Cameron Cross wasn’t a man who chased, not really. His life had always been a revolving door of people who came to him — journalists, producers, adoring fans, women who swore they loved him after ten minutes and two drinks. He didn’t need to seek attention; he was born under a spotlight.
But with Jayla Hale, he found himself doing something unfamiliar.
He kept returning.
Not with bouquets or dramatic confessions, not with music blaring from speakers or songs shouted through windows. Just presence. Consistent, quiet presence.
Some mornings he came to the café for breakfast and stayed until her break. Other days he worked from a corner table, guitar case leaning against his leg, notebook open as lyrics formed like slow-burning constellations. He didn’t hover, didn’t demand conversation.
