She was gone.
Again.
I stepped out of the pastry shop, scanning the street like I could rewind time. Then I saw her—Camila—mounting the back of some guy's bike.
He was tall, easy-going, confident in a way that made my stomach twist.
Camila didn't even look back.
The guy kicked up the stand and they rode off, wind catching her hair, her arms around his waist like she'd done it a hundred times before.
I cursed under my breath, running toward my car, my thoughts spiraling fast. Who was he? Was that why she hadn't answered my texts all day?
I drove through town like an idiot, hoping to spot them, hoping to explain, hoping it wasn't too late.
But I didn't find her.
So I parked a little up the road from her house and waited like a ghost in the night, watching the gate like it would tell me something.
An hour or two passed.
Finally, a bike pulled up. It was him. And Camila.
She got off, smiling softly, her arms full of some takeout bag. He said something that made her laugh. Then he leaned in and hugged her.
It wasn't anything dramatic—but it felt like a punch to the chest.
She hugged him back. And when he said goodbye, she stood at the gate for a second before going inside.
I didn't wait to see more.
I turned the key and drove across the prperty front and into my drive way
Camila's POV
I hadn't meant to end up on Tyler's bike.
I was just outside the pastry shop, breath caught in my throat after seeing Anthony and Lana. I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
Then I heard his voice.
"Cami?"
I turned and saw Tyler—my oldest friend, my one-person emergency hotline.
He took one look at me and didn't ask questions. Just held out his helmet and nodded.
"Hop on."
I did. Without a word.
He took me to his place, a cozy house cluttered with nostalgia and warmth. We ended up playing Call of Duty and then Mortal Kombat—we took turns kicking each other's butt's
He grilled some cheese sandwiches and poured way too much juice in a giant cup.
It was… nice.
He didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't need to. That's why I trusted him.
Later, when he dropped me home, he parked at the gate and walked me to the front. His hug was warm, safe.
"You don't have to talk about it," he said gently. "Just remember—whatever it is, it'll work itself out. Promise."
I nodded, words caught behind my lips.
He waited until I was inside before riding off.
Maybe it was better this way maybe he was happier but why lead me on or maybe I was the delusional one
Or maybe I wasn't enough
Anthony pov
I got in and tossed my keys onto the nightstand—right next to her hair tie. The same one she'd left behind at the creek. It was still there, staring at me like a silent reminder of everything I was feeling but couldn't say.
Being home didn't make it any better. The place reeked of my father's cologne—sharp and suffocating—and something else. My stomach twisted when I noticed a pair of women's heels near the front door. Great. He had someone over. Again.
Look, I get it—he's a grown man. But was it too much to ask that he take it to a hotel instead of bringing his latest fuck slut home? This wasn't just inconsiderate—it felt downright disrespectful.
I tried to ignore it, but the walls in this house were thin or maybe they were just louder than they should have been, and the universe clearly hated me. From down the hall, I could hear them. The low thud of the bed against the wall. Rhythmic. Unrelenting. Skin on skin, breathy moans, and muffled groans like some twisted soundtrack I never asked to hear. My jaw clenched.
It wasn't just the sound—it was the principle. The carelessness. The fact that he could throw himself into someone like that without a second thought while I was here—stuck in my own head—replaying every second I'd spent with Camila like it was on loop.
I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about what it might feel like to be close to her. To hold her, kiss her, touch her in the ways I could only imagine. To me inside her ,But even in those thoughts, it was about more than just lust—it was about connection. About her laugh, the way she leaned forward when she was excited, the way her eyes softened when she looked at me. It wasn't just physical.
So yeah, maybe I was overreacting. Or maybe I was just tired—of this house, of my father's indifference, of not knowing where I stood with her.
I wanted to go see her. To talk. To make sure we were still okay. But something in me held back. Instead, I grabbed my headphones, lay down, and blasted music loud enough to drown out the noise from down the hall and the noise in my head.
Eventually, exhaustion won, and I fell asleep with the image of Camila still behind my eye lids