“You looking for this?” My roommate dangles my hair tie like he’s teasing a cat with a pom pom on a stick.
I snatch it and quickly twist my chaos waves into something that—hopefully—redeems me from my currentattacked-by-a-leaf-bloweraesthetic.
“Cam always has a scrunchie,” he says into the lens. “Like, always. She takes filming very seriously.”
He noticed that?
“I keep it close in case I need something to strangle you with.”
He laughs. “There’s the feisty girl the squad needs to see. And that’s the perfect transition to tell everyone what we’re doing today.”
Oh geez. More public humiliation, and I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee. What’s next? A live broadcast of me crawling under the bed, half-naked, trying to escape?
“I need to admit something to Cam, and I want you all to be a part of it.”
Don’t panic. Act natural.I stare at my uncomfortable reflection on the screen.
No, not that natural—you’re giving off serial killer vibes.
Smile! Not that kind of smile, you lunatic. You look like you’re gonna bite someone.
Just cross your arms—wait, no, now your boobs are the main event.
STOP GIVING THE INTERNET A SHOW, CAMILA!
“A lot of you know Cam is my new girlfriend,” Reece continues, “but you may not know that she’s also my right-hand woman behind the scenes.” He turns those intense blue eyes on me. “How long have you been my videographer, Morales?”
“Uh, two years?” I manage, wondering if this is an elaborate setup to fire me on a livestream for views.
“And have I been an asshole to you that entire time?”
My eyes fly wide open becauseWHAT IS HAPPENING?
“I’ll answer for her. Yes. I have been,” he says, his tone serious now. “Making content for you can get super stressful. And I am not always the most pleasant off camera. So I am publicly apologizing to Camfor being a total douchebag. For not acknowledging how important she is. Guys, without her, this channel would be shaky selfies and stock footage with voiceovers. This filming powerhouse is literally in the trenches with me. She’s a warrior, and it’s time I told her.
Um, excuse me? Did I die? Am I in a coma?Because Reece Dare—the man who once said my drone footage looked like it was shot by a drunk, one-winged pigeon—is actually saying…
“You see, Cam’s the one who has filmed all your favorite videos for the last two years. She’s scaled buildings, jumped out of planes, and done it all like a pro. But not once did I thank her. I havenevertold her how freakishly talented she is.” His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the stubble. “Which is a total dick move.”
My newly enlightened boss looks at me, his eyes brimming with sincerity. He squeezes my thigh softly, like he’s got something to say but wants to keep it between us.
“Quick, drop in the chat your favorite video Cam has filmed.”
The responses fly in faster than Blaze’s attention span:
Skateboard Rooftop Escape—Girls got SKILLZ.
The Haunted Asylum One—that angle when the door slammed? CHILLS.
OMG THE PLANE JUMP. HOW DID SHE FILM AND NOT DIE?
That underwater shark cage stunt had me SHOOK. Cam’s got bigger balls than my boyfriend.
She’s a total badass.
I’m speechless. Comment after comment, all praising…me. I’m just the behind-the-scenes girl, framing shots and editing this prankster’s crazy stunts into something watchable. The internet saw his face, his daring antics, his irresistible charm.
Not me.
