Page 32 of Freeing Camila

He raised a brow, tilting his head. “You sure?”

“Yes.” She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I don’t know. It just felt like someone was following me.”

Wade’s face changed in an instant. The softness in his expression gave way to something harder, more focused. He stepped closer, scanning the street with a quiet intensity, his body subtly shifting in front of hers. Protective. Calm. Solid.

“I don’t see anyone,” he said finally, “but that doesn’t mean no one was there.”

Her throat tightened. “I know it sounds crazy?—”

“It doesn’t,” he cut in. “Not to me.”

A beat passed between them. Long. Quiet. Heavy with things unsaid.

“Let me walk you back,” he said. “Please.” She hesitated, but only for a second. There was something in the way he stood—like he was a shield without needing to say it out loud—that made her chest ease, just a little.

She nodded slowly. And as they started walking—closer now, their steps unconsciously syncing—she realized something.

The fear was still there, lingering at the edges of her mind.

But with him next to her, it didn’t feel quite so big.

As they walked the final block together, their silence was filled with unsaid things. Questions. Warnings. The slow bloom of trust.

She didn’t know why Wade was here, or how he always seemed to show up when she needed someone most. But in that moment, with his steady presence beside her, she didn’t feel watched anymore.

She felt seen.

As she used her key to unlock the exterior door, which opened to a staircase leading up to her apartment, he asked, “What’s on your plan for this evening?”

With a silent gesture, she held up the plastic grocery bags, subtly communicating her intentions for the evening.

“Are those . . . marshmallows?” Wade asked, one eyebrow arched curiously.

“Yup.”

He tilted his head, a slight furrow in his brow as he studied her. “I don’t get it.”

“S’mores, my friend. S’mores.”

“S’mores?”

“Yup. That chocolaty, graham crackery, marshmallowy goodness that I always wanted to try.” With a turn of the key, she entered her apartment and headed to her small kitchen. Wade followed.

“You’re going to make s’mores?”

“I am.”

His eyes searched her apartment before settling on the bag of ingredients she placed on the counter. “How?”

The lack of a fireplace meant her s’mores would be missing that smoky char. But she figured the microwave could do the job just as well. All she needed was a bit of melted marshmallow gooeyness, the kind she’d read about, a texture she imagined as soft and yielding pressed between graham crackers and chocolate. Her mouth watered at the thought; a delicious anticipation filled her.

She waved her hand at the microwave to answer Wade’s question. His frown deepened, furrowing his brow and tightening the corners of his mouth. “Nope,” he said. “Not happening. We can do better than that.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

His gaze raked over her, from head to toe, a silent assessment in his eyes. “Get changed.”

“What?”

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