Anthony's POV
Her reply came
Camila:
Sure.
7 at the creek it is.
Short.
But she'd said yes.
And that was enough to set something restless moving in my chest.
I set my phone down and leaned forward, elbows on my knees, trying to ignore the small, stupid grin tugging at my mouth.
Alright. If we were doing this, I was going to be ready.
I spent the next morning half-working, half-distracted, checking the clock like it was a game I was losing. Around three, I finally gave up pretending and started moving.
Errands first. Gas station — I needed to fill up anyway. my brain was running on muscle memory.
By the time I got home, I'd set an alarm for 6:15 — just in case I lost track again. I changed my shirt twice, argued with myself about whether to wear the jacket (too formal? too hopeful?) and finally decided against it.
At 6:45, I was already at the creek.The air smelled like wet grass and something faintly sweet, and I tried to breathe it in slow.
Every crinkle or snap on the nearby trail made me look up. But none of them were her.
Camila's POV
It wasn't that I meant to be late.
It was just… one thing after another.
First, I couldn't find my sneakers. Then the coffee I'd made decided it wanted to decorate my shirt. Then I realized I'd never actually decided if I was giving him just the grey shirt or everything else in the tote bag too.
And by the time I left the house, it was already 7:05.
I started jogging, muttering apologies to no one in particular, my tote thumping against my hip.
That's when my foot caught on the edge of the trail.
I went down hard, palms first, knee catching on the gravel.
"Shit—"
It stung instantly. My palms were scraped raw, and there was already a thin trickle of blood making its way down my shin. I sat there for maybe three seconds before forcing myself back up. I wasn't going to be any later.
By the time I saw him, I was limping, but trying to make it look casual.
Anthony's POV
I spotted her before she saw me.
At first, it was just that familiar shape moving toward me — but then I noticed the uneven steps. The way her tote bounced awkwardly. And when she finally lifted her head, I caught the scrape on her knee.
"Camila—" I started toward her, but she waved me off.
"I'm fine," she said. Which, judging by the grit in her voice, meant she wasn't fine at all.
I didn't think about it. I just closed the gap, glanced down at her knee again, she needed first aid it wasn't that bad by the looks but still
"Come on," I said, already steering her toward the trail. I have a first aid kit at home lests go
"It's literally the same distance to both our houses," she protested.
"Yeah, but mine's smoother. Less of a climb."
"That's not—"
Before she could finish, I bent and scooped her up. She made a startled noise, her tote slipping against her side.
"Anthony, put me down!"
"Not happening," I muttered, ignoring the heat creeping up the back of my neck. "You're bleeding."
She huffed but didn't fight me too hard after that. Her hands stayed curled in her lap, not touching me, but not pushing away either.
Camila's POV
I was trying very, very hard not to notice how steady his arms felt around me. Or the fact that his shirt smelled like the laundry detergent he used to keep at my place.
I stared straight ahead until I realized he was staring at my shirt.
Not the shirt. Not his.
This one was huge, soft, and pale blue — something I'd stolen from my brother's closet before he went off to college.
I saw the flicker in Anthony's eyes — quick, assessing, maybe even a little jealous — before he masked it. Nice shirt she muttered
"It's not… a guy's," I said, before I could stop myself.
His brow lifted slightly. "Didn't ask."
"You were thinking it."
His mouth twitched — almost a smile, but not quite. "Maybe." I am not quite sure why it am explaining my self to him
I looked away, my pulse thudding harder than it had any right to.
We could have both made it home on our own.
But instead, he carried me the whole way.
And I didn't tell him to stop.
. Camila's POV
The walk — or, more accurately, the carry — to his place passed in a blur of stubborn silence and quick glances I pretended not to notice.
When we stepped inside, the air was still and quiet.
"No one home?" I asked, more to fill the space than because I cared about the answer.
He shook his head. "Dad's working late. As usual."
He hesitated, then added, "And the puppy is spending the night at the vet. Got a little too curious about a bee."
I blinked. "Is he—?"
"He'll be fine. Just… puffy and embarrassed." The corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, but it didn't quite happen.
So it was just us.
