More than anything I want to see you, girl
Take a glorious bite out of the whole world.
- Snow Patrol.
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Warning:
The heat index on this chapter gets pretty warm at the end. This is a bit different from any citrusy scenes you may be used to from me because, as with all of this fic, I'm being a bit more realistic and literal. I am still not overly descriptive, nor do I use vulgar terms. but I think you should know that this does ring truer to real life, including awkwardness and frank discussion.
Enjoy!
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Even though Shawn expected the impact, he hadn't prepared himself for how much it was actually going to hurt. It wasn't the smashing of his shoulder blades into the cool metal behind him, or even the apparent hit to the mouth—evidenced by the coppery tinge of blood on his tongue—but the excruciating pain from where Carlos's knuckles dug into Shawn's already bruised chest. He could feel it pulsing through him like another heartbeat—an agonizingly unbearable heartbeat—and did his best not to grimace or give any other indication to his discomfort. There was no way he'd give Carlos Cabello the satisfaction.
Carlos pulled against Shawn's shirt and shoved him back against the lockers again, his hand slamming into the center of his chest once more. "What the hell are you doing with my sister?" he shouted into Shawn's face, his eyes wide and spit flying from his mouth.
Shawn wanted to respond with something asshole-ish and witty, but he couldn't breathe, let alone talk. God-damn Keira. Now he was going to look like a complete dick, panting and trying not to pass out while Shawn crushed his chest further.
"Answer me, dickhead!"
"Carlos," Camila said, her voice wavering. "Stop. Just—stop, so we can talk."
"I don't want to talk to you," Carlos snarled. "I want to talk to him." His eyes narrowed into thin, black slits. "What the hell do you think you're doing with my sister?"
Shawn finally drew in a breath and curled his fist at his side, but before he had a chance to speak, his eyes caught Camila's. They were so big and scared that as much as he wanted to kick the living shit out of Cabello, he knew he couldn't. Not in front of her. Damn it all to hell. His fist loosened and he glared back at Carlos.
"You better talk, asshole, or I'll make you." Carlos's grip on Shawn's shirt tightened, and Shawn could feel his knuckles digging in again.
"Then go for it," Shawn said, readying himself to be hit. "I don't have to tell you shit."
"Do you think this is part of the game? That she's going to be a pawn in this little pissing match? You and your asshole dad don't get to hurt her! Do you hear me? I won't let you pull her into this!"
"Carlos!" Camila called out again. "It's not like that, okay? He's—"
"Lord, Camila!" Carlos turned his head to look at his sister. "Are you stupid? Just shut the hell up, okay? You don't know what you're talking about—"
"Hey!" That's what it took to really piss Shawn off. Not the pain to his chest, not being ripped away from Camila, but hearing Carlos talk to her that way. "Don't tell her to shut up or call her stupid, asshat."
Carlos turned back to Shawn, slowly. "Are you telling me how to talk to my sister?"
"No," Shawn reached up and grabbed Carlos's hands, ripping them away from his chest, "I'm telling you how not to talk to my girl."
The widening of Carlos's eyes and the choked gasp that came from Camila made Shawn very aware of what he'd just said. He hadn't even meant to, it'd just slipped out. But he wasn't taking it back and he wasn't backing down. She may not have realized it, but that was what she'd become to him, his. And he would be damned if he let anyone talk to her like that in front of him.
"What did you just call her ... ?" Carlos's voice was low, calm—too calm—and Shawn knew he was walking a very thin line, but he didn't care.
Shawn stepped away from the lockers, closer to Carlos, his body stiff and ready for whatever Camila's brother was about to dole out. "I think you heard me."
"Take it back."
"No."
Carlos took in a breath, his shoulders rising with the effort and his nostrils flaring. "I mean it. Take it back. Right. Now."
"Not a chance."
"I'm going to kill you, Mendes!"
Shawn was right in Carlos's face, their noses nearly touching, as he spread his arms wide. "Then what are you waiting for, asshole?" God, Shawn wanted Carlos to hit him, wanted it so much he could feel it in every tense muscle and tendon. He wanted a reason to fight this bastard.
"Shawn, no—" Camila said, but it was too late.
Carlos let out a growl of fury and leapt forward once again, shoving Shawn, his back and head hitting the lockers with a loud clang. They were a tangle of arms and legs furiously battling with one another. Shawn heard a scramble of activity around him, but all he was aware of was Carlos pulling back to hit him.
Finally!
But before Carlos had a chance to swing, Camila lunged forward to grab her brother's arm. "Carlos, stop!"
There was no time for Shawn to stop it, no time for him to even say anything in warning, but as soon as Camila touched her brother, Carlos jerked back as if burned and knocked his sister to the ground. She cupped her hand over her cheek.
Shawn didn't think. He brought both hands up and shoved as hard as he could against Carlos's chest. Carlos stumbled back, tripping over the bench behind them and sprawling out on the concrete floor.
Without a second glance at Carlos, Shawn turned his back and knelt beside Camila, who was sitting few feet away on the ground. He removed her hand from her face. A light pink stain bloomed over her left cheekbone. Shawn clenched his jaw and ran his fingers over the spot.
"Good Lord. Are you okay?" he asked.
She looked up, her eyes wide but angered. "Don't fight with my brother, Shawn."
It was all she said. She didn't ask if he was all right, didn't answer his inquiry as to whether or not she was. All she wanted was for this not to happen, for him and Carlos not to fight each other. Shawn's stomach curled into a knot. What was he supposed to do? Let Carlos kick the shit out of him? Let him knock his sister over with no recourse? Because he was pretty sure Carlos Cabello wasn't backing down. That wasn't how Shawn Mendes worked. He opened his mouth to protest, to tell her that he couldn't possibly just walk away, but Carlos spoke before he got a chance.
"I swear to all that is holy I will break your arm if you don't stop touching my sister!" Carlos struggled to untangle his legs from the bench and right himself.
"Back off, Cabello, I'm just seeing if she's okay after you hit her in the face!" Shawn glared at Carlos.
Carlos hesitated and looked at his sister. "I didn't mean to hit you, Camsies, but you shouldn't have gotten in the way. This is between me and him."
"No," she narrowed her eyes, "this is between me and him. It has nothing to do with you."
"Camila, you can't be serious!" Carlos cried. "Please tell me you don't think this is real? Please tell me you don't believe he actually likes you? He's using you, baby girl."
Shawn tensed and made to stand. Using her? Asshole. He'd show him who was using who— But Camila closed her hand over his forearm, digging her fingers into his flesh and holding him back—just barely.
"Carlos," she said, "could you please just go? Outside. Anywhere. Please. I just ... I need a minute and then we can talk about it, okay?"
