Page 88 of Cut up
But it’s real now. Bone-deep.
Quiet, fierce and unwavering.
She’severything.
The way she hums along to a song only she can hear while she cooks or draws, the way she scrunches her nose when she’s trying not to smile. The way she handles everything that’s thrown her way.
The strength it took for her to leave, to rebuild herself. She’s one of the bravest people I know. And all I want is to protect that light in her. To make her laugh every damn day.
To love her in all the ways she never got before.
If she never feels the same way about me, I’ll still be here.
Because loving her isn’t about what I get back, it’s about who I get to be when I’m near her.
And I’ve never liked myself more than when she’s looking at me, like I might be worth something to her.
My mum interrupts my train of thought. “Patrick’s on his way back over, he ducked home for a quick shower. Nicole and I are still working on the sides.”
“Is Derick coming too?” I ask Nicole.
“Nope, he’s busy.Again.” Nicole says bluntly, clearly annoyed.
“Go and give Camille a tour of the house,” Mum ushers off.
“Alright.” I give her a kiss on the cheek before they walk off to the kitchen.
I grab Camille’s hand.
I have an idea. I take her to my old room.
“And this,” I push open the door, “is my old room.” I close the door behind her. She looks around the room smiling.
“It’s nice. Are you planning to show me around the rest of the house or are you going to lock me in here?” She laughs.
I don’t.
I lock the door.
It’s a stupid move—reckless, maybe. But I can’t help it. She’s standing therewith that soft smile and those blue-grey eyes, looking around my childhood bedroom like it holds my secrets, and suddenly all I want to do is kiss her. To pull her close and remind her she’s safe here. That she’s wanted. That she’s mine, if she wants to be.
I step toward her, slow and steady, watching the way her breath catches as I close the gap between us. I gently lean her back against the door, and I press one palm beside her head, close but not touching. Just giving her the chance to stop this, to stop me. But she doesn’t.
She tilts her chin up and whispers, “You’re so naughty Lucas.”
I lean in. “You like it.”
“Maybe I do.”
Her mouth meets mine like it’s been waiting for this—like she’s been waiting. And fuck, I’m gone. There’s nothing hesitant about the way Camille kisses. She’s heat and softness and urgency wrapped up in one perfect package, and when she presses closer, hands gripping the hem of my shirt, I feel like my knees might give out.
She makes a soft sound against my lips and it damn near undoes me.
I kiss her harder, deeper, one hand sliding to her waist and the other cradling her jaw. I want to touch every inch of her, memorize the shape of her, show her with my body what I’ve been feeling for weeks.
But then she pulls back, lips parted, breathless.
“Wait—Lucas—”
