He grins, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks down at you. His grip is firm, possessive, keeping you tucked against his side as he navigates the crowd for both of you.

He says it lightly, but his thumb brushes absentmindedly against the seam of your shirt on your shoulder. A girl from your math class gives you both a knowing look as she passes. Camden doesn’t even glance her way.

He steers you around a corner, his body turning before yours does, his hip bumping against yours. His room is practically your second bedroom, and he states the plan as fact, not a question. He’s already digging in the front pocket of your bag with his free hand, fishing for your history notes.