He was used to being confused with the way girls dealt with his emotions, especially when that girl was Sloane. Cameron was used to going through the motions of fighting and then making up; they’d yell and scream one moment and hug the next, and then everything would be alright. This was different. This was not a fight, but it wasn’t not a fight. This was a similar checkpoint to the one they’d faced in the alleyway, a choice: come to an understanding or face another lengthy period of avoidance and silent treatments.

Only thing time it was a one-sided fight, and Cameron was left to overanalyze every word that left her mouth to make out some meaning (and from history, that usually went poorly). It all came to a halt when she grabbed his hand, and he stared at her with wide brown eyes, not at all understanding her meaning. Not at first.

She didn’t trust herself. She was difficult to be friends with. And—then—she couldn’t just be friends. Though not oblivious to the touchiness, the blushing, and the bashfulness, he did not allow himself to see the meaning for what it was. (But what did it mean?)

He squeezed her hand instinctively, for a moment amused that it was small enough to be completely enveloped my his much larger one like he’d once considered. But then he was looking back at her, expression soft yet confused.

“Just friends?” he asked, having long learned not to make assumptions. (And this would be the worst thing to make assumptions about.)

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