“Ruin what?”
“This,” I said softly. “Whatever this could be.” The words hung there, awkward, honest, trembling on the edge of confession. I stepped back another pace, trying to rebuild the wall that had just crumbled.
“Go to sleep, Cameron.”
Cameron sat up, searching my face. I couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Please,” I added, quieter now. “Before I change my mind.”
I turned away, retreating to the hallway, leaving behind the faintest echo of my own heartbeat. The door to my room closed, and I leaned against it, shaking, the taste of Cameron still burning on my tongue.
God help me. I’ve already ruined it.
Cameron
The room still hummed with the ghost of a touch. I sat there, breathing hard, my skin fire and ice at the same time.
Did I just dream that?
I hadn’t meant for it to happen, not that exact moment, but I’d wanted it. Then Theo was there, looking like every rule I’d ever wanted to break, and suddenly it was happening.
And then he stopped it.
I pressed my palms over my eyes, trying to catch up. Theo’s words kept replaying, the way his voice had cracked onI’ll ruin it.
That wasn’t rejection I’d heard but fear.
I swallowed hard, forcing my breathing to calm down. I wasn’t angry—I couldn’t be. Theo’s control was as much armour as habit; I’d seen that from the start. What hurt wasn’t being stopped—it was seeing the cost of it written all over Theo’s face.
I looked at the couch, the sketchbook fallen open to a half-finished drawing, a faint smudge where Theo’s hand had brushed the page.
“Ruin it,” I whispered to the empty room. “You couldn’t if you tried.”
I debated going to Theo’s door and knocking, asking to be heard, but I didn’t dare. Instead, I closed the sketchbook, turned off the lamp, and climbed between the sheets.
Sleep didn’t come for a long time. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the look in Theo’s, the want, fear, and longing, all tangled together,
Maybe what scares him isn’t losing control. Maybe it’s what happens if he finally lets go.
Chapter Fifteen
Theo
The morning lightcame in cold and merciless.
I stood at the kitchen counter, pretending to read the day’s emails on my phone while I waited for the kettle to boil.
Cameron was in the bathroom.
Every sound in the flat felt too loud: the creak of floorboards, the scrape of a mug on the counter. Even the air seemed altered, heavy with memory. I told myself it was okay to draw a line, that control was a choice. Now every inch of the room reminded me the line had already been crossed.
I sat in the armchair, listening to the sounds from the bathroom. When Cameron finally emerged, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, eyes downcast, my throat tightened.
“Morning.” Cameron clicked the kettle, then dropped a tea bag into a mug.
“There’s fresh coffee in the cafetiere if you want it.”
“Thanks, but I prefer tea this morning.”