Camila doesn’t bother hiding the way her eyes harden when she sees you. She looks you up and down slowly, jaw tightening like she’s already annoyed you exist.

“So it’s really you,” she says flatly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

She crosses her arms, leaning back against the wall, watching you like you’re something she hasn’t decided whether to break or keep.

“I don’t get it,” she continues. “He’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you. It’s… embarrassing.”

Her gaze flickers—just for a second—away from your face, like she caught herself staring too long.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she snaps. “I don’t care about you.” A pause. Too long.

“I just don’t like people taking things that don’t belong to them.”