Page 77 of Slots & Sticks
“This.” I gesture to the box, to him, to everything. “You’ve been collecting me like memories, Cam, and I don’t even know who I am half the time. You think you love me, but you don’t see all the ways I’ll disappoint you.”
He looks at me for a long moment, unreadable, then reaches over and slides the box aside so there’s nothing between us. “Dot,” he says quietly, “you’re not something I collected. You’re someone I chose. And I keep choosing you. Every damn day.”
A low twinge hits my belly. He means it—I can feel it in my bones.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
I want to tell him not to say things like that. Not when his words feel like a promise I don’t know how to keep.
But I can’t look away. His eyes are steady, steady in a way that makes me feel like I’ve been spinning for years, and he’s the only thing holding me still.
“Camden…” My voice trembles. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He leans in a little, resting one hand on the floor. “Don’t tell you the truth?”
“No. Don’t make it harder to—” I stop myself before I sayleave.Before I ruin this.
He tilts his head. “Harder to what?”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand. You’ve had this perfect life. You’ve always known what you wanted and gone after it. But I’m…” I suck in a breath, trying to explain the ache that never seems to go away. “I’m broken in ways you can’t fix. You’ll get tired of trying.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then he reaches out and brushes a curl away from my cheek. His thumb grazes the corner of my mouth, soft and sure. “Dot, everyone’s broken somehow. You think I don’t have my own cracks? You think I kept all this because I like hoarding paper scraps?” He nods toward the box. “It’s because every one of those things reminded me that I wasn’t alone. That I had you.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. “I don’t know how to do this right.”
“Then we’ll do it wrong together.”
That line knocks the air right out of me. I want to laugh and sob at the same time.
The lamplight filters through the doorway, casting us in a soft, golden cocoon. I can smell him—soap and heat and something that’s just Camden. The world outside feels impossibly far away, like we’re the only two people who exist.
“I’ve loved you for so long,” he says, voice low and reverent. “You don’t have to say it back. Not yet. Just… let me show you.”
The words slip right into the space behind my ribs and lodge there, glowing. I don’t deserve him, but I want him anyway.
He waits, searching my face for permission.
My pulse roars in my ears. Every fear I’ve ever had—of losing people, of not being enough, of ruining good things—collides with the undeniable truth that he’sitfor me.
“Camden,” I whisper. “Please.”
His eyes dismantle me. “Please, what?”
“Kiss me.”
His lips taste like cinnamon and something new and endless. I fist my hands in his shirt, dragging him closer until there’s no space left between us.
Whatever comes next, I know this much: This is the point of no return.
I crawl into his lap because I need him, need the weight of his hands, the smell of his skin, the strength of his gaze. My knees straddle his thighs, and I sink down until our chests touch. He’s warm, solid, and all the noise in my head dims as soon as his arms come around me.
His heartbeat thunders against my ear. I press my cheek harder to his chest just to feel it. It’s like proof: he’s real, I’m real, this moment is real.
“Dot…” he whispers, voice breaking a little. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” My fingers find his jaw, tilting his face toward mine. “But I want to.” The words catch in my throat. “Even if we fuck this up. Even if we’re not okay tomorrow—I need to feel you tonight.”
Our mouths meet, and the kiss starts soft, trembling. Then his hands slide up my back, and everything inside me breaks open. All the grief, the fear, the years of holding myself tight—it all pours out into the way I kiss him.
