✮Samy⋆˙

Bob can be patient if he really has to. Sitting for dozens of minutes in the waiting room of his psychiatrist when all the previous appointments have progressively gotten delayed, meaning his own is no exception. Waiting for John to put his ego aside and finally call it quits with the punching bag so he can get his turn. Watching Yelena hesitate on which movie to pick from her watching list when really, she could pick any since she plans on watching them all anyway.

One thing he has never gotten acquainted with is being patient whenever he’s in bed with you.

Not when you’re slowly kissing down his neck and no matter how good it might feel to take the time, his pants feel like they’re about to burst from how long he has been hard. He can’t pretend to be patient either when he has you under him on the couch of the Watchtower when no one else is home, lips swollen from kissing, your chest heaving in ragged breaths and your hands buried in his hair, lightly tugging to pull him back to you and kiss him again when if he doesn’t have you touching him elsewhere he’s pretty sure he’s going to cream his pants in the minute.

And he certainly cannot be patient when, just as you are now, you’re straddling his thighs, the palm of your hand gliding along his throbbing cock, slow and languid, your teeth biting a mischievous smile into your bottom lip as you watch every reaction of his.

Your eyes wander over his figure, insistent and lustful as you admire the way his hand digs and paws at the fuzzy pillow over your bed, limbs reacting the only pathetic way they can when he knows he’s close to coming, the muscles of his lower stomach tensing with the intensity of it, hips rolling into your touch, just enough so he doesn’t look so desperate yet.

It’s all so cruel when he very well knows you will stop stroking him before he tips over the edge, letting it all fade away, but some part of him hopes he will get to come before you pull your hand away, even if he will feel guilty that he did and he knows he doesn’t really deserve to. 

Because some part of him thinks he deserves to feel the frustration of not being given what he wants, for all the shameful things he’s done, and in some way, he shouldn’t even deserve to come – if he really had to get what he deserved then you shouldn’t even let him, you should just leave him hard and aching.

But the thing with you is you’re too good to him, and he doesn’t even deserve to have you making him feel that good when all he’s ever done in his life has been trying to be just as good and ending up making things worse, for everyone around him, for himself.

So he will have to be patient.

His lower stomach burns as he feels it building, can only hope that this time will be the one you will let him come – he hopes each time, so desperate and lightheaded that his guilt can’t even reach him anymore. Your hand glides maddeningly tender along the length of his leaking cock, and even though his bottom lip almost dents with the way he bites back his sounds, the lightbulb of the dim light over your nightstand starts to flicker betrayingly – just as he’s about to come and maybe break something, you remove your hand, once again. “You’re gonna short circuit something” you say, denying him his orgasm once more tonight. The whimper that leaves his swollen lips as you pull away is almost endearing, his eyebrows pulling in a desperate expression. 

“You’re short circuiting me,” Bob whines, voice small but rough, head dropping forward all at once like the strings of a puppet brutally cut, hair draping over his face and hiding the flush over his cheeks. 

You fake pout, running a hand through the brown waves of his hair, brushing them back from his face, admiring the visible warmth over it. “I know, but it’ll feel even better once I finally let you come” you say, voice soft with enjoyable pity. Your hand leaves his hair to caress his thigh where you’re straddling his legs, fingers brushing beside where his cock twitches desperately, just inches away. His chest heaves in frustration, fingers clawing helplessly at the soft sheets of your bed like he’s trying to hold onto something other than you or he will burst.

“The…” he vaguely gestures to his side, glancing there for nothing more than half a second, a helpless exhale leaving him. “The lamp is telling you”

You look at the lamp over your bedside table, the light stabilized now. “I could tell even without the flickering” you declare, a chuckle escaping your lips. Even without the lamp, there is no mistaking the way he thrusts into your hand when he gets closer, desperate for more friction. You adjust your position over his lap, hand caressing over his bare thigh. “You’re doing so good for me Bob,” the already satisfied smile over your face grows with the way his dick twitches at your praise, and the ache between your legs strengthens too, painful and obvious, but that's a matter for later. “Just a few more and I’ll let you come, okay? Gonna make you feel so good baby.”