"No way! I'm not leaving you alone with him!"
"What the hell, Cabello? What do you think I'm going to do? Murder her here in the locker room?"
Carlos eyed Shawn. "No, I'm pretty sure you'd damage her in other ways."
Shawn let out a frustrated noise and turned to Camila. "Please just let me hit him once. Just once. I swear I won't break anything."
The look Camila gave him could have melted ice off the polar ice caps. Then she turned it on Carlos, which made Shawn a little bit smug. "Niall," she said, and Shawn, having momentarily forgotten the scrawny, geeky boy that had come in with Carlos, glanced to where the boy stood, still holding the box, still studying them all with a strange, judgmental look on his face. "Could you forget that you hate me for five seconds and get my brother out of here before he causes more of a scene?"
"You mean kind of like the scene you two were just causing before we came in here?" Niall said.
Camila closed her eyes and let out a slow breath, as if she had expected the little prick to act that way. Shawn now wanted to hit him too. "No, I was thinking more about a scene involving our fathers, which would be much more annoying and ugly." She twisted to look at the boy, her voice lowering and turning slightly desperate. "Please."
Niall's stone facade broke just a little and he sighed, and then nodded.
"I don't need a damn babysitter, Camila, I'm nineteen-years-old," Carlos said.
"Yeah, well, you're acting about five." Shawn snorted and Camila set her glare back on him. "Both of you."
"But Camsies—"
Camila held her hand up. "Don't Camsies me, Carlos. Just ... go. Please. I just ... I need a second with Shawn, then we'll talk."
The skinny boy, Niall, walked over to Carlos. "Come on, man." He tried to grab Carlos's arm, but Carlos pulled it back and pointed at Shawn.
"We're not done, Mendes."
"We're never done, Cabello."
Finally, Niall directed the still complaining Carlos to the back door, where he shoved it open with angry force and disappeared into the dark. It only took a second for Shawn to feel Camila's heated gaze on his cheek. Taking in a breath, he turned toward her.
"Okay, I'm just going to say I'm sorry now, before you bitch me out and tell me that whatever was going on is now officially not going on anymore. But I don't know what you expect me to do when he grabs me and throws me around. I'm a guy, Camila. Guys just don't stand for that shit. You know? And—why ... why are you looking at me like that?"
She was studying him closely, but not with the disappointment and anger he'd expected, but more with ... something else.
"Do I have something on my face?" he asked, meaning it partially as a joke.
"Yes," she said, quietly, and touched the corner of his mouth, where he was sure there was probably some dried blood. It hurt, though not badly. "But that's not ..." And then she looked down at the floor.
"Then what?" He grabbed her hand. "What? I screwed it up, didn't I? I just screwed it all up—"
"You called me your girl." Her gaze rose slowly, so she was looking at him from under her lashes, almost uncertainly. Shyly. So unlike her.
"I ..." He swallowed.
"Is that what I am?" she asked, still quiet, almost whispering. "Am I your girl, Shawn?"
He stared at her, not knowing how to answer that. Was she? Only she knew the correct response. "I don't know, Camila," he said. "Are you?"
Camila hesitated and looked toward the door, almost like she couldn't wait to get out of there.
Shawn sighed. "Never mind," he said, and started to rise. "You should go. Your brother will probably burst back in here and try to kick my shit again if you don't."
She grabbed his arm. "Shawn?"
This time it was he who hesitated.
"How—how would you feel if I—if I were, you know, that?"
"You know how I'd feel. How I already feel. This ball has been in your court for a long time now."
She drew her bottom lip between her teeth and bit lightly. "Well, I—"
The bang of a door echoed through the room, and Alex's voice—singing some of the most ridiculous lyrics Shawn had ever heard—came with it.
"When I walk in the spot, (yeah) this is what I see (okaay). Everybody stops and they staring at me. I got a passion in my pants and I ain't afraid to show it ... Hey! Sunshine? Are you and Dora still macking back there or what?"
"Lord." Shawn lowered his forehead to his hand and closed his eyes. "My best friend is such an asshole."
Alex continued to sing. "(Ahhh) Girl, lookit dat body. (Ahhh) Girl lookit dat body. (Ahhh) Girl, lookit dat body. I—I—I—I work out."
Camila laughed quietly and cupped her hand under Shawn's chin, gently pulling his face up to meet hers. "Aww, come on," she said, "he's sexy and he knows it."
"That's not funny at all," he said, but couldn't help the small grin fighting its way onto his face. "There's nothing sexy about him."
"Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle yeah."
Shawn raised his brow as if to say "See?", and Camila frowned. "Well, as long as he doesn't actually wiggle anything for you."
Shawn groaned and thought maybe he'd puke at the thought. He did not want to imagine Alex wiggling anything, ever. After a moment, he glanced up, and Camila was still looking at him with that same expression.
"I really am sorry. I know I promised I'd try not to be a dick to your brother, but I—"
"Shawn," she said, "will you please stop apologizing?"
He closed his mouth and stared up at her in frustration. How the hell was he supposed to make it better if he couldn't apologize for being an ass?
Camila smiled then looked over at the door leading to where Carlos exited. "I think I better go before my brother charges back in here, or someone else catches us."
Shawn sighed, thinking that idea sucked balls. "Yeah, all right."
She turned back to him, paused, then leaned in and kissed him lightly, almost so light he could barely feel it, on the corner of his mouth where she'd wiped the blood away earlier. "Will I see you later?"
Shawn slipped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her closer, kissing her again, only opening and tasting her a little. He wanted more. So much more. But this would have to do for now. "You'd better. I've waited a whole week for you and this wasn't nearly enough. Plus," he dropped another peck to the corner of her mouth, "we were interrupted right when it was getting good."
"Insatiable much?" She grinned against him.
"You have no idea." He wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her in closer, pressing his mouth harder to hers.
She laughed and pushed against his shoulders. "You have to let me go."
Shawn groaned and loosened his hold, but didn't let go all together. When Camila pulled back, she brushed her thumb over his lip, like maybe she wanted to rub the taste of her in so he wouldn't forget her. She needn't worry. He wouldn't.
"Good luck tonight," she said, as she stood and moved toward the door. When she wrapped her hand around the handle, she looked back at him and said, "Oh, and Shawn?"
"Yeah?"
She smiled again, "I am, by the way," and disappeared after her brother into the dark.
It only took Shawn a second to understand what she was saying. He grinned and said to himself, "Yeah, I thought so."
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Camila leaned back against the heavy, metal door and closed her eyes. The scent of popcorn and hotdogs drifted through the wind from the concession stand. Luckily, her stomach seemed to have calmed somewhat. But then it flipped again when she thought about what she'd just said.
His girl.
