All Chapters of Rival's Contract Marriage : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

POV: BrandonThe next morning, the motel coffee was garbage, the shower pressure was tragic, and the air conditioning sounded like it was powered by a dying lawnmower. But I still woke up smiling. Because beside me, under a tangled mess of thin motel sheets, was Cameron. Hair messed up, one arm slung over my stomach, face smushed into the pillow like he’d been mid-grumble in his sleep.“You drooled on me,” I whispered.His eyes didn’t open. “You talk in your sleep. Something about gummy bears and betrayal.”I laughed quietly and nudged him. “Get up. We’re burning daylight.”“Let it burn,” he mumbled.But ten minutes later, we were back on the road with a bag of sad donuts and a crumpled paper map Brandon found in the glove compartment, because the GPS was being dramatic and refusing to cooperate.Cameron tapped on his phone, sunglasses on, looking like a bored celebrity on a road trip. “This says there’s an overlook up ahead. We could stop.”“I nodded. ‘Scenic detour? I’m in.’”Was ho

POV: CameronThe bags were packed. The car was full of trash we swore we’d clean “later,” and the playlist was already on shuffle, blasting some upbeat song that Brandon insisted was perfect for “goodbyes that aren’t actually sad.”I watched the raggedy motel in the rearview mirror disappear. It felt weird, like we were leaving something more than just a crappy room with questionable and stained sheets.“You good?” Brandon asked, glancing over at me as we merged onto the highway.I shrugged, adjusting the seatbelt. “Yeah. Just… weird to go back.”“Like, real life weird?”“Yeah. Like reality’s about to punch us in the face.”Brandon nodded. “I vote we dodge.”“Not how that works.”“We could pull a Thelma and Louise.”“You haven’t seen that movie.”“No, but I saw the meme. They drive off a cliff, right? We don’t do that part. Just the freedom part.”I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t argue. Mostly because I didn’t hate the idea of staying in the in-between a little longer. That liminal spac

POV: BrandonI was alive. Barely. But alive.Three days of the worst cold known to mankind had left me emotionally drained, physically weak, and spiritually annoying. Which, let’s be honest, is my default setting anyway.Cameron had finally stopped hovering—kind of. He still gave me this Look every time I sniffled too loud, like I’d personally offended his immune system. But I was mobile now. Up. Showered. Wearing real pants. Mostly.“Are you sure you’re okay?” Cameron asked, standing in the doorway of his bedroom with his arms crossed, aka Grump Mode Level One.I smiled weakly from the couch. “I only almost died.”He rolled his eyes. “You had a cold, Brandon. Not the plague.”“You made me soup,” I reminded him, lifting a spoon like it was a trophy. “You love me.”He opened his mouth. Closed it. Sighed. “Regret. So much regret.”“Is that why you let me sleep on your shoulder like a baby koala?”“I was trapped,” he shot back. “You latched onto me like a leech.”“A cute leech,” I added.

POV: Cameron Studying with Brandon was kind of like trying to do algebra on a rollercoaster. There were highs, lows, and a lot of screaming—mostly from me. “Why are there letters in math?” I asked, slamming my pencil down for the third time in ten minutes. “Like, what trauma made math want to be the alphabet?” Brandon was lying on my bed, textbook open on his stomach, eating gummy worms like it was the key to academic enlightenment. “Because math wants to be quirky and mysterious,” he said. “Like you.” I stared at him. “I am two wrong answers away from throwing you out the window.” He tossed a gummy worm at me. It hit my cheek and bounced to the floor. “That’s a waste of sugar,” I muttered. “Your brain needs glucose to function. I’m helping.” I rolled my eyes but popped a gummy worm in my mouth anyway. It didn’t help. Stats still looked like a language invented by aliens. “Ugh,” I groaned, flopping backwards dramatically. “I give up. Just bury me in a pile of flashcards. Tell

POV: BrandonMidterms had officially turned our apartment into a graveyard of snack wrappers, open notebooks, and the slow, painful death of our sanity. I hadn’t seen the bottom of my coffee mug in two days, and I was starting to think Cameron might spontaneously combust if he saw one more regression formula.He was currently pacing across the living room, muttering numbers under his breath like a haunted calculator. His hoodie was halfway off one shoulder, hair sticking out in about four different directions, and he hadn’t blinked in a full minute.“Cam,” I said cautiously from the couch, where I was half-buried under flashcards, “babe, you okay?”“No,” he snapped, eyes locked on the ceiling like the answers were written up there. “I’m trying to remember the equation for standard error and every time I almost get it, I think of your stupid X variable named Bartholomew.”“Bartholomew the Brave,” I corrected. “Knight of the Confidence Interval.”He gave me a look that could peel paint