He nods eagerly, brows still knitted in a pitiful expression. 

There’s a desperate humming vibrating into your mouth when you kiss him, tongue brushing against his as his chest heaves with a moan when your hand runs along the hard plane of his abs, fingers tracing down his happy trail to eventually close around his cock again. Your hand isn’t even moving, and he’s already almost just as close as he was when you stopped, quiet whimpers hummed into your mouth that turn into full moans when you let your thumb focus and rub on his sensitive tip. You've been at it for so long and he has never stopped leaking, probably a curious side effect of the serum. Maybe the fact that he’s so easily worked up and sensitive is part of it too.

“Do you remember,” you start, lips still so close to his, thumb teasing around the sensitive tip of his dick and spreading the bead of precum leaking from it. A shuddering halt escapes his mouth and he looks down to where your hand is working, his breathing starting to get thicker again. “That time you came so hard you couldn’t stop laughing?”

His chest lifts with a laugh, and you feel the breath he huffs out. “Yes”, he says, ears turning red at the memory, still vividly remembering the weird mixed feeling of ecstasy and disbelief.

“I’ve been meaning to make you do that again” you declare, teeth sinking into your lower lip with a smile.

A whispered curse slips from his lips as he bucks into your hand, his laughter immediately dying down as the focused frown takes place over his face again, trying not to come right then and there. “Shit, okay” his eyes squeeze shut, head sinking back into the pillows of your bed, a loud sigh leaving his chest. “I’m gonna come if you keep it up and tell me stuff like this” he warns, eyes half lidded from the weight of all the sensations he’s bearing. 

“Oh, okay.” your mouth twists in a grimace. “But that’s kinda the plan, you know. Eventually”

He hums a low sound and his eyes open to the ceiling, a low whine coming from his chest when he adjusts his position, shifting your weight over him, and uses it as an excuse to thrust his dick into the palm of your hand. His hands rest at your hips, broad and warm, his sense of discipline off as his thumbs ever so lightly slip into the hem of your underwear, and you let him for a second, until you remove your hand from his dick and his chest caves with another pitiful sound. “Bob, do I have to tie you up?” 

He knows better than to speak. Or even think about it. He knows he’s fucked if he allows himself to imagine being bound and at your mercy for more than a second.

“You’re lucky I even let you thrust into my hand”

“Sorry” he mutters, hiding his face in the crook of his arm, a sigh leaving his chest. “I’m really trying to focus, but–”

“I bet you are” you cut him off, climbing off his lap to get off the bed. His throat tightens with confusion when he thinks you are leaving him here like this, and he props himself up on his elbows, watching as you rummage through a drawer of the dresser, his breathing still short. “I’m still tying you up”

When you walk back to the bed it’s with a belt in hand, and Bob swears he could come right then and there. You’re really doing it. “Oh–” he lies back on the bed when you straddle his lap again, purposefully grinding against his dick when you grab his wrists. His eyes carefully follow each of your movements, an obvious awe over his face, and he lets you handle him with ease, completely pliant under you when you wrap the belt around his wrists, gently tightening the loop. “I’m sorry” he murmurs as he watches you above him.

“That’s alright,” you declare as you let his arms rest above his head once you’re done binding him. “I’m doing this because I knew you’d like being tied up but would be too afraid to ask for it” you grin, giving his thigh a gentle pat. His face scrunches into a grimace of awkward agreement, and his dick twitches with need like a poor thing denied attention. “Look at you, Bob. You’re a mess” you grin before you lean to kiss his cheek. 

He could break his bounds easily if he wanted to, could get this over with quickly. He’s never really had to wait before, the drugs wouldn’t really allow him to – but he wants to, wants to be good for you, needs to ignore the pressure in his loins as your mouth trails from his jawline to his neck in soft kisses. It’s evil that this is the thing that almost undoes him – he would hate to end up having a ruined orgasm after all of this.