Oh God, did she just say she was his girl? Two weeks ago she'd said she just wanted to be friends. How did she go from that to being "Shawn Mendes's girl" in such a short amount of time? It was too fast, right? Right? It had to be. But it didn't feel too fast; it felt too slow. Way too slow.
The things she'd been feeling in there, the way she couldn't get enough of his hands and mouth on her, the way she wanted to crawl up his body and plaster herself to him, God, what was that? She'd never been like that with anyone before. Sure, she enjoyed kissing and all that. But that ... that was more than just liking the way he kissed.
A shiver raced up her spine as she remembered how he felt against her, so strong, so solid, so ... just SO. And when he kissed her, he didn't just kiss her, he consumed her, devoured her. Almost like his sole purpose on this earth was to kiss her and only her.
A shuffle in the grass nearby caused her eyes to fly open. Niall stood several feet away, his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. A pang cinched in her chest. It had been so long since she'd been alone with him. As crappy as things had been between them since the breakup, she still missed him. Missed the friendship they'd had before they made the mistake of trying to be more.
"Hey," she said.
Niall reached up and ran a hand around to the back of his neck. "Carlos's waiting for you over there." He tilted his head toward the maintenance shed near the parking lot. "I tried to calm him, but, well, you know how he gets."
"Thanks. But you didn't have to wait—"
"Yeah, I did." Niall finally looked up and caught her eyes. "I owed you."
Camila frowned. "For what?"
"For acting like such a jerk after we broke up."
Camila stayed silent, stunned. She hadn't expected him to speak to her again, let alone kind of sort of admit to being wrong about the way he'd handled things.
He shook his head and looked away. "I let myself think you were the one in the wrong. That you were to blame for all of it. That you just didn't give us a chance, and if you had you'd have seen what I saw. The potential that was there if we just worked on it some more." He paused. "But then I saw you in there—"
"Niall, you don't—"
"You never kissed me like that, Mila. Not once. And I knew it was wrong, that we were wrong, but I just ... I wanted it so much that I ignored all the signs. I let myself believe that you loved me, even when deep down I knew you didn't."
"That's not true. I did love you; I do love you, still."
Niall smiled, but it was small, sad. "Maybe. But not like that." He lifted his chin to the locker room door behind Camila. "You never loved me like that."
Camila's heart skipped. "I don't ... I—I don't know him well enough to love him."
Niall shook his head. "That might be true, but how well you know someone doesn't really affect how you feel about them. I think we both know that."
"I never wanted to hurt you, Niall." Camila took a few steps toward him. "If I could go back, I wouldn't—"
"—change a thing," he finished for her. "I wouldn't change anything. A smarter person might, but I think ... I think I needed to know. What we could be. What we couldn't. Now I know."
"I'm sorry," Camila whispered.
"Me too," Niall said.
"I miss you, you know?"
"Yeah." He shuffled from one foot to the other, something Camila hadn't ever seen him do because of her. It made her sad to know how uncomfortable he was in her presence. "But I'm still here. I've always been here. I just needed to sort through the shattered remains of my fragile male ego for awhile."
"So, does that mean ..."
"It means I'm a stupid jerk, but, if you want me, I'm still your friend. I'll always be your friend." He scratched at his head. "And that's what sucks the most about all of this. You've been my friend for so long, and now it's like we're strangers. I don't know what's going on with you, what's happening in your life. I mean," he flopped his hand toward the door, "Shawn Mendes? Really?"
Camila shook her head and looked at the ground. "Yeah, well, that's a very long, very complicated story that I'm about a thousand percent sure you don't want to hear." When she raised her head, he was looking at her like the old Niall used to look at her. Not with bitterness or anger, but just like he cared. "And you're not just my friend, Niall. You're my best friend."
"Not really anymore," he said. "But we can work on that."
She closed the distance left between them and flung her arms around his neck, pulling him in and squeezing him hard. "You don't know how happy I am to hear you say that. I really need my best friend right now." Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Carlos's messy brunette head bob out from behind the shed. She sighed. "But, unfortunately, I have to go deal with my stupid brother." Stepping back and dropping her arms, she grimaced.
Niall glanced over his shoulder then back at her. "You want me to come with you?"
"No. I think I need to do this on my own. But," she placed her hand on his arm, "I'll call you soon. We have a lot to talk about, I think."
"I think that's an understatement."
Camila stretched up on tip-toes and kissed his cheek just like she always used to do. He offered her a small smile in response, and she patted his arm before starting toward where her brother waited. The wind had picked up and was laced with the chill of impending winter—or maybe it was the frigid blast of anger coming from her brother, Camila couldn't be sure. It didn't take her long to reach the place where he waited, his eyes narrowed into slits. She stopped a few feet in front of him, feeling the waves of frustration roll over him.
Camila crossed her arms over her chest. "So, let me have it." There was no use dancing around the issue, and she had a game to get to.
"Let you have what?"
Oh, so he was going to play it that way. All right.
"Okay, cool," she said, and turned to go back to the field. "I guess I'll just go get ready for the game then—"
"Wait!" Carlos called.
Camila froze, turning back slowly and retaining her earlier stance. Every muscle in her body pulled taut, waiting, readying.
Carlos let out a slow breath and squinted into the light that shined above them. "Just tell me one thing," he said, and Camila stiffened further, fearing what he might want to know. "Is this whole thing for real, or are you just doing it to screw with me and dad?"
"Why would I want to screw with you?"
"I don't know!" Carlos threw his hands in the air. "But it makes a whole hell of a lot more sense than you and Mendes! Together." He shuddered in disgust. "God."
Camila felt her anger spike. "Why does that make more sense? Because there's no way he could like me?"
"Yes! He couldn't and he doesn't. Don't you understand that this is just a huge joke, a game to catch dad off guard? How could you be so stupid?"
"Okay, first of all," Camila stepped closer to her brother, "that's the second time tonight that you've called me stupid. I'm not stupid, Carlos, and I think you know that. Secondly, why is it so hard for you to believe that Shawn and I might actually just like each other? For your information, when we met we didn't even know who the other one was. We just ... we clicked." Okay, she guessed that was a safe enough word for how they'd been when they met.
"You can't honestly believe that he didn't know who you were."
"Yeah, I do, because I saw his face when he found out. He was shocked, just like I was. You know, for as smart as you are, Carlos, you sure can be stupid."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he shouted. "I wasn't the one sucking face with that nasty—"
"Is this really how you want to be?" Camila interrupted. "Adopting prejudices from Papa that you don't even know anything about? So, he hates Roy Mendes. Do you even know why?" Carlos started to answer, but Camila cut him off. "Besides football."
Carlos's mouth snapped closed. No, he didn't know, just like she didn't.
