Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
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The room is quiet except for the sound of rain tapping against the window and the faint crackle of my parents' voices coming through the phone in my hand.
"Hellooooo?" Mom's voice sings out. "Earth to Cameron?"
I can't respond. I can't move.
Wes stands there, just inside the room.
His broad shoulders take up the whole frame, his chest rising and falling like he's run straight from practice—and judging by the damp curls clinging to his forehead, he has.
Rain drips from his blonde hair, trailing down the side of his face, catching on the sharp cut of his jawline before disappearing into the neckline of his compression tee.
And oh my God, the compression tee.
It's clinging to him like it's personally invested in ruining my life, hugging every line of muscle across his chest, his arms, his stomach. The dark fabric is damp from the rain, plastered to his skin, the blue UC logo stretched across his pecs.
His blue eyes—normally warm and bright like cloudless skies—are darker now, stormier than the clouds outside.
They pin me in place, unflinching, unreadable, and full of something I can't name.
Dad's voice cuts through the tense silence.
"Cam? Hello? You still there?"
I blink, breaking whatever spell has just wrapped itself around me, and force myself to move.
"Yeah," I say, my voice hoarse as I turn slightly away from Wes, though I can't quite bring myself to fully look away. "I'm here. But I—uh, I need to call you back, okay?"
"Call me back?" Mom asks. "Cameron—"
"Love you, bye."
I end the call before she can argue, my hand dropping limp at my side as I clench the phone tightly.
The rain hits the windows in an unrelenting rhythm, and I can feel the tension in the air—thick and suffocating.
My chest is too tight, my breaths coming too fast, and Wes is still there—standing in the middle of my room, every inch of him taking up too much space in my head and my heart.
"You're supposed to be with your tutor right now," I say, my voice sharp and shaky as I turn back to Wes.
"That bug-eyed fuck is not my tutor," he says simply. "You are."
I blink at him, thrown by his bluntness. "Wes—"
Wes runs a hand through his rain-soaked hair, his frustration barely contained.
"I stepped one foot into that private room," he says, his tone flat, "saw him smiling, all fucking chipper as he said 'big fan,' and I walked right back out."