“You’re gonna be good for me now?” you ask, talking between kisses against the slope of his throat. He nods, eyes shut tight and assured, and you sense his throat tightening where your mouth feels it, can feel it budge with anticipation when your fingers trail down his defined abs to meet the core of his need again. Your face is still tucked in his neck where you can directly feel the vibration of his whimpers of relief – or oppositely, of frustration because he’s still trying to hold on – when your fingers wrap around his throbbing, aching cock again. “I’ll let you thrust.”

His head digs further back into his pillow, eyelids fluttering back and forth as your hand starts to work on his sensitive cock. He won’t get sheepish on the one thing he’s allowed – he bucks into your fist, fucking your hand further than you do it, chasing the pleasure you're giving him. The feeling of your soft palm gliding over his aching cock gets much more maddening now that he controls the pace, and he knows he can and will probably sabotage himself with it, but he can’t help it, he’s far too deep into it now, he’d rather suffer the consequences later than have you deny him his orgasm once again.

“Please,” he brokenly pleads when the light flickers again, when what’s resting over your bedside table starts to tremble with the way he bucks into the palm of your hand with erratic, desperate thrusts. His wrists strain against his bounds, the muscles of his stomach tensing, sweat beading at his temples when he tries to hold it, still guiltily moving against your touch. “I can’t–”

“It’s okay, Bob” you murmur. “Let go”

His face contorts with a whimper of relief, and his frown of focus turns into one of determination when you finally let him loose; he bucks wildly, fucking your hand with short, sharp thrusts until the pleasure is too intense, too much to bear. 

He’s been there before tonight, only this time, he doesn’t have to hold it, and white flashes before his eyes when with a guttural cry, he hilts inside your fist, his cock pulsing and jerking as he starts to come – the lightbulb explodes with the force of it in a sharp sound.

He’s too far gone to notice, and you can’t let the sudden fright of it stop you guiding him, so you keep helping him through it, maintaining his pace when his body gives up on the effort and only sinks into the mattress when he can’t give any more.

He’s wrung dry, dizzy with the intensity of it, soul up to the ceiling or even well up above at this point, but completely out of his body, he’s sure. He only feels the ghost of your touch over his cheek, just feels the warmth of your mouth after it has left it, barely hears it when you praise him and help him down the slope of it all. His eyes fall shut, chest heaving heavily as he catches his breath, blood pumping and limbs light when you free his wrists and guide his arms down.

He nods when you make sure he’s okay, body doing it on his own, eventually smiling when he finally regains sentience. His hands cover his face, and while he knows he’s safe with you, he starts giggling – either in embarrassment or relief, he has no idea, but he can’t help it, and it lasts a good while but eventually helps him fully come back to his senses.

His eyelids prickle with the weight of everything that has come crashing down, a beaming smile over his face as he looks over at you when you lie down next to him. He's never felt so lighter before, has never felt like an empty shell in the good sense of it.

“You broke the lightbulb” you murmur, pushing back the strands of damp hair sticking to his face. He usually easily gets sweaty, but it has never been that bad before. 

He grimaces guiltily, watching to the side, seeing the chunks of glass scattered over the bedside table. “Sorry… Did you– did you get hurt?”

“No” you shake your head reassuringly, watching the worry fade from his face. “But we’re gonna have to invest in candles” you tease. “Unless you turn them into flamethrowers”

He huffs out a laugh, face beaming in guilty amusement. “I’ll try not to”

He blinks, slow and heavy as his hand holds yours over his chest rubbing back and forth, and it’s obvious he’s exhausted and probably won’t hold on too long before he gives up on remaining awake and sleeps like a log. “Don’t fight it,” you smile softly. “I’ll clean you up”

“Thank you” he murmurs, chest heavy with what remains of it all. “You were right. It was great”

“You were great” you whisper, kissing his cheek. “You weren’t that bad on the patience matter.”

He smiles, somewhat proud of himself for it.

At least, he will know he has it in him the next time Valentina ambushes him into an excruciatingly long mission meeting.

—

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Cameron despises not succeeding in something he thought he could do. 

Especially when it’s something that seems stupidly simple.

He’s good with his hands. Good at figuring things out, at making them work. 

If something breaks, he fixes it, and if something needs building, lifting, carrying, replacing, then he can do it without thinking twice. 