"I didn't think so," she said. "None of us know what the deal is with them. They were football rivals in school. Okay. You and Shawn were rivals when you were in school. That I get. I get the whole sports thing—okay, maybe not entirely, but I know how competitive you get, so I understand that. But this ... this ... stupid feud ... I just—I can't wrap my head around it. It doesn't have anything to do with us—any of us: you, me, Shawn." She looked up and met her brother's frustrated eyes. The patter of drums started in the background, letting Camila know she was already running late. "And like I told you before, I don't want any part of it, Carlos. Shawn is not a Mendes to me, he's just a boy. A boy I like and who likes me. And I guess if you don't like that, oh well, you're going to have to just deal with it." The horns joined in with the drums, Whitecastle's school song starting and growing louder. "But, look, I can't do this with you right now. I'm gonna be late." She started to back away.
"Papa will never let you see him, Mila. You have to know that."
Angry tears stung in her eyes, but she kept moving away. Away from her brother, away from the one person in her family she'd thought she might have a chance of getting support from. "Yeah, well, he'll only know if you tell him. And if you do then I guess I'll know where I stand in this whole stupid rivalry idiocy with you too, won't I?" And then she spun on her heel and ran the rest of the way to the field, fighting the urge to turn around. Because as mad as he made her, she still wished he could just be her big brother, that he could still be the one to tell her everything would be all right and that no matter what happened, with her parents, with Shawn, with the pregnancy, that she would always still have him. In the past, she'd always been so sure of that.
She needed something she could be sure of.
And right then, she wasn't sure of anything.
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Shawn looked up from the huddle at the game clock. Eight minutes and forty-two seconds left in the fourth with only a two point lead. Lord, this had to be the longest game in history. He lowered his head and took in a breath, trying not to wince when the sharp stab of his pads pressing against his bruised sternum shot through him. They had been bothering him all week, pushing just right against the spot on his chest where Keira had tried to embed the weight bar last weekend. But the almost fight with Carlos had made it that much worse. Damn it. He wished he could have clocked that asshole at least once to make it worth it.
"You okay, man?" Alex asked, as he studied Shawn with a concerned frown.
"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
"I dunno. But you're all bent over like that dude who lived in that old church."
Shawn raised a brow.
"You know, that ugly old fart that walked with that weird limp and leg shuffle thing and cleaned bells or something."
"The hunchback of Notre Dame?"
"Yeah, him."
Shawn blinked a couple of times then just decided to leave it. He had a game to win and didn't have time to ponder the stupid shit that came out of Alex's mouth. His teammates gathered around him and listened as he called the play—another long pass that would hopefully get them a touchdown and close out the game. When the huddle broke, Shawn straightened back up, unable to stop himself from grimacing as the pain stabbed him again. His eyes drifted to the sidelines where his father stood, studying him intensely. The look on his face was not one Shawn liked to see. His father was worried, not about Shawn or even so much about the game, but worried that his son would lose it for him.
He was trying not to, trying to work past the pain and play as well as he always did, but he was struggling. And he was certain it was noticeable. Alex had been asking him all night if he was okay—the hunchback mention wasn't the first time. But the worst was that his dad noticed.
"What's going on with you tonight?" his father had asked the last time Shawn was on the sidelines. "You've thrown it away twice already. That's unacceptable."
"Nothing," Shawn answered. But the truth was, both times he'd seen the linemen rushing straight for him, and he couldn't bear the thought of being pummeled like that. Yes, tonight he was playing like a pansy ass. But, damn it, it hurt!
"Then shape up or I'll pull you out."
Shawn knew it was an empty threat. Their second string quarterback hadn't seen a moment of playing time all year and was in no way prepared to play Knights. But Shawn answered the way he was expected to anyway, "Yes, sir."
On his way back out to the field, Shawn let himself find Camila on the other side. She was facing the crowd, working with her squad to get the spectators riled up. Not that they needed it, they'd been screaming the entire game already. But Shawn didn't care that she was "working for the enemy". He liked looking at her doing her thing, because regardless of who she cheered for, at the end of the day, she was his. It may have been pig-headed or disgusting, but he liked knowing that. Knowing that no matter what happened in this game, no matter who won or who lost, that wouldn't change. She would still be his.
Shawn didn't have that kind of assurance with his father. When he was small, things weren't like they were now. His father had wanted him with or without football. But since his mother died, things had changed. Roy didn't talk to him unless it was about football, didn't spend time with him unless it was during football. Maybe it was too painful for him, Shawn didn't know, but that's just how it was now. But what he did know was that if he could win this game, Shawn could make his father happy—even if only for that night.
He stepped up behind his center and took one more searching look across the field. Knights' line was ready, crouched in position, fingers tensed in the grass below. Their line backers stood stiff and concentrated behind the defensive line, and the safety's played deep. Yeah, they knew what he was going to do, and they knew he was going to do it well. Shawn bent down and cupped his hands behind his center, twisted his head to either side, calling out his cadence, and then the ball snapped. And then it hit his hands, the pebbled leather surface feeling like home against his palms. His feet pulled him back a few steps instinctively, and his eyes were all over the field, searching, probing, and locating his man. He didn't concentrate on the defensive players rushing toward him, he couldn't. His job, his focus, was to get that ball down the field.
Finally, his receiver broke away, and Shawn drew back his arm—
The impact caught him right in the center of his chest. He inhaled one piercing, agonizing breath, and pain blossomed from the middle, branching outward like thorned vines wrapping around his ribs and stabbing his lungs. Everything inside of him froze, his heart, his thoughts, his breath, and there was nothing but the pain.
Shawn's back hit the ground hard and he tried to breathe but couldn't draw in or release any air. His fingers pulled at the opening to his shoulder pads to loosen them, to do something, anything, to stop the unbearable squeeze on his chest. It was then he realized he didn't have the ball. He didn't have it and the crowd was cheering as footsteps pounded away from him, and he was laying there in the middle of the field not breathing.
Lights exploded in front of his eyes as the throbbing ache in his chest spread further. He could hear himself gasping, but he couldn't stop his eyes from closing, couldn't stop the darkness from taking him over.
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Camila watched him fall. She watched him fall and saw the ball roll out of his hand. And while the rest of her squad was jumping and cheering as their team picked up the fumble and ran all the way to the end zone, she watched him lay there. Shawn never fumbled and he never laid there after being hit. But this time he did. He laid there. And he laid there and laid there and laid there.
She felt her heart stutter to a stop as the rest of the world went on around her. It seemed like minutes, hours, days before anyone noticed Shawn wasn't getting up. When they did, several members of the coaching staff from his team rushed out onto the field, including his father. They crowded around his body, a couple at his legs and three at his head. One man, holding a bag of some sort, leaned over Shawn and clapped his hands over his face a few times.
