The house was quiet—eerily so.
Dad had left early this morning for a business meeting in the city. He didn't say much, just the usual stern reminder to "be careful" and "don't make the front page." His words. Not mine.
I'd shrugged it off, then hit the home gym to clear my head. It had become a ritual lately—wake up, stretch, and sweat out the thoughts I didn't want to admit I was having. Camila had been on my mind more than I wanted to admit. Her laugh, the way she bit her lip when she was deep in thought, the little skip in her step when she was happy. It was getting ridiculous. I barely knew her.
And yet, somehow, I felt her.
I cranked up the music, let it drown out everything else, and pushed harder—reps, sets, sweat. Two hours passed before I realized I was still thinking about her in between every single one. I finally stopped, breathing hard, chest rising and falling as I stared at the ceiling like it had answers.
A long, hot shower helped. I threw on a clean pair of joggers, ran a towel through my curls, and slicked a bit of product in—just enough to keep it from puffing up like it usually did. No plans, no distractions. Just me and a quiet afternoon.
Then my phone rang.
Camila.
I didn't even hesitate before swiping to answer. My lips were already curling into a smile, but the second I heard her voice, it vanished.
She was crying.
"I—Anthony, I—I stepped on something, I—there's blood—"
"Camila?" I snapped to attention. "Where are you?"
"I tried calling Julia… no one answered… my foot—it hurts so bad—" Her voice broke, and panic spiked through me.
"Camila, listen to me. Where are you? Are you at the pasture? Can you walk?"
But before she could answer, the line cut off.
"Shit!"
I grabbed the first T-shirt I saw, yanked it over my head, and bolted out the door, grabbing my keys on the way. The clouds overhead were thick and bruised purple—the storm wasn't just coming anymore, it was here. Wind whipped through the trees as I sped across the connecting path to their property.
The pasture came into view, just a little ways from her house, and that's when I saw her.
She was sitting on the ground, her skin pale beneath its golden-brown hue, her curls sticking to her cheeks. She was clutching her ankle, and I could see the blood—dark and wet—spreading from her heel. A board with a rusted nail still stuck through it was impaled into her foot.
I didn't say a word.
I just ran.
Her eyes met mine—wide, glassy, and scared. The kind of fear that made my heart pound.
"Camila," I said gently as I dropped to my knees beside her. "I'm here. I got you."
I reached for her foot, steady and careful. "This is going to hurt, alright? But I'll be quick."
She nodded, silent tears streaking her cheeks.
With one hand, I steadied her leg. With the other, I pulled the board free in one swift motion. She cried out—biting her lip so hard I thought she might bleed there, too.
Before she could collapse, I wrapped my arms around her and lifted her into my chest. She was trembling.
"I've got you," I whispered, holding her tighter. "You're safe now."
The wind picked up behind us as I carried her back toward the house—her house—every step purposeful, my arms locked around her like she might disappear if I let go.
And maybe I didn't want to let go at all.
She was trembling in pain.
I carried her inside and gently placed her on the sofa. Her body was tense, eyes fluttering shut for a second before she winced again. She told me that letting her feet dangle made it worse, so I hurried into the kitchen, grabbed a stack of napkins, and folded them into a makeshift cushion. I eased her feet onto them as carefully as I could.
Truthfully, I had no idea what I was doing.
"Do you have a first aid kit?" I asked, crouching next to her.
She nodded weakly. "Upstairs. First door on the right."
I was up and moving before she finished the sentence. When I returned, she was taking deep, shaky breaths, trying to center herself. Her curls stuck slightly to her forehead from the heat, and her skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat—but even then, she looked beautiful. Strong, even in pain.
"Can you grab a plastic tub from the washroom?" she asked softly. "And… put some water to heat on the stove. Just warm, not boiling."
I nodded and did exactly as she said.
When the water was warm enough, I poured it into the tub and gently helped her lower her foot in. The water turned pink almost instantly, but the bleeding slowed. It wasn't as bad or deep as I'd first thought—probably the panic and all that blood made it seem worse. On a scale of one to ten, I'd say it was a five.
Still, it hurt to see her in pain.
I gave her some over-the-counter painkillers I found in the kit and cleaned up the trail of blood that had followed us inside. She drifted off not long after that. The pills must have made her drowsy.
She slept for about an hour, curled up under a throw blanket I found in a basket nearby.
I didn't move.
I just sat across from her and watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She looked so peaceful, even with the bandage wrapped around her foot. I'd never felt this kind of protective instinct before, not like this. She wasn't just someone I wanted to be around—she was someone I wanted to take care of.
Suddenly, she jolted awake.
"Kitty!" she gasped.
I blinked. "Wait—what? Who's Kitty? You have a cat?"
She looked at me, panic rising again in her eyes. "No. Not a cat. Kitty's my horse. She's still outside!"
That's when it clicked. Everything that had happened had started because she ran out to bring her horse to the barn.
"Damn," I muttered, already standing. "Don't worry. I'll go find her