Tova always says he got the determination and stubbornness from his father. 

But he cannot, no matter how many times he has tried, replicate her favorite lemon cake in town. 

There’s always something off about it. The texture, the softness it’s supposed to have, the overall taste of it. The icing usually saves it and makes it decent, but it’s nowhere as close as the original thing.

So sometimes, the best you can do about it is call it quits and let it go – or, he can drive her to the place that knows how to make them.

He’s only been there twice, getting dragged as a last stop to errands, considered an earned treat. 

He couldn’t have ever imagined the third time to go this way – he recognizes you at first glance. 

And it’s strange because it’s been two or three years since Brad and Elizabeth’s wedding and it’s a whole other context and yet, you look just the same. 

He almost can’t believe it, wonders why you're even here, then faintly remembers you mentioning living a couple hours away from Seattle.

When their turn comes at the counter, you smile enthusiastically at Tova while she places her order, turning to him asking for his own with what he guesses is your customer friendly smile – because there is no way you would genuinely smile at him this way after how he had treated you.

You don’t do anything that makes it clear you remember him, but deep down, Cameron knows. Because there’s still the way you’re avoiding his gaze while focusing on Tova, and even though she’s been here way more often than he has, he feels it, feels the distance you’re trying to put.

Tova leads him to her usual spot once their order is placed, settling in the booth, and Cameron excuses himself before he walks up to the counter again as soon as there is no customer queue anymore and he’s the only one there. 

He picks up a few napkins to justify why he’s standing there and leans towards you when you don’t look up at him. 

“So… are you gonna pretend not to recognize me” his fingers drum against the glass display containing the pastries, and you irritatedly gaze up to him knowing damn well you will be the one wiping off his fingerprints. 

“I’m trying to remain professional” you mutter flatly, immediately looking away as you box someone’s order, your expression unreadable. It’s almost impressive how effortlessly you’re pretending he means absolutely nothing to you, but again, he probably earned it.

“Oh. Alright” Cameron nods, waiting before he speaks again. “Well ignoring a customer isn’t very professional, I guess”

You shrug lightly, indifferently. “Better than to acknowledge said customer and insult them, I guess” you gaze back at him, a tight, mocking smile over your face that disappears as soon as you focus back on your task.

Cameron adjusts his position onto his feet, lightly gesturing at his sides. “Come on,”

You sigh. “Cameron, I don’t know why I should pretend to want to be nice to you. You wanted us to be strangers. You wanted my number, I gave it to you and you never contacted me again,”

He chuckles lightly, rubbing at his jaw. His guilt resurfaces overwhelmingly and his first instinct is defensiveness. “Yeah, well, sorry I was never desperate enough to” 

He regrets his words the second they leave his mouth. You glance up at him for a second, a cold stare in your eyes before you walk away to the coffee machine. 

“You could have gotten my contact through Elizabeth” Cameron adds, trying to bury his rude previous comment. “If you actually wanted to”

You let out a sharp scoff. “You've got some nerve” you accuse, leaving the counter space to serve a table their order. Cameron waits, watching his shoes and suddenly feeling very aware of himself, of the fact he’s wearing an old hoodie and torn up jeans when the last time you’d seen him he had been in a suit, hair combed back in a fanciness he barely ever saw himself in. 

He’s still standing there when you come back, hands buried in his jeans pockets like he won’t drop the case.

You sigh and finally take a good look at him for the first time since he stepped foot inside the bakery. He grins expectantly, the exact same way he did when he had looked at you across the dance floor after midnight, sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing the tattoos on his arms, tie hanging loose when he asked you if you wanted to get some fresh air. 

You hate that it does something to you.

His eyebrows lift as he waits for you to say something, expecting anything now to dig his grave further into the ground. “What are you even doing here?” you eventually ask, annoyance and impatience growing obvious in your tone.

“Uh, I live here now,” he chuckles. “That's my grandmother.” he notes, pointing back to Tova, who’s reading the newspaper back at their table, completely unaware of the situation at the counter.

You glance at the sweet regular you’ve come to appreciate, and frown softly. “No way you’re related to someone that nice.”