He didn't pause long enough for me to get my bearings — just started up the stairs like it was the most natural thing in the world, still carrying me like I weighed nothing.
When he pushed the door open to his room, the first thing that hit me was the smell.
God.
It was him.
That warm, clean scent that had lived in my pillow for weeks after he left.
He set me down on the edge of his bed with a gentleness that made my chest ache.
"Stay there," he said, already moving toward the hallway. "I'll grab the first aid kit."
The door clicked shut behind him.
I sat there, looking around like I wasn't supposed to, taking in everything. This was the first time I'd been here. He'd invited me before — more than once — but I'd always found a reason not to come.
Now I couldn't figure out why.
The room was… him.
Organized, but with just enough chaos to feel real. Books stacked on the nightstand. A hoodie tossed over his desk chair. A photo frame faced inward, like it was hiding something.
The comforter under me was soft, a little worn at the edges, and my hands curled in it without thinking — the same way they curled in his shirt when he kissed my forehead.
My heart thudded.
The sound of his footsteps coming back made me pull my hands away like I'd been caught stealing something.
Anthony's POV
When I came back in, she was sitting exactly where I'd left her — except her shoulders were tight, like she'd been holding her breath.
I set the kit down on the bed and knelt in front of her, glancing up. "Alright, let's see it."
She extended her leg, hesitating just enough to make me notice. The scrape on her knee wasn't deep, but it was raw, with tiny flecks of gravel caught in the skin.
I worked carefully, cleaning away the dirt, every brush of my fingers against her skin pulling my focus tighter.
"You didn't have to carry me," she said quietly.
"Yeah," I muttered, not looking up, "but I wanted to."
Her breath hitched — so faint I almost thought I imagined it.
I wrapped the bandage, smoothed it down, and finally met her eyes.
Big mistake.
Because now I couldn't look away.
I was still kneeling in front of her, hands resting loosely on my thighs, when she cleared her throat.
"So, um… I brought all your stuff," she said suddenly. "It's in the tote. Jacket, charger, that book you lent me. And the shirt—"
I nodded, my eyes locked on her face, catching the way her gaze kept darting away from mine.
"You wanted your stuff back," she continued, words tumbling faster now, "so I figured I might as well bring everything at once. Make it easy. You know. Rip the Band-Aid off."
Her voice was moving, but I barely heard it. I was lost in the way her lips shaped the words, the way her breath hitched every time she noticed I was still staring.
She shifted, nervous, and I found myself leaning forward, slowly, without breaking eye contact. Still on my knees, inching closer until her breaths came shallow and quick.
Her hands fidgeted in her lap. Mine itched to take them.
I stopped just close enough to feel the faint warmth of her exhale against my cheek.
"Can I kiss you?" My voice was low, almost rough.
She swallowed, her eyes flickering to my mouth, and then—breathless—she nodded.
That was all I needed.
I closed the gap in an instant, kissing her like I'd been holding it back for months. Her hands shot up into my curls, pulling me closer, anchoring me there. I cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, deepening the kiss until she made a sound in her throat that almost undid me.
I nipped gently at her bottom lip, and she responded with a soft gasp, her fingers sliding to the back of my head.
When I finally pulled back, both of us breathing hard, I stayed close enough to rest my forehead against hers.
"I want something back," I whispered.
Her lashes fluttered, her breath shaky. "What?"
"You," I said. "Not my stuff. You."
She stared at me like I'd just taken the ground out from under her, but in the best way.
She rested her head against my shoulder, the tiniest whisper slipping from her lips.
It was so soft, so fleeting, I didn't catch it. I was still caught up in the electricity between us, in the way her body fit against mine like it had never learned how to be anywhere else.
I stood, guiding her gently back onto the bed. She let me, eyes searching mine, and I laid down beside her, pulling her into me until she was pressed against my chest.
We didn't speak.
She stayed in my arms, breathing in my scent, her fingers curling in my shirt. I listened to her breaths slow, felt the small shift of her weight as she drifted off.
I just watched her.
And for the first time since the breakup, the ache in my chest eased.
I wasn't sure where we'd go from here.
But I knew this—right now, with her in my arms—was the closest I'd been to peace in months.