Camila's POV
The first thing I noticed when I woke was warmth. For one disorienting moment, I thought I'd dreamed it — the creek, the fall, the kiss. But then
I slipped out of his hold as gently as I could, padding barefoot down the hall until I heard the faint clatter of pans from the kitchen.
He was cooking.
Of course he was.
I leaned against the doorway, watching him move around the stove. He wasn't graceful, not exactly — too tall for the cramped space, bumping his elbow against the counter now and then — but there was a quiet focus to him. The way he flipped the pancakes with that small crease between his brows. The way he kept checking the oven clock, like timing was a matter of life or death.
God, when did he start looking like this? Or… maybe I'd just forgotten. That steadiness. The way he takes care of things when no one asks him to. The way he used to take care of me.
I hugged my arms tighter around myself, trying to ignore the ache building low in my chest.
Anthony's POV
I'd just set the last pancake on the plate when the front door creaked open.
"Morning," Dad's voice came, rough but calm, like always.
I turned just as he stepped into the kitchen, work jacket still on. He paused when he spotted Camila hovering in the doorway. For a second, I braced for awkward silence. But instead, Dad's mouth curved — the smallest smile, but still a smile.
"So this is the famous Camila," he said, surprising me enough that I almost dropped the spatula. His gaze softened. "You look like your mom."
Camila blinked, startled.
Dad only shrugged, like that explained everything. "Nice to finally meet you." Then, with a pointed glance at me: "Took him long enough."
"Dad—" I muttered, heat crawling up my neck, but he was already grabbing his coffee mug and heading upstairs like he hadn't just dropped a bomb in the middle of the kitchen.
Camila's POV
I was still frozen when Anthony finally looked at me again. His expression was a mix of disbelief and resignation — like this wasn't the first time his dad had blindsided him, but it was rare enough to leave him off balance.
He stepped forward, sliding a plate of pancakes in front of me and nudging a glass of orange juice closer until it was full to the brim.
Anti
"We'll talk later," he said quietly. Not a question. A promise.
Before I could respond, he bent down and pressed a soft kiss against my forehead. Just like that. As if it was the easiest thing in the world.
I sat there stunned, fork halfway to my mouth, heart hammering. When I finally managed to take a bite, the sweetness of the pancake almost made me dizzy.
And then, just as I was swallowing, his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen, jaw tightening, before he answered.
"Kara," he said, voice low.
Of course. Perfect timing, as always.
Her voice was quick, rushed.
"I'm outside."
I barely had time to form the words What? before the doorbell never rang — because the front door swung open like she'd done it a thousand times.
Kara stepped inside, phone still clutched in her hand, her hair wind-tossed, her eyes already locked on me.
And then she saw Camila.
She froze. Just… froze.
Camila didn't look up at first. She was still sitting at the table, fork in hand, though I noticed now she wasn't really eating — just pushing a piece of pancake across her plate like she was trying to erase it. When Kara's gaze cut sharp between us, Camila's shoulders went stiff. She didn't speak. Didn't ask. Didn't move. She just… pretended. Pretended she didn't notice the sudden weight in the air.
But her silence hurt worse than words.
"Kara—" I started, but she beat me to it.
"Who is she?" Her voice cracked halfway, anger and something raw laced through it.
I glanced at Camila, then back. "She's my girlfriend."
The room seemed to fold in on itself. Kara's face went blank, the kind of blank that only happens when something slices too deep to show. She nodded once — sharp, clipped — and turned before I could say anything else.
The door shut harder than it should have.
For a moment, the quiet was unbearable. The air smelled like syrup, like coffee, but all I could taste was guilt.
Camila's fork scraped against her plate, slow and deliberate, like she wanted the sound to fill the silence. Her expression didn't shift, but the sadness in her eyes was impossible to miss.
"She thinks you're—"
"No," I cut in, moving closer, kneeling down so she'd have no choice but to look at me. "Listen to me. She's just a classmate. My dad made me take this business course and she… she wanted something more, but I shut it down. I swear to you, Camila, I don't want her. I've already made my choice."
Her lips pressed together, trembling despite her best effort to keep steady.
I leaned in, brushing my lips against her forehead, softer than before, lingering until I felt some of the tension leave her shoulders.
"If you give me another chance," I whispered, "I'll prove it. Things will be different this time."
She didn't answer right away. Just sat there, fork still in hand, staring at the pancakes like they held the truth she was afraid to say out loud. Finally, she gave the smallest nod.
"Finish eating," I told her, rising to my feet. "Then I'll take you somewhere. Somewhere that's just us."
Her eyes flicked up to mine, hesitant but hopeful. She nodded again, more firmly this time.
I leaned down, kissed the crown of her head once more, then turned toward the stairs.
By the time I reached the landing, the weight of it all hit me — Kara's hurt, Camila's doubt, my dad's knowing smile.
I gripped the railing, drew a sharp breath, and forced myself forward.
Shower first. Answers later.