Page 21 of Brazen Being It

It’s not until we’re halfway through Tennessee that I glance back and see her face—eyes closed, relaxed into the bed, a soft, content smile on her lips.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her look like she wasn’t carrying the weight of the world.

And that’s when I know—bringing her back isn’t just about making a statement. It’s about giving her something she never had.

A fucking chance.

We pull into the edge of Catawba close to midnight. I can feel the weight of it as we near the compound—my past, my future, everything crashing together. Cambria clutches my hand tighter, nervous now, as we park the truck and move to my bike. I can feel it in the way her hand trembles in mine.

“You okay?” I ask genuinely concerned. I don’t want her to have regret already.

“I don’t know anyone,” she says.

“You’re mine. You’re family. They will get to know you.”

“You make it sound easy. What if I’m not what your family expects?

“They don’t need to expect you. They just need to accept you.”

“And if they don’t?”

“They will. It’s the code and life we live by.” And if they don’t—then I’ve got a whole new reason to burn this place down. “Let’s go home, shower and sleep. You can meet everyone when it’s a more reasonable hour.”

The door clicks shut behind us, the soft sound swallowed up by the quiet of my place. Cambria lingers just inside, her fingers brushing the hem of her t-shirt, eyes moving across the room like she’s memorizing the layout. Or maybe gauging the escape routes. She’s unreadable like that sometimes—still and beautiful, like a painting right before it tells you its story

“I know it’s not much,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, suddenly hyper-aware of every smudge on the wall, every corner that never quite gets enough light. “But it’s home.

She glances over her shoulder and smiles. “It’s you. That’s enough.

Something about the way she says it hits low in my stomach. I look away before it shows on my face, motioning toward the bathroom. “Shower’s yours first if you want it.

“Are you sure?

“Ladies first,” I say, half-teasing. “I’ve got towels in the cabinet. Help yourself.”

She nods, disappearing down the hallway, and I stand there for a minute, listening to the soft sound of her footsteps, the quiet clink of the door shutting behind her.

It’s strange, how something so ordinary—someone using your bathroom—can make your chest feel too small. I don’t know what this is between us yet, but it’s building. Quietly. Powerfully. Like a storm that doesn't start with thunder, but with stillness.

I shower after her, water running hot as I try to keep my thoughts in line. But she’s there, in every corner of my mind—Cambria with her damp hair and that oversized sweatshirt I tossed to her for the night, the one that hits her mid-thigh and makes her look like trouble I’d gladly get into.

When I step out, towel slung around my waist, she’s curled up on the far side of the bed, legs tucked under her, hair still damp at the ends. My sweatshirt, wrapped around her.

I hesitate in the doorway. “You sure you’re comfortable?”

She looks up at me like I’ve said something ridiculous. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s a lot to take in.”

She nods then whispers, “come to bed.”

So I do.

The sheets are cool, the room dim. I slide in beside her, careful not to make it weird, but then she shifts—just enough that her back presses lightly against my chest. My arm goes around her like it belongs there, like it’s always been waiting for this moment. She exhales. Settles.

It’s quiet for a while. Her breathing evens out, and I can feel it, the rise and fall of her against me. My hand is on her waist, thumb moving slow against the soft cotton of my shirt. I don’t move to kiss her. I don’t even try. Not yet.

But her fingers find mine under the covers, lacing through like it’s nothing.

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