Camila held her breath, waiting. From the silence engulfing the stadium, it seemed everyone else was holding theirs too. After a few claps, Camila saw Shawn's leg move, just a slight raising and lowering of one knee, and then he brought up his hand, gesturing to himself, pointing at his chest. Painful relief spread over her. The man with the bag lifted Shawn's jersey and fiddled with the pads underneath, and then sat back sharply. He turned and gestured to the paramedics standing by on the sidelines, and they rushed onto the field pulling a stretcher.
"Oh, God," Camila said, and covered her mouth with her hand.
Hailee was at her side in an instant, her hand grasping Camila's.
Camila watched as Shawn shook his head and tried to sit up. His father was saying something to the man with the bag, his forehead creased and expression angry. But the man shook his head in return and placed a hand on Shawn's shoulder, keeping him down on the ground. Coach Mendes stood and threw his clipboard as he walked back to the sideline, leaving his son and the other coaches in the middle of the field. The two paramedics arrived, but Shawn shook his head again and sat up, pushing the man's hand away. A couple of the other coaches grabbed him under the arms and helped him to his feet. But even from this distance, Camila could see his steps were unsure and he held his body hunched over, as if he were in a great deal of pain.
When they made it to the sideline, the teams took their places on the field again, intent on finishing the game as if nothing had even happened. Camila's stomach rolled and burned with nausea. She was relieved that he'd walked off, but Shawn would never willingly leave a game unless he physically couldn't play any longer. And for him to not be able to play, he must've been really hurt. She strained to see behind the line of players across the field, but she couldn't tell where they'd taken him. It was the cruelest torture to not know, and even worse to know that she couldn't even ask.
Hailee nudged her shoulder. "Are you okay?"
Camila nodded, but didn't quite know if that was true.
"He's all right, Mila," Hailee whispered. "He walked off the field. He's all right."
Camila nodded again, but the look on Hailee's face told her she knew Camila wasn't quite sure. Hailee screwed her lips to the side and held her finger up, then rushed over to the stands, gesturing at someone. A moment later, Niall came down and leaned over the rail as Hailee stretched on tip-toes, cupped her hand around his ear and whispered something to him. Camila frowned. What was she doing? Hailee grabbed something from Niall and pointed toward the other side of the field.
Niall pulled back, his forehead creased, and then looked over at Camila and nodded. He made his way to the end of the bleachers and took off toward the concession stand. Hailee returned and Camila pulled her in by the elbow.
"What did you do?"
Hailee didn't say anything. She just smiled a smile that was way too innocent for her. Several minutes later, an out of breath Niall stood at the fence again and gestured to Camila. She frowned and slowly made her way over to him.
"What did she make you do?"
Nial didn't respond—and Camila thought maybe he couldn't seeing as he was breathing pretty hard. He reached out and slapped a game roster into her hand before turning back to the stands. Camila frowned and opened the folded paper. She groaned when she saw Hailee's handwriting scrawled across the top:
Could you please let your girlfriend know you're not dead so she doesn't pass out? 'Kay thx, Haiz.
And then under that, was an answer. Camila's cheeks burned.
Please pass this on to my girlfriend: I'm not dead, baby. So don't pass out. And do me a favor and turn those pretty brown eyes up. ~Shawn.
Camila's breath quickened. Oh, God. Baby. He'd called her baby! If she were the swooning type of girl, she totally would have at that. And she hadn't missed that he'd called her his girlfriend. Granted, Hailee had called her that first, but he'd said it like it was fact, no quotation marks, nothing to indicate he was only using the phrase because Hailee had. She carefully refolded the note, drew in a breath, and looked up. And there he was, across the field standing on the sideline, his jersey, pads, and helmet off, holding something large and white against his chest. He lifted his other hand in a small greeting. Camila shook her head, grinned, and waved the program slightly in front of her, letting him know she got it. He tipped his head forward once, then disappeared back behind the wall of Ashford's players. Camila tucked the note into the waistband of her skirt and joined her squad once more.
Hailee smirked between jumps and high kicks.
"I'm going to kill you," Camila said, rolling her eyes in embarrassment and joining in mid-cheer.
Hailee grinned larger and answered, knowing exactly what Camila's words really meant, "You're welcome, chicken."
____________________________________________
The ride home from the game was as silent as the locker room had been immediately afterward—if you didn't count the yelling coming from his father's office. Part of Shawn felt sorry for the medical aid that had deemed him unable to play the rest of the game due to the extensive bruising across his chest. But the other part was pissed to hell that he hadn't had a chance to turn the game around and win it. Now Alejandro Cabello and the Whitecastle Knights were going to State, and he wasn't. His father wasn't.
If he were a better son, he'd have stuck around and rode home with his dad, but he just wasn't in the mood to talk about the game right then. His chest hurt like hell, and all he wanted to do was lie down and sulk for a good few days. Unfortunately, there was no place to go. If he went home he'd be sure to have to endure his father's tirade, but Alex was throwing another God-damn party (planned in advance, anticipating their win, but even though they lost Alex replied with: "The party must go on!") so Shawn just had to choose the lesser of two evils.
Thankfully, Alex kept his mouth shut on the way to his house and didn't crack a single joke about Carlos catching Shawn and Camila making out in the locker room. Shawn knew Alex had been holding it in all night, just waiting for the chance to throw it in his face, but he hadn't said a thing. And Shawn was glad. He honestly did not want to have to beat his best friend's ass tonight, but he'd make a go of it if necessary.
Alex turned down his street, which was already lined with vehicles waiting for the party to start. Shawn sighed and climbed out of the car after Alex pulled into the driveway. It took some effort and he grimaced against the ache still radiating through his chest. On the sidelines, the paramedics had checked him out (since he'd refused to let them take him to the hospital) and they'd determined his sternum and the ribs on his left side were just badly bruised. Shawn could have told them that. He'd sustained broken ribs before and knew what it felt like. As much as this hurt, it definitely didn't feel the same as that. But because the bruising was so bad and the pain from the hit had made him pass out like a sissy, the medics had refused to allow him any more playing time. His dad was downright pissed. And Shawn couldn't help but wonder who exactly he was pissed at: Shawn for allowing himself to be hurt, or the guys who wouldn't let him play? In the long run, it didn't matter, because if Roy Mendes was pissed, there was only one person he had to take it out on.
And Shawn didn't feel like being that person tonight.
He gingerly made his way up the walk behind Alex, the echo of car doors slamming shut all up and down the street. Alex opened the door and Shawn, along with half his school, filed inside. He didn't even stop to shoot the shit with anyone before he headed for the stairs.
"Dude, you sure you don't want a drink or something at least?" Alex asked.
