Anthony pov
I took the clothes she offered—one of her brothers t-shirts and a pair of soft joggers, probably never worn—and thanked her under my breath. My hands brushed hers. Even that brief contact sent a pulse of heat through my chest.
The bathroom upstairs was dim, fog creeping over the mirror from the storm outside. I peeled off my soaked shirt and sweats, catching sight of myself in the mirror—shirt clinging like second skin, my hair a dripping mess of ruined curls, scratches lining my forearm from branches I must've brushed through in the pasture. One even cut across my forehead, barely bleeding now. I hadn't noticed them until just now.
But I barely looked at the scratches.
All I could think about was her.
Camila.
The way she looked when she opened the door and saw me standing there, soaked to the bone. The way she hugged me—not hesitantly, not awkwardly, but completely. Like she needed it. Like she needed me. The soft press of her body against mine,her brests prested against my chest,the way her chest rose and fell with every shallow breath. Her breath had warmed my skin, even through the chill of the rain. Her body had fit against mine like it belonged there.
And then she said my name like it mattered.
The shower hissed to life, warm water pouring over my skin, washing away the cold. But the heat came from more than just the steam—it settled in my chest, spreading down my stomach as I leaned against the cool tile.
She wasn't seeing that guy—Tyler, whatever his name was.
He wasn't competition. He wasn't anything but family to her.
And even better? She liked my hair. The curls I used to hate growing up—she brushed them off my forehead like they were worth touching. I'd been worrying about what Lana said for nothing. All that distance. All that overthinking.
And still, she let me in.
I ran my hands through my hair, groaning softly as I remembered her fingers doing the same. I hated how good it felt to be seen by her—seen past the layers. Past the walls.
I wrapped a towel around my waist and pulled on the dry clothes. The shirt smelled like cedar and something faintly lemony—laundry detergent, probably. Clean. Comfortable. I grabbed a washcloth and wiped away the remnants of hair product still clinging to the back of my neck, muttering something to myself about Lana being full of shit.
One last look in the mirror—scratches still visible, but the storm cloud in my head had lifted a little. I took a deep breath and headed back downstairs.
She was waiting for me.
And for the first time in a while, I wanted to be seen.
I wandered downstairs, She was sitting on the sofa, the first aid kit laid open in front of her like she meant business.
Her eyes lit up when she saw me.
God, I thought, if she doesn't feel the same way about me, then that damn smile is just plain evil.
Because I'd fall for it again and again, every time.
Camila's POV
I had the first aid kit all laid out. It was my turn to take care of him. He had scratches—nothing serious—but still. After everything he'd done for me, I needed to do this.
I waited, twisting my fingers in my lap, until I finally heard him come down the stairs. When I looked up, there he was—shirt clinging to him in all the right places, curls slightly damp but settling perfectly around his face like they were made to. I smiled and gestured for him to come sit with me.
He obeyed without a word, sliding onto the couch beside me.
"You're a little beat up," I said softly, pointing to the scratches on his arm and forehead.
He shrugged, acting like they were no big deal. "They're nothing."
I slapped his shoulder—not hard, just enough to make him look at me in surprise.
"Sit still," I said, trying to sound stern. "Let me take care of you."
He blinked, then nodded, quieting down like a scolded puppy. I bit back a smile.
I dabbed hydrogen peroxide on the cuts and watched his jaw tense. Then I applied some cream to make sure they wouldn't scar—though they weren't deep enough to. I knew I was probably overreacting, but I couldn't help it. I was paranoid. And maybe... maybe I just wanted an excuse to be close to him.
As I leaned over to reach the cut on his forehead, I felt the air shift.
He was looking down.
At my brests
I froze slightly. Seriously? I wasn't even wearing anything revealing. A plain t-shirt and shorts. Nothing special. I was a solid B-cup, average at best. Still, I felt heat crawl up my neck
He noticed.
Anthony jolted upright suddenly, his face going red as he mumbled an apology and turned away. He walked over to the window, clearly trying to change the subject.
"There's a limb on the power line," he said, voice rough. "It explains the lights flickering. Do you guys have backup power?"
I cleared my throat, trying to force my voice to sound normal. "Yeah. My mom prepped the generator before she left. It's automatic—should kick in if anything goes out."
He nodded, still facing the stormy window like he was taking mental notes.
I sat back, watching him.
It was now or never.
The air between us was thick—not just with tension, but questions. Questions I needed answers to.
So I finally asked him, voice quiet but steady.
"Why?"
He turned his head slightly but didn't look at me.
"Why did the idea of me and Tyler being a thing bother you?"
He stilled.
"Why did you let Lana get under your skin?"
I stood, hobling over slowly, every word sharper than the last.
"And why," I whispered, "was she touching your hair?"