He lets out a small frustrated sigh. “Look, I’m sorry. Would you wanna hang out again so we can… y’know, start over?”

You huff out a laugh. “Why? Are you in heat?”

He glances around like he’s worried you could have talked loud enough for anyone to hear, eyebrows knitted together when he turns back to you like he’s begging you to keep it down. “Fu– okay, I’m sorry, okay?”

He knows he fucked up. He’s an asshole sometimes – at least he acknowledges it. But the thing is, when he does, he always tries to fix it. And it’s a serious case because you haven’t actually done anything to deserve the way he treated you.

“Yeah, okay,” you murmur monotonely, exclusively focusing on preparing his order. Your hands move mechanically, and Cameron doesn’t really know what to say anymore to let you know he means it when he apologizes. 

“I can stay here for hours repeating it if it’ll make you believe it eventually.” he declares, tone half serious.

“I don’t care. My shift is almost over, I’m going home Cameron.” you say, giving him the same customer service smile you gave him earlier as you hand him his plate, though it’s obviously bitter and sarcastic this time. 

—

It might have been stupid to think you actually had something special going on – because it had really only been a wedding fling, after all, even if it led you to think otherwise at some point.

Cameron had been a charming best man. 

It had been obvious suits weren’t his thing, and it was part of what made it attractive. He had spent the entire reception tugging at the collar of his suit like it was trying to strangle him, his cocktail glass permanently in hand while he subtly flirted with you in between best man duties. It felt accidental every time he smiled at you, like he couldn’t help it. You bumped into each other a scary number of times throughout the day, which led you to talk, talk and talk. About anything and everything, about obviously Brad and Elizabeth and how you’d been a college friend of hers, about deep subjects that made it feel like you’d known each other forever. 

And you should have known it would be a curse, because Cameron hadn’t been just an attractive best man.

He was easy to be around in a way that stuck with you; you could talk to him for hours without noticing time passing, he listened when you spoke, remembered small details, looked at you like your thoughts genuinely interested him. He was smart and knew a lot of things about a lot of different subjects – he was captivating in a way that wasn’t just caused by your attraction towards him.

By midnight, people were drunk enough that nobody really paid attention to the two of you disappearing, to the way you were on each other the moment you found yourselves alone in a corner.

You could still clearly remember the way he kissed like he was starving for it, the way he had laughed against your mouth afterward when you accused him of ruining weddings for you forever.

You’d barely made it through the hotel room door before he kissed you again, hands already sliding beneath your dress while you laughed breathlessly against his mouth. You'd teased him about being eager, and he asked you if you could even blame him.

And somehow, the next day had made it worse. 

Not because he had left in the middle of the night – the whole opposite, because he was still there in the morning and had even pulled you back against him when you tried getting up too early, still very much half asleep, voice rough with exhaustion and a light hangover when he’d asked you to stay five more minutes in a quiet mutter.

Those five borrowed minutes had turned into another hour of sleep, and another conversation when you woke up, and another round of sex.

He hadn’t acted distant afterward, hadn’t turned awkward or detached the way men usually would after one night stands.

And the whole wedding thing didn't stop there; you had to gather for the brunch celebration.

You both tried your best to behave, really, but it didn’t help that it had been a curious coincidence when you happened to get assigned to sit next to one another at the brunch table – his hand had rested against your thigh beneath the tablecloth while he talked and laughed with his friends like it was the most casual thing in the world, and he had leaned in closer once everyone was busy watching the newly wed couple to jokingly accuse you of “distracting the shit out of him.” 

You had ended up sneaking away a few times throughout the day like teenagers incapable of keeping their hands off each other.

The end of the day had felt weird, like you knew what dawned on you but didn’t want to face it or talk about it, like you knew it wasn’t goodbye and you would see each other again despite the distance from California to Washington. Cameron had asked for your number like he was sure to text you soon, and you had given it to him without even asking for his, imagining he would be in your contacts the next day anyway.

He never was.