Shawn shook his head. "I'm just going up stairs. I'm not in the mood for this shit tonight." Plus, the medic had given him pain killers and he wasn't stupid enough to mix them with alcohol.
"Is Dora coming with Haiz later?"
Shawn shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe."
Alex patted Shawn carefully on the back. "Okay, dude. Well, you know where I'll be if you get sick of sulking like a baby girl."
Shawn shot Alex a glare and started up the stairs. When he reached the top, he entered Alex's room and closed the door behind him. Downstairs, a stereo turned on and some kind of thumping dance shit blared. Shawn could make out the laughter and shouting from the partygoers as well, but it was muffled enough by the door that he could at least hear himself think.
Looking around, Shawn scowled. What a pigsty, honestly. Along with the piles of dirty clothes and overflowing trash, Alex's room was covered in posters of scantily clad girls in various seductive poses. Not that Shawn didn't like to look, but he would never put this shit on his walls. Why would he want to advertise how much of a teenage dick he really was?
Shawn slipped off his shoes, turned out the light, and fell onto his back on the bed. He groaned at the resounding ache and stared at the ceiling. He didn't even feel like going through Alex's porn stash, which Shawn knew he kept in the most cliché spot imaginable—stuffed between his mattress and box spring.
He didn't want to do anything or see anyone. Well, that wasn't exactly true. Shifting a little to the side, Shawn reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He pressed the home button and the screen lit up.
No new messages.
He sighed and tossed his cell to the mattress beside him. After witnessing the huge crowd still filling the field and hearing the chants and cheers coming from Whitecastle's spectators after the game, Shawn figured Camila would be busy for awhile. It was probably best. She didn't need to see him like this. Even so, he still wanted her there. Of all the people in his life, she was probably the only one who wouldn't give a shit that he lost the game.
Closing his eyes, he thought back to that moment, the one when everything had gone to hell. He could see the whole field, feel the ball in his hand, hear the crowd cheering. He could make out every step he did right, and every one he did wrong.
Damn it.
A light knock on the door brought him out of his thoughts, and he felt strangely drowsy, like he'd been woken from a deep sleep. But he hadn't been asleep, had he? His phone buzzed at his side, and he rolled to retrieve it, groaning with the effort. He picked it up and pressed the button just as there was another, louder knock on the door.
"This room's occupied. Go away!" he called, as he looked at his phone.
One new message. Camila. From twenty-five minutes ago. Shit. He had fallen asleep.
Another knock and then the crack of the door opening; a small shaft of light spilled over the carpet. Shawn was about to bitch whomever it was out, when he heard the person speak.
"So, I heard there was a cute, broody dark-haired boy up here that might need some cheering up."
Shawn frowned on the outside but smiled on the inside. "Cute? I'm not cute."
The voice chuckled, and the door opened wider, bathing the entire room in bright light and surrounding a tiny girl's silhouette, her silhouette, before she closed the door behind her. Shawn blinked at the darkness.
"But you're not denying the brooding part?"
"Hmph," Shawn grunted, as the mattress beside him dipped down and a warm body stretched out next to his. "If you call being in a shitty mood broody, then I guess I can't deny that." He let his arm fall from his chest and brush hers. "I just got your text. I guess I fell asleep."
"It's okay." A warm hand reached out and took his. "I'm sorry about the game."
"Yeah." Shawn reached up with his other hand and scrubbed it over his face. "I should probably warn you that I'm in an ass-faced mood."
"I can go if you'd rather be alone."
"No." He turned his face toward her and could just make out the outline of her features in the low light coming in from the window. "Don't go. I'm glad you're here," he said.
Camila turned to face him. "Okay." She paused, and Shawn felt her thumb swipe the top of his hand. When she spoke again, her voice was very small and a little nervous. "Are you really okay?"
"Yeah."
"You scared the hell out of me," she whispered. "I didn't think you were going to get up. And I'm really ticked that you made me act like a girl."
Shawn reached out to touch her face, her skin so soft and warm under his fingers. "I'm sorry I scared you. It was really nothing. They hit me just right in the spot where the weights bruised me and I ... Lord, this is embarrassing ..." he mumbled, "and I, well, I kind of passed out for a minute. But I'm fine. Just a little bruised, that's all."
"But they were calling the ambulance for you. I thought ..."
He scooted over and touched his forehead to hers. "Just an over-exaggeration of my injuries. I promise I'm fine."
Camila was silent for a moment, and then she asked, "Can I see?" almost as if she were embarrassed to ask.
"See what?"
Camila sat up and looked down at him. "Your bruises. Can I see?"
Shawn raised his brows. "You want to look at my chest?"
"Your bruises," she corrected. "And yes, may I?"
He hesitated. "Well, sure—but only if you promise not to freak out."
"Why would I freak out?"
"Just—just promise, okay?"
"Okay, I promise I won't freak out," she said, warily.
Shawn stalled for a moment. He had no problem showing her his chest—under normal circumstances—but he knew how bad the bruises looked and he didn't want to frighten her further. But she'd asked and he wasn't about to tell her no.
Lifting himself to a seated position, he held his breath and bit back a groan as the pain ripped through him. He twisted his body until he sat on the edge of the bed and bent to turn on the lamp. Camila slipped off the mattress and came to stand in front of him. She knelt and placed her hands on his knees. Her eyes were so big and bright, nervous, her lips so pink. He wanted to kiss them.
"You sure this is okay?" she asked, gesturing to where his hands had already popped open the first button. "I mean, you don't have to show me if you don't want to."
"Yes," he said, a little nervous at what her reaction would be.
Slowly, he worked the buttons on his shirt, slipping them one by one from their holes until the whole thing hung loose. He didn't open it, though, thinking maybe he should let her. Camila raised her hands, tentatively, and pried the fabric apart, gasping when his chest was revealed to her. Lifting one hand to her mouth, she shook her head, her wide eyes never leaving him.
"God, Shawn ..."
"You promised you wouldn't freak out," he said.
"I'm not, but," Camila reached out and touched him, feather-light, in the very center of his chest where the bruises were almost black in color, "this is so much worse than I thought. You should have ice on this. Are you sure it's not worse than just the bruises?"
Shawn closed his eyes and a trembling breath escaped his lips. "Yes." God, it felt good when she touched him. She slid her hand across his pec and up to his shoulder, her fingers barely tracing his skin, but enough to make him shiver.
At the movement, she pulled away from him and he opened his eyes. "Am I hurting you?" she asked.
"No." He grabbed her hand and brought it back to his chest, laying her entire palm over his heart. "I don't think I can even describe how good it feels when you touch me. Please, don't stop."
