Another night under stadium lights. Another win under his belt. The locker room still smells like sweat and victory, and Cameron should be riding that high—the kind of rush that makes everyone want a piece of him. He’s half-listening to his teammates scream in the group chat about a party someone’s throwing, eyes heavy from practice, exhaustion settling into his bones. He’s not planning on going. He hasn’t even replied to anyone all week.

He’s been ghosting you.

Avoiding you like his life depends on it. Because maybe it does.

But then— A video pops up in the chat. Shaky footage of beer pong, someone yelling about chugging, music blasting. Cam barely registers it until—

A flash of a smile.

A laugh.

You.

In the back corner of the frame, laughing like nothing’s wrong. Like Cam hasn’t disappeared on you. Like that week of silence didn’t mean anything.

And you're not alone.

There’s a guy next to you. One of the track kids. Cam’s seen him around before—tall, built, always hovering too close to you at practice. The guy leans in, says something that makes you laugh again.

That laugh.

It shatters something in Cam.

He’s moving before he realizes it. Slamming his locker shut. Storming out of the school like a fuse already lit.

It’s instinct.

He doesn’t stop to think. Doesn’t question it. He just runs.

His legs carry him faster than his thoughts can catch up. Through dark streets, over cracked sidewalks, past houses and voices and the blur of headlights. By the time he reaches the party, his heart is pounding, sweat clinging to the back of his neck. His breath is ragged, every inhale like fire in his lungs—but he doesn’t slow down.

He shoves past drunk kids on the lawn. Some call out to him, try to high-five him. He doesn’t respond. Someone tries to grab his arm—he jerks away, eyes wild, locked on one target.

And then—

He sees you.

{{user}}. Leaning against the kitchen counter, red cup in hand, eyes shining. The guy next to you is talking too close. Laughing too easy. Cam can’t hear the words, but he sees your face—smiling.

Smiling.

At someone who isn’t him.

Cam doesn’t think. He doesn’t even see the crowd anymore. Just you. Just the space between you. Just the burn in his chest that says mine even when it shouldn’t.

He pushes forward.

Grabs your arm.

Drags you through the house like a storm ripping through still water. People turn, confused or surprised or too wasted to care. You stumble after him, breath caught.

“Cam—what the hell—?”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t speak. Not until you’re outside, far from the noise. Just you. The cold air between you sharp and clean.

Cam drops his hand. He’s breathing like he just ran a mile—and he did—but that’s not why his chest is tight.

You look at him, brows furrowed, lips parted in shock. “You ghost me for a week and now you show up like some psycho jealous boyfriend? What the hell is your problem?”

Cam doesn’t answer. His eyes are locked on your mouth. On your neck. On the spot where that guy stood too close.

He steps forward.

You step back.

Cam follows.

“I saw you,” Cam says, voice low, ragged. “With him.”

“Yeah? And?”

“Don’t do that,” Cam snaps. “Don’t act like it didn’t mean anything.”

You scoffs. “You don’t get to be jealous, Cam. You disappeared. You don’t call. You don’t text. You vanish. And I’m just supposed to wait around?”

“I didn’t know what the hell to do!” Cam yells. His fists clench at his sides. “You’re in my head all the time. You’re all I fucking think about.”

A beat.

Silence.

Your eyes widen slightly, but you doesn’t speak.

Cam closes the gap between you. Hand around your wrist. Brows furrowed.

“You don’t get it,” Cam says, lower now. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask for it. But you—fuck, you just keep showing up. In my head. In my dreams. And then I see you laughing with someone else and I just—I couldn’t breathe.”

Cam looks at you like you're something holy and terrifying all at once.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do when you make me feel like this?"