His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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C A M I L A
Fucking hell, maybe I'll be an old bat with ten cats if those kids are the alternative. Who needs children? Not me. Not in my twenties. I can barely take care of myself, thanks.
I step out into the crisp night air, the gym's neon sign casting a blue glow over the parking lot. I pause for a moment, letting the cold air fill my lungs, my breath visible in small puffs. It feels good. Everything feels good.
I look down at my shirt, smiling at the bold bright pink of it. It stands out like a beacon against the dark. When Michael handed it to me before the shift, I wasn't sure about wearing it yet. Now it feels like a badge of honor. I earned this.
I run my fingers over the fabric, still damp with sweat. It's been hours, but the adrenaline is still buzzing under my skin. The kids were a handful—loud, chaotic, cursing up a storm, testing my patience in every way possible. At one point, a chubby kid named Devon tried to take a swing at me when I made him run laps. His friend, a girl named Alana, had tried to sneak out the back when I wasn't looking. Another kid, Lucas, couldn't stop laughing the whole time. He thought everything was a joke.
I was not laughing.
But I figured it out. Somehow, I found a rhythm with them. I didn't yell. I didn't lose my cool. I just kept pushing—then I saw the shift in their eyes.
I understand, that's the thing. The annoyance, the anger, the frustration at their own bodies. Exercise is hard. I had to work overtime just to do a pull-up. I was weak, sad, angry.
I can still hear their voices, their laughter, the way they called me Coach Cam by the end of the session. I helped every single one of those seven kids. They didn't just tolerate me; they liked me.
A wave of emotion crashes over me, and I feel my eyes start to sting. God, I don't want to cry. Not here, not now, and not anymore! But I can't help it. The tears spill over before I can stop them, and I quickly wipe them away with the back of my hand as I start walking down the snowy sidewalk. It's not sadness. It's... relief. Joy. A deep, overwhelming sense of accomplishment that I haven't felt in so long.
Up above, the stars are hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, but I don't care. I feel light, almost weightless. Like I could float up and touch them if I wanted to, kind of like Noah's ceiling.
This is what it feels like to succeed. To know that you're good at something, that you made a difference. I've spent so much time feeling like I shouldn't even be here on earth anymore, but helping people? That's my favourite thing. My necessary thing.
My steps are light, almost bouncy. I'm tired, sure—my muscles are sore, and my feet ache from being on them for hours—but it's the kind of tired that feels good.
Each time I cross something off my list, it takes me closer to Noah, to the future I want to build with him. It's a path I'm choosing, footprints I'm eager to leave—right beside his.