Carefully, she started to trace his chest again, outlining the darkest parts at the center and slowly fanning out to the purple, red, and yellow. Shawn knew he looked like shit, but the way she was touching him, the way she was looking at him, did things to him that he could hardly comprehend. Her fingers were a drug, and with even this lightest touch, he was hooked. It was like she just flipped some switch inside him that made him just want so badly. His entire body buzzed with it.
He lowered his head to hers and the scent of her shampoo engulfed him. Flowery. Lilacs, maybe. His lips brushed her forehead and down the side of her face. Heat rippled across his skin and he couldn't get enough of her: her smell, her warmth, her softness. "Do you know how much I want to throw you down and kiss the hell out of you right now?"
Her breath and fingers faltered, but her words didn't. "Probably as much as I want you to," she said.
Shawn groaned at the injustice of it all. "God-damn Keira. God-damn defensive line."
"God-damn Carlos," she added, then sighed. "It's probably for the best anyway." Her touch continued to feather along his collarbone and shoulder, only serving to increase the want building inside him. Lord, she was driving him insane. "We probably shouldn't rush the physical stuff. Right? We shouldn't?"
As she spoke, her eyes fixed on his mouth. She sounded so unsure, like she wanted him to tell her she was wrong, that they should just go full steam ahead, that they shouldn't be cautious. Truth be told, he didn't want to take anything slow. He wanted to throw her down right then, to cover her body with his, to slip his hands up her shirt and down her pants, to feel her squirm beneath him, to hear her breathe his name.
"You probably shouldn't," he shivered again as she slipped her hands under the collar of his shirt and it slid off his shoulders, "ask me that," he couldn't help but grab her waist as her fingers circled his biceps, "right now."
"Why not?"
"Because I might give you an answer you really don't want." His nose brushed hers, and he could feel her warm, shallow breaths against his face. "Or maybe that you do."
Camila tilted her face slightly and their lips touched. Just barely, but it was enough. She let out the tiniest whimper, and Shawn couldn't stop himself from pressing his mouth harder against hers. She tasted sweet, like cotton candy. He traced her bottom lip with his tongue, asking nicely, so nicely, and she opened for him. Her fingers curled into his shoulders and she wiggled between his legs, as if she wanted to get closer, needed to get closer. Shawn had absolutely no problem with that because he needed her closer too. He tightened his grip on her waist and lifted her to stand, fitting his knees between her legs and pulling her down onto his lap. Her breath caught and he groaned when she shifted right over the very part of him he most wanted her to.
Shawn's lips moved from hers down to her chin, her throat, her shoulder. Her pulse thrummed against his mouth and her thighs squeezed his hips. Every ounce of good sense and self control dissolved as his fingers hooked the belt loops on her pants and he pulled her hard over him once more. This time both of them let out a little cry as their bodies pressed together. God, he needed her. She was right there and so hot and tasted so good and he couldn't help himself. Shawn moved her again, and again, and again, his hips shifting up and against her, and Lord, he was probably going to have a mess here in a minute. But he didn't give a damn. She felt too good and it had been too long.
His hands left her jeans and slipped up under the hem of her shirt. He needed to touch her, needed to hear her breath quicken and her throat give off that tiny squeak of surprise when their flesh connected, and he wasn't disappointed. Her skin was so warm, hot really, and he could feel the grooves of her ribs under his fingertips. He wanted to study them, to map them out, every dip, channel, and curve of her body, and then he wanted to memorize them with his mouth, his tongue. The tops of his hands grazed the underwire of her bra and he could barely contain himself.
"Oh, God," she said, and her voice went straight to his lap. "Oh, please, Shawn, I need you to ..." Her hands fisted into his hair, and the way she breathed his name had him spiraling even faster, igniting even hotter. "Please. I need you to ... I need you to ... God, you have to ... stop."
Stop? What?
As hard as it was, Shawn stopped. His hands curled into her sides and his breath came fast and hard, the lower half of his body throbbing and about ready to explode. "What?" His voice was hoarse, strained. "Oh ffffshhittt."
Camila was trying to breathe, her cheeks flushed a bright red. "I'm sorry, but ... Isn't this ... isn't it ... too fast. Shouldn't we slow down a little? Maybe?"
Shawn lowered his forehead to her shoulder and let out a real whimper this time, because God-damn it. His body was on the edge, exposed, raw; he actually kind of felt like crying.
"I'm sorry." Her hands were still in his hair, her face lowered to his head. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have—but you make me—and I want to—God, I'm sorry. I just don't want to go too fast. I don't want to mess this up."
"It's okay," he mumbled into her shoulder. "Just—just give me a minute to, ahhh God." He clenched his eyes shut as his body reminded him that he had a girl sitting on top of his very ready part.
She made to get up and the movement sent a jolt of raw need through him, so powerful, so right there, it hurt to hold back. He gripped her hips hard and held her still. "Lord. Oh God. Don't move. Okay? Just ... just don't move."
She froze. "Are you ... are you really, um, that close?" Her voice sounded strange. Amused?
"Shut up," he said, into her shirt, the words forced, "it's been awhile, okay? And I don't even remember the last time."
"No, that's not what I ..." Her voice trailed off.
Shawn looked up and furrowed his brows. She leaned in and kissed his mouth, her fingers lingering at his jaw. When she pulled back, she looked him straight in the eye, hers filled with curiosity.
"How close? Tell me the truth."
Was it wrong that it turned him on more for her to ask that? Probably. "About three seconds from making a huge mess."
"Three seconds?"
"Give or take."
"Hmm," she said, and looked down at the space between them.
"Hmm, what?" he asked.
She looked back up. "I've never made a boy, well, you know, that excited before."
"Not true," he said, tucking her hair behind her ears. "We know for sure you have at least once."
Her cheeks flared. "Well, I don't remember that. And anyway, that's because we, well, we ... you know. And it probably was just that and not ... me ... doing anything, really."
Shawn shook his head. "Trust me. It's you." He pulled her face down and kissed her. "It was you then. It's you now. You turn me on so damn much. So much more than I've ever been turned on before."
Her smile stretched the whole width of her face. "Liar."
"No," he said, running his nose along the edge of her jaw and nipping at the soft flesh underneath. "This is actually pretty embarrassing. I shouldn't be ready to pop after two minutes of making out."
"So, if I just ..." Camila shifted her hips over him. "Then I could make you ...?"
"Oh lordffsshittt, Mila," he groaned into her neck, and dug his fingers into her hips to hold her still. "Most definitely. So you should probably stop that if you want me to be able to restrain myself."
Camila didn't say anything for a few seconds, and Shawn looked up, finding her chewing on her lip.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing, but," a look of determined curiosity came over her face, "can I make you?"
"Can you make me what?"
