenched dark. She reached up, her palms framing his face, her thumbs tracing the high, sharp line of his cheekbones. He felt so real, so solid, and so entirely hers in this moment that it made her chest tight.

She wanted to memorize him—not the boy from six years ago, but this man. The man who had grown into his edges, whose face bore the weight of the years they’d spent apart.

She began to pepper his face with soft, lingering kisses, moving with a slow, agonizing tenderness that was almost more overwhelming than the heat from moments before. She pressed her lips to his cheek, tasting the salt of his skin, then moved to the bridge of his nose. She kissed his closed eyelids, her eyelashes brushing against his skin, and felt the way he trembled under her touch.

"Look at me, Cam," she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound in the quiet room.

When he forced his eyes open, they were dark, blown out, and filled with a raw, terrifying honesty. She saw the love there, the kind that didn't just burn but sustained, and she felt a corresponding ache in her own throat.

"I want you to feel everything," she murmured, her thumbs smoothing the tension from his brow. "Every single second of this. I want you to remember that I’m the one holding you. Not some memory, not some ghost. Just me."

She leaned down, pressing her forehead against his, closing her eyes as she inhaled the scent of him—soap, woodsmoke, and the clean Tennessee night air. For a long, breathless minute, she just held him there, her hands anchoring him to the present, to her bed, to the life she had built. She was letting him in, truly and completely, and as she felt his hands finally move from the sheets to tentatively rest on her waist, Lucy knew there was no going back for either of them.

Cameron felt a tremor start deep in his chest and radiate outward, shivering through every heavy, tense muscle in his body. Her words—*“Just me”*—wrapped around his heart like a vice. He stared up into her eyes in the dim silver light, feeling the soft, grounding pressure of her forehead against his, and something inside him finally, permanently broke open.

He didn’t want to hold back anymore. He didn't want to be careful. He just wanted *her*.

His large hands, resting tentatively on her waist, tightened. With a low, rough exhale, Cameron shifted his weight. He moved with the smooth, athletic grace of a man who knew exactly how to use his body, but with a careful, deliberate reverence that made it perfectly clear he was still asking permission. Gently, but with an undeniable, heavy intent, he rolled his hips, shifting their center of gravity until Lucy was flat on her back against the mattress and he was hovering over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the bedroom.

He didn’t break her gaze. He braced his weight on his forearms, framing her head, and brought his mouth down on hers.

This kiss wasn’t an apology. It was an absolute declaration. Cameron poured every ounce of his regret, his six years of aching absence, and his raw, desperate hunger into the way his mouth moved over hers. It was deep, wet, and utterly consuming. His tongue swept inside, claiming her, tasting himself on her lips, kissing her with a fierce, possessive heat that told her exactly how completely she had ruined him. He angled his head, a guttural groan vibrating in his chest as he slanted his mouth over hers again and again, letting her feel the hard, heavy evidence of his arousal pressing flush against her inner thigh. He wanted her to feel the absolute magnitude of what she did to him.

When he finally pulled back to breathe, his chest was heaving, his eyes blown entirely black with need. He looked down at her in the shadows, the boyish sincerity stripped away to reveal a man entirely focused on worshipping the woman beneath him.

His hands moved to the hem of her soft vintage camisole. He didn't rush, his knuckles grazing the warm, bare skin of her stomach as he slowly pushed the fabric up. He pulled it over her head, tossing it blindly onto the hardwood floor, his eyes never leaving the pale, silver-lit canvas of her skin. He leaned down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the center of her chest, right over the frantic pulse of her heart, before his hands moved to the button of her pants.

His fingers were trembling slightly, completely affected by her, but he made quick work of the heavy denim. He slid the pants down her legs, taking her delicate lace underwear with it, stripping away the last physical barriers between them until she was completely bare under the moonlight.

Cameron let the clothes hit the floor and shifted backward, settling his weight onto his knees. He looked at her, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, his gaze sweeping over the soft, beautiful lines of her body. He looked at her like she was a miracle he still couldn't believe he was allowed to touch.

With a soft, shuddering exhale, he moved down the bed. He settled himself between her thighs, his broad shoulders parting her legs, opening her completely to him. He gently gripped her hips, his large, warm hands anchoring her securely to the mattress.

He didn't just want to make her feel good; he wanted to devour her. He wanted to give back every ounce of the devastating pleasure she had just forced on him.

Cameron leaned down, his warm breath fanning over her damp center before he pressed his first kiss exactly where she needed it most. He tasted the slick, heavy proof of her desire, and a low, feral growl vibrated in the back of his throat. He parted her delicate petals with his thumbs, opening her up, and then his tongue traced a long, wet, agonizingly slow path right up her center.

