Rosalie helped Cameron into a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, neither of them speaking much as she guided her through the motions of getting dressed. The fabric clung in damp places, her skin still cool from the post-shower crash, but Rosalie's hands were steady, unbothered. She moved without hurry, without judgment, without asking if Cameron was okay.
The silence wasn't awkward, nor was it expectant.
It just was.
Rosalie had always been good at that—giving space without making it feel like an absence. Her presence was never demanding. She didn't fill the air with noise or advice. She didn't ask Cameron to unpack the wreckage. She just stood in it with her.
Cameron appreciated that more than she could articulate, so she didn't try to.
They cleaned up in the same manner. Rosalie quietly picked up the remnants of Cameron's outburst, her expression unreadable but never unkind. The glass was swept up, the books restacked, the ruined photo placed facedown on the counter. Cameron moved beside her, still a little dazed, still stinging in her palms and shoulders and ribs, but she didn't resist.
It wasn't a return to normal. Just a return to stillness.
The sound of small things being put back where they belonged became its own kind of comfort. The thud of a book against a shelf. The swish of a damp towel wiping down the counter. The sharp tink of broken ceramic into the trash. These sounds filled the silence like punctuation.
When the apartment looked decent again—no longer pristine, but livable—Cameron collapsed onto the couch. She exhaled a breath that felt like it had been stuck behind her ribs for hours. Her muscles ached. Her throat burned. Her brain was finally, finally starting to go quiet.
Rosalie sat beside her, stretching out, one arm draped over the back of the couch. She didn't lean into Cameron, didn't force touch or reassurance. She just… sat. Like she belonged there.
Cameron stared at the ceiling for a long time, watching shadows shift as headlights from the street flickered across the walls.
"Have you ever been in love before?" she asked, her voice hoarse, barely louder than the hum of the city outside.
Rosalie didn't flinch. Didn't fumble.
She barely reacted, just shrugged. "Who knows?"
Cameron turned her head to look at her, searching her face for something—an explanation, a story, a scar. But there was no deep revelation in Rosalie's eyes. Just casual nonchalance. An acceptance that the answer didn't really matter. Not now. Maybe not ever.
And somehow, that comforted Cameron more than any reassurances could have. Maybe love wasn't something to be defined or chased. Maybe it wasn't some fire to worship or lose yourself in. Maybe it was just… a thing. A presence or absence. A coin flip.
A truth or a story we tell ourselves.
"I told you," Rosalie said after a long pause, voice dry, almost amused, "this is self-harm at this point."
Cameron let out something between a scoff and a chuckle. "Yeah."
They didn't need to say Jasmine's name. It was unnecessary, like saying water when you're already drowning. The subject hung in the room like humidity—undeniable, invisible, dense.
Cameron didn't go into detail—didn't spill out the years of longing, the way she bent and twisted herself into something unrecognizable, how she clung to a spark that wasn't meant for her. But some part of her still felt guilty.
Guilty that she could barely focus on the present, on Rosalie, when Rosalie was here. Tangible. Real. Giving her everything Cameron probably needed.
Rosalie didn't ask for anything back.
She just existed in Cameron's life like a steady, quiet heartbeat.
And maybe that was why Cameron kept her around.
Because she was the opposite of Jasmine in all the ways that mattered.
Rosalie pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out, offering it to Cameron before taking one for herself. The action was wordless, familiar. Cameron took it.
They smoked in silence, the kind that settled in your bones without pressing. The smoke curled toward the ceiling, drifting in soft, ghostly tendrils, as if the night itself was exhaling.
Outside, a car horn echoed in the distance. Someone laughed on the sidewalk.
Inside, it was still.
When the cigarettes burned down to the filter, Rosalie nudged Cameron's leg with her knee.
"C'mon," she murmured. "Let's go to bed."
Cameron didn't argue.
She followed without thinking, without questioning. The bedroom was darker than before, cooler now. The sheets still slightly rumpled from the chaos of earlier. Rosalie peeled off her own clothes with quiet efficiency, tossing them into the corner, then pulled back the blanket and slid in.
Their nights were usually unpredictable—sometimes rough, sometimes playful, sometimes quiet to the point of disconnect.
But tonight, Rosalie took the lead.
Her touch was slower than usual, gentler. Not out of pity or pretense, but something else—something grounding. It wasn't lust. Wasn't distraction. It was the soft press of skin to skin, the way her hands moved like she was trying to remind Cameron that she was still here. Still real.
Cameron didn't know how to feel about it.
Didn't know if she deserved it.
But for once, she didn't overthink it.
Didn't analyze it. Didn't pick it apart like a thesis paper on what she should be feeling. She didn't let her mind wander to Jasmine or the stupid text or the fact that her dresser was dented and broken glass still hid in the corners of the room.
She just let it happen.
And it was… refreshing.
Not healing. Not hopeful.
But enough.