Page 70 of Married As Puck
“You should get some sleep,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost rough. “I’ve kept you up long enough. I’ll clear the dishes by morning.”
I want to argue, to tell him I don’t mind, that I’d stay here all night if it meant keeping this fragile honesty alive between us. But the words don’t come. I just nod, watching as he straightens and steps back.
“Goodnight, Brie,” he says, and there’s something in the way he says my name that makes my chest ache.
When he disappears down the hall, the silence he leaves behind is deafening. I clear the table, blow out the candles one by one, and finally retreat upstairs.
But lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I can still feel the warmth of his lips against my cheek. The conversation replays over and over in my head. My past laid bare, his quiet apology, the way he looked at me like he actually saw me.
Sleep refuses to come. All I can do is toss and turn, caught between the comfort of his presence and the danger of what it might mean if I let myself want more.
The first thing I see when I finally roll over and reach for my phone is the glow of a new message. My eyes sting from lack of sleep, but when I swipe it open, the grogginess vanishes in an instant.
It’s a picture. Miranda and Jack. They’re standing close together on a dimly lit street I recognize. It’s just a few blocks from here. The timestamp is from last night.
My heart lurches. My fingers tighten around the phone so hard I’m afraid I’ll crack the screen. Who sent this? Why?
I don’t even think. I throw on a robe and hurry down the hall, my bare feet cold against the floor. I pound on Cameron’s door once before pushing it open.
He’s half-asleep, hair tousled, sitting up against the headboard with a frown. “Brie?” His voice is rough with sleep. “What’s—”
I shove the phone into his hands. “Look. Just look at this.” My pulse is hammering in my throat. “Do you see what I’m talking about now? They’re working together, Cameron. I knew something was off.”
He blinks at the screen, squints, then exhales and tosses the phone onto the nightstand. “It’s a picture. Two people standing near each other. Could mean a hundred things.”
Frustration spikes hot in my chest. “You’re not listening. My gut has never been wrong about people, and I’m telling you—Miranda and Jack are plotting something. Why else would I get this sent to me anonymously? And look where they are? Near our house.”
He rubs a hand down his face and sighs, still sounding half-asleep. “Brie… maybe you’re overthinking it. People talk, people meet. Doesn’t mean there’s some grand conspiracy.”
I stare at him, stunned by how easily he brushes it off. My hands clench at my sides. “Overthinking?” My voice rises despite myself. “Cameron, someone went out of their way to send me this. Doesn’t that at least bother you?”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer right away. He just leans back against the pillows, gaze drifting away from me like he’d rather not deal with this at all.
The silence between us stretches, sharp and bitter, until I feel it cutting into me.
I stand there, my chest heaving, waiting for him to argue again, but instead Cameron exhales hard, dragging a hand over his face. The fight drains out of his shoulders, leaving him looking… tired. Not careless, not cold—just worn down.
“Look,” he mutters, softer now, “you’re wound up, and I get it. But you’re not going to solve this tonight.”
I open my mouth to snap back, but the words catch. He isn’t dismissing me—not this time. He’s trying, in his own way, to steady me.
His gaze flicks to the clock, then back to me. “You won’t sleep in your room if you’re this rattled.” He pats the edge of his bed, not meeting my eyes. “Stay here. You’ll crash faster if you know I’m right next to you.”
My lips part in surprise. “What?”
“It’s just sleep, Brie,” he says, and for once, there’s no teasing edge to it. No smirk. Just plain sincerity. “I’d rather you rest than pace a hole in the floor all night.”
For a second, I hesitate—my heart fluttering for reasons I don’t want to examine—but eventually I nod. “Fine. But only because I don’t feel like arguing anymore.”
“Good,” he says simply, tugging the blanket down for me.
I slide in cautiously, keeping to my side of the bed. The sheets smell faintly of his cologne and soap, a detail I wish I hadn’t noticed. He stays perched on the other edge, broad back propped against the headboard, scrolling absently through his phone like none of this means anything.
But when I close my eyes, the tension in my chest finally loosens, just a little. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the exhaustion, but knowing he’s right there makes it easier to breathe.
The last thing I hear before sleep pulls me under is Cameron’s quiet sigh, like he’s carrying the weight of both of us and in this moment, I truly wish he’d hug me.
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