He was relentless. He used his mouth with the same careful, devastating focus he applied to everything else he cared about. His tongue lashed deeply, thoroughly, swirling over her most sensitive bundle of nerves before he sucked hard, his scruff scratching deliciously against her soft inner thighs. He held her hips in a vise grip, keeping her perfectly positioned against his mouth as he consumed her, showing her with every wet, heavy stroke of his tongue, every ragged breath, and every deep, hungry kiss exactly how irrevocably his heart belonged to her.

He didn’t let up for a single second. Shifting his grip, he dragged one large hand from her hip, his thumb replacing the steady, agonizing friction of his tongue right at her center. He kept up the devastating pressure, drawing a shuddering gasp from his own chest, before sliding two blunt, calloused fingers deep inside her slick heat. She melted perfectly around him, yielding to the intrusion, and a low, ragged sigh tore from his throat at the feeling. He curled his fingers upward, establishing a slow, deep, driving rhythm that mimicked exactly what he wanted to do to her, while his mouth dropped lower to press hot, open-mouthed kisses against the trembling inside of her thigh. He worked her with a focused, reverent patience—his hand and mouth moving in a perfect, ruthless tandem—utterly determined to pull her completely apart before he ever thought of letting her piece herself back together.

Lucy was lost. The world outside the four walls of the bedroom had ceased to exist the moment Cameron’s weight settled over her, his massive frame a warm, protective eclipse that blotted out everything but the scent of him and the staggering heat of his skin. When he kissed her, she didn't just feel it in her mouth; she felt it in her marrow. Her hands, frantic and seeking, scrambled over the hard, bunching muscles of his shoulders before sliding down the broad expanse of his back. She traced the dip of his spine, her nails grazing his skin as she tried to pull him closer, needing to anchor herself to the only thing that felt real.

When he stripped her bare, she felt no shame, only a raw, soaring vulnerability. As he moved down the bed, Lucy’s breath hitched, a soft, broken sound catching in her throat. As his broad shoulders moved between her thighs, she didn't hesitate. She opened for him willingly, her legs falling apart in a silent, desperate invitation, offering him everything she was.

As he settled there, his hands anchoring her hips, she reached down, her fingers trembling as they framed his jaw. She looked down at him through the silver-dark, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. For a fleeting second, she just wanted to memorize the sight of him—the man who held her entire world in his hands—before his mouth finally made contact.

The first touch of his tongue sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to her core, arching her back off the mattress. Her hands instinctively flew to his head, her fingers diving deep into the thick silk of his hair. She gripped him, her knuckles white, anchoring herself as he began to systematically dismantle her. He was devouring her, his tongue a ruthless, wet flame that licked away every thought she had ever had.

The sensation was too much, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to drown her. Her breath came in ragged, shallow stutters. Seeking some way to ground the soaring intensity, she let one hand slip from his hair. Her palm slid down her own body, over the curve of her ribs, until she cupped her own breast.

Her fingers squeezed the soft flesh, her thumb rolling over the peaking tip in a frantic, instinctive rhythm that mirrored the devastating work he was doing between her legs. The dual sensation—the sharp, focused ache in her chest and the heavy, wet heat of his mouth—sent her spiraling. She was at his absolute mercy, a creature made of nothing but nerve endings and need, her head tossing back against the pillow as she succumbed to the beautiful, ruthless worship of the man who had finally come home.

The sound of his name was the only thing she had left—a broken, breathless prayer that spilled from her lips the moment he drove those calloused fingers deep inside her.

“Cameron,” she whimpered, the syllables fracturing as her hips bucked instinctively against his hand. “Cameron.”

She was completely undone. Every time his tongue lashed against her or his thumb applied that rhythmic, ruthless pressure, her grip in his hair tightened, pulling him even closer into her heat. She was a live wire, sparking and desperate under his touch. The hand cupping her breast squeezed harder, her own touch a pale reflection of the fire he was stoking between her thighs.

She looked down at him again, her vision blurred by the sheer intensity of what he was doing to her. He was so big, so focused, his broad shoulders filling the space between her knees as he worked with that devastating, quiet reverence. Seeing him there, seeing the man she had ached for over six long years completely consumed by her, was what finally pushed her over the edge.

“Cameron, please,” she sobbed, her voice a low, melodic vibration of pure surrender.

She wasn't asking him to stop; she was begging him to take the rest of her. Her internal muscles clamped down around his fingers, a rhythmic, pulsing squeeze that signaled the beginning of the end. Her head fell back, her throat bared to the moonlight, as her name for him turned into a long, keening moan that filled the quiet room, marking the exact moment she shattered beneath him.