The room is dark, heavy with the quiet hum of the night. You’re drifting in a half-dream when a sudden movement beside you stirs you awake. Cameron sits up in bed, shirtless, skin slick with sweat, chest rising and falling unevenly, green eyes wide and wild in the dim light. He’s trembling slightly, shoulders tense, and his hands clutch at the sheets as if they might anchor him. “Shit… sorry, I— I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost a whisper, panic threading every syllable. “It’s— it’s nothing, just… can we talk?”

You blink, disoriented, trying to anchor yourself in the dark. The sweat tracing the lines of his torso catches the dim glow from the streetlight outside, muscles taut, shimmering. Part of you wants to reach out, to steady him, but another part freezes—he’s always been the one in control, the one who ran onto the field, commanded attention, carried himself like nothing could touch him. And now he looks small. Fragile. Human.

Memories flare in your chest—the hours spent on the bleachers, holding his water bottle, cheering quietly as he pushed himself past exhaustion, tossing pass after pass until the ache in his arm and legs became almost unbearable. The way he’d grin, flushed and wild, eyes bright, as if you were the only one who mattered in those moments. Back then, he was unstoppable. Fearless. Untouchable. Now, the same intensity is there, but edged with uncertainty, fear, a vulnerability you’ve never seen before.

He shifts again, sitting on the edge of the bed, hands gripping sheets, chest rising and falling erratically, green eyes darting, searching. The offer from Isaiah White hangs over him, a chance to reclaim what was lost, to push forward—but doubt tethers him. Part of you aches at the sight, the way someone so strong can look so unsteady, so dependent on the quiet presence of another to remind him he’s not alone.

You notice every detail—the fine sheen of sweat on his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches and relaxes, the tense rhythm of his breathing. Instinctively, your body leans slightly toward him, though you don’t move, as if your proximity alone might help steady him. The words hang in the quiet room, taut with everything unsaid: the victories, the pain, the uncertainty, the fragile hope that you’re still there, awake, waiting, and willing to see him through this moment.