"Can I make you?" she repeated, and shifted her gaze to his lap and back to his face.
He blinked. "Are you asking permission to get me off?"
She shrugged, and he breathed out a long, slow breath, his heart pounding uselessly against his ribs, since he was pretty sure there was no blood there anymore anyway. "For future reference, don't ever ask a guy that if you want an answer that doesn't make him look like a selfish asshole."
"So that's a yes, then, right?"
"Lord, Mila." He would have liked to prove that he was a decent guy and tell her she didn't need to do anything for him, but, damn it, right then he was a selfish asshole and he really, really wanted to get off. "It's definitely not a no."
"Tell me if I hurt you?" she whispered, and carefully touched the middle of his chest.
"Believe me, you're not going to hurt a God-damn thing." He cupped a hand around her neck, pulling her face down to his, and she kissed him so hard and deep he could barely breathe.
With her tongue in his mouth and her hands fisting his hair, she started to move, so slow, so deliciously slow, yet so hard against him. Shawn's conscience screamed at him: Asshole! Asshole! But good God, the things she was doing to him made him not care, made him incapable of anything but helping her along. He grabbed her hips and moved her faster, harder, until both of them were nothing but panting balls of hormonal fire. His fingers dug into her and he groaned her name against her mouth as the flame in his belly increased, burning so hot, coiling so tight, building, building, building, until the pressure was so much, so overwhelming, the only thing he could do was let go.
And let go he did, wrapping his arms around Camila's small body and holding her tight against him as his shuddered and jerked. He buried his face in her shoulder, holding his breath as he rode it out. The pain in his chest was there, but God, the good was so damn good he didn't even care.
Camila's arms went around his back, but she was careful not to squeeze too tightly. When it was finished, he was panting and sweat beaded his brow. He turned his face into her neck, and could feel the heat of his own breath as it rebounded off her skin.
His body still sparked and shuddered as he came down. "Holy shit," he said. "What did you—oh God. Oh Lord."
Camila giggled and Shawn felt her lips graze his temple. "Okay?"
"God. Good Lord. Okay? Yes. More than okay. Damn." He shuddered again and she laughed softly, her breath ruffling his hair.
"I didn't hurt you, right?"
"No, you didn't hurt me." He kissed the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. "Definitely, definitely didn't hurt me."
"You know," she said, after a few moments, "I think that was more like five seconds. Not that I was counting or anything."
Shawn chuckled. "Leave me alone. It's not usually that fast." He let his fingers play along the edge of her jeans, his breath still a little ragged. "But in my defense, I am nineteen and it really has been a long time. Not since we ... And I told you you make me crazy." He still couldn't get enough of touching her, and more than anything, he wanted to make her feel what he'd just felt. His fingers danced across her waistband and dipped just inside. "Do you want me to ...?"
Camila placed her hand over his. "That's okay. I'm okay."
"But I can make you feel good too."
She chewed on her lower lip. "Well, I'm not sure ... I'm not sure I'm ready for that ... yet." The way she looked at him was nervous, uncomfortable. Her face was red. "Is that okay?"
"Is that okay? Of course it's okay. I just don't want you to feel jipped." And he couldn't deny the desire to watch her fall apart above him, see her head thrown back with her creamy white throat exposed, hear her quickened breath and whispered pleas, feel her thighs clench around him. Shit.
"I don't. That was ... well, it was pretty cool."
Shawn smiled. "Yes, it was. It was very cool. I liked it a lot." Her face was still blazing and she had yet to look at him. "Hey. Don't be embarrassed. Come here." She leaned in and he smoothed the hair away from her face before kissing her lips gently. "You don't have to be embarrassed about this stuff with me. Okay? And when you want me to, when you're ready, I will happily repay the favour—in double or even triple if that's what you want. But I won't pressure you. I may be a selfish asshole sometimes—now being a perfect example—but I promise I won't do that."
Camila met his gaze but instead of speaking, she leaned in and touched her mouth to his, kissing him softly, carefully, like he might break or was in some way precious to her. It was unlike any kiss he'd had before, and it sparked something in him, something uncomfortable yet comfortable at the same time.
"I don't understand how you can be the same boy Papa and Carlos have talked about all these years," she said. "You may think you're a selfish asshole, but you've been nothing but good to me. I kind of feel like I'm the one that's selfish, because this? What just happened? I wanted that. I wanted to do that to you. I wanted to make you feel good, and to know it was me making you feel that way."
"Okay, well, if your idea of being selfish is doing that, then be my guest to be selfish whenever you want," he said, moving in to kiss her again, and then grimacing when she shifted over the cooling mess in his pants.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing's wrong, it's just ... well, I have to do something about these damn pants. This shit is really disgusting."
Camila blinked and then realization dawned on her still flushed face. She gave an embarrassed giggle and buried her face in his neck, the puffs of her warm breath giving him chills. Shawn hugged her tight and thought, even with an aching chest and sticky pants, he'd never felt better.
"Thank you for showing up here tonight," he said into her hair. "You didn't have to, and I know you had a lot of stuff you could have been doing to celebrate with your own school, but I'm so damn glad you came to me."
"Uh huh, I'm sure you are." Shawn could hear the smile in her voice.
"Not because of that—well, not only because of that." He tucked his hands around her face and lifted until she looked up at him. "I know you're scared about this, about going too fast with the physical stuff, especially considering what's already happened between us and the consequences of that. And while I admit that I'm so attracted to you I could explode—and quite literally just did—you have to know that's not why I'm here, right?" He studied her face, the way her eyes took him in and softened when she accepted what he said as truth. "I'm here because I want to be. Because I want you in every way and I want you to want me in every way too. I love talking to you, teasing you, touching you. I love that you care enough to want to be with me at all. And I'm so glad you worry enough to be scared when I'm hurt. That you put up with my shitty mood over a stupid game. And that you don't tease me too much about my pathetic self control when we're making out."
"I can't promise on that last one."
Shawn smiled and traced his fingers along her cheekbones. "But mostly, I'm just really glad you're mine. That you're giving me a chance at all." Her eyes grew wide and he leaned down to kiss her pink lips. "Really, really glad."
And he was, because for the first time in his life, he felt like he knew exactly where he was supposed to be. Right there. Right here. At this moment and this time. With this girl.
His girl.
Camila smiled, that soft, shy smile that only touched the corners of her mouth and made her look so vulnerable. Reaching up, she intertwined her fingers with his and brought his palm to her chest. Under her shirt, he could feel her heart beating, fast but steady.
"You're going to steal this, aren't you?" she said, and there was real uncertainty, real fear in her eyes.
Shawn shook his head. "I'm not going to steal anything. But if you ever trust me enough to give it to me," he whispered, "there's no way in hell I'm giving it back."