You never got any text, never heard from him again, he never meant it to be anything more; you had just been a fun weekend fling for him, a matter of a couple of days for his shot of adrenaline, someone to fuck to stave off his sexual frustration.

He had never made you any promise, so you felt stupid to have hoped there would be any other ending to this, but it hurt because you genuinely liked him and thought he felt just the same.

—

There’s a text on your phone that evening when you come back from the shower. An unknown ID that your phone marks as probable spam. The text reads,

hey, it’s cameron. sorry about earlier but I insisted because I meant it. I’m sorry

You could ignore him. Could block his number and mark it as spam the way your phone tried to warn you.

Could never see him again the way he wanted it to be until today.

But if he’s as stubborn as Elizabeth told you when she first introduced you to him at the wedding, then he will probably come back to the bakery to prove his point, and you don’t want to put up a fight in your workplace. Again.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, and you send in your text as soon as you’re done typing it in. 

you’re three years late on that text.

His typing bubbles show up on the chat, then disappear. It takes a few seconds before they come back and his message follows.

I know. I was still an immature jerk back then

You let out a scoff alone in your living room and rub a hand over your mouth before you type in your response.

you’re supposed to be any different now?

He answers immediately.

I try.

You sink back into the cushions of your couch, throat tightening uncomfortably. He starts typing again and you’re glad because you have no idea what to text back next.

I really liked you

I know I didn’t act like it but please let me make up for it.

Maybe he means it. Maybe he’s sincere. 

You can’t be sure if you don’t try.

—

You set on meeting at the bar down the road to where you work the next day. Cameron said he played music there sometimes, and you hated that it was one more attractive thing about him. 

You sit at a table and check your phone for the hour every other minute while you wait for him, promising yourself that if he’s even only five minutes late you would leave – it feels like you have to wait forever because you came early but he’s actually on time, peeling himself of his jacket before he asks for your pick on the drinks and goes to the bar counter paying for them, telling you he owes you that when you thank him for it.

“Thank you for accepting to come” he says as he places your drink in front of you. You watch him sit back on the chair across you, realizing maybe you’ve been too harsh on him.

“Sure. I’ve been kinda rude to you. Sorry” you’re angry for a good reason, but in reflection, you’ve really known him for two days only, three years ago, and he never really owed you anything, not more than you did.

“That’s alright” he shrugs dismissively. “I wasn’t exactly an angel.”

You pinch your lips in an awkward smile, and he inhales like he’s about to speak again, but nothing follows. “What?” you frown, overtaken by the frustration of not knowing what’s on his mind.

“No, it’s–” he adjusts his position over his seat. “I can explain why I never texted you back. It won’t justify anything but I can be honest about it.”

You take a sip of your drink, anticipating the blow and bracing for impact. You’re about to get answers, and even if they’re bad, at least you will get closure on this. 

Cameron runs a hand over his jaw, arms crossing over the table before he speaks. 

“I went back home and knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it serious or anything with the distance.” he starts. “I didn’t want to give you false hopes so I didn’t even try. I didn’t want to hurt you, but at the time, I think it was more about myself” he admits, voice lowering at the end of his sentence like a guilty confession. “And my inability to be mature” a quiet scoff escapes you. “I know, I did hurt you anyway.” he grants, lips pinching in a weak smile that conveys his guilt. He looks sincere, you’ll give him that. Truthfully, he has from the start but you might have been blinded by anger to even acknowledge it.

“I can’t say it doesn’t make sense” you admit. Cameron gives you a small smile and leans back against his chair.

“I’m trying to be better, really. And I didn’t lie. I liked you” he nods. “I didn’t just… do it because I wanted to get laid or something”

“You seem like the type”

“I’m not.” he shakes his head. “Not anymore. I’ve never really been” he corrects before sipping from his bottle of beer.

“Maybe I was” you joke, trying to lift the mood now. 

It draws a genuine laugh from him, and suddenly, the tension lifts now that you’ve been honest with each other. 

“Yeah?” he asks, the hint of a grin growing over his face.

“I’m just saying,” you shrug lightly. “Maybe I saw an attractive guy at a wedding and decided to take advantage of the situation,” you grin.

