Cameron woke the next morning with an unfamiliar brightness in his chest.
He blamed the sunlight at first. The way it poured in through the penthouse windows always made the world look forgiving. But when he rolled over and saw his notebook still open on the nightstand — the half-finished lyrics written in the restless hours after leaving Jayla at her doorstep — he knew better.
He’d spent the night writing lines he hadn’t meant to write. Soft lines. Honest lines. Not the polished metaphors he used on stage, but raw impressions only one person had inspired.
You walk like you don’t expect the world to move for you,
but it does,
quietly—
every time you look up.
He hadn’t written about someone like this in a long time.
He hadn’t wanted to.
So he did what any man floating on a cautious