“Ouh, take advantage?” he scoffs. You nod as you take another sip of your drink, and Cameron stares at you, squinting slightly. “You're talking about me like I was some helpless victim”

“Weren't you? You looked like you borrowed someone else’s skin in that suit.” you shrug, huffing out a laugh. “I get it now that I know how you dress on a regular basis,” you say glancing at the band tshirt and flannel he's wearing.

“I looked handsome and you know it.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Oh, there it is.”

He frowns, a chuckle leaving his mouth. “There is what?”

“Your ego.”

“You did say I was attractive, so,” he teases, hiding his smirk by taking another sip of his beer.

“Oh my god,” you groan.

“What?” he grins, shrugging, trying to act innocent.

“You're forty seconds into being forgiven and you’re already unbearable.”

The evening flies by faster than you had imagined it would – the atmosphere is lighter and you talk like there’s no history, no resentment anymore, and the conversation flows just the way it did back then at the wedding.

Cameron tells you how and why he’s here in Washington now, explains his whole search for family, how he learned about himself and matured as a person while looking for the father he never knew, and how he instead found his grandmother completely unpromptedly, because of an octopus. You think he’s kidding when he tells you at first, but the look on his face as he explains is dead serious and borderline emotional.

He insists on paying for all your drinks despite you telling him he doesn’t need to because he’s forgiven now, and here you realize he really is as stubborn as Elizabeth described it. 

You’re not even drunk, just tipsy by the time you leave the bar giggling at one of Cameron’s witty comments, but probably not sober enough to drive safely, a pleasant haze clinging to you. 

Cameron follows when you tell him you only live a couple blocks away, already getting moving to walk you home, and in a matter of less than ten minutes, you’re standing at the porch of your house, trying not to laugh too loud at what he says to not wake your neighbors up.

Cameron turns to you when his own laughter dies down, hands buried in the pockets of his jackets, watching as you’re trying to grab your house keys from your own jacket, lightly clearing his throat before he speaks. “So, is there any chance you’ll accept to ever see me again or…”

You glance back up at him, see the slight grin on his face, but by his tone, you know he’s serious and trying to hide it and his nervousness behind his pretended confidence. It brings you back and something squeezes at the pit of your stomach because here you are again, seeing the same man he was back then at the wedding.

You huff out a soft laugh and give up looking for your keys for the moment. “You’re annoying, because I was doing just fine being angry at you” you declare half heartedly, arms crossing as you lean back against your closed door. 

He snorts a small laugh before stepping closer. “I saw that.”

You hum in false reflection. “But I guess I just found out you're different from the ghosting asshole I pictured those past years” you shrug at him, eyebrows rising. “Less of a coward. Among other things.”

“Cool” he chuckles, face brightening. “I've never been told I'm not a coward”

“Uh, I didn't exactly say you weren't.” you grimace, correcting him. 

You smile and he mirrors it, a genuine affection drawn over his face.  

You should probably say goodbye, get inside your house, go to sleep and text him tomorrow.

Instead of any of this, you take a step towards him and both of your hands grab at the collar of his jacket to pull him to you into a kiss. The surprise lasts less than a second, just enough for Cameron to make a soft sound against your mouth before he kisses you back, pushing you back against the door gently, nothing like the reckless urgency of the wedding like there was no tomorrow. There is now. He wants it to be.

He braces himself anchoring a hand at the door when he almost trips over your feet, and you giggle into the kiss before you pull back, still clutching his jacket. “Hm, I’d say you’ve earned another chance,” 

“Yeah?” he asks, his cocky grin slowly coming back.

You softly swat him with the back of your hand. “Shut up before I change by mind”

He's the one to cup your cheek and kiss you again, dissolving the grin over his face. His gaze follows when you bite onto your bottom lip when you pull away from each other, fetching the keys to your house before you point back at the door behind you. “You could come inside and we could have a couple more drinks”

He inhales in reflection, hands digging into his pockets again, and he shrugs, pinching his lips into a grimace. 

“Man, I don’t know, I feel like you’re definitely taking advantage of the situation”

—

any and every feedback is greatly appreciated♡