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“Ready?” Bob secures the last of your bags in the trunk of your rental car, making sure everything is in place before he slams it shut. The sun has barely had a chance to rise, and Angie mewls pathetically in your front door.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, it’s just a couple of days. Yelena will be over to feed you a bunch, and the twins will take you for walks,” you say with a soft scratch under her chin. She perks up at the mention of Yelena, brightens at the word ‘walks’ too, her sad mewls replaced with curious ones.

“Knew that would make you happy,” you laugh.

Bob comes over to say bye pressing a soft kiss between your ears.

“Why can’t we take her with,” he asks, looking at her longingly.

“She gets carsick,” you remind him. “You know this Bob,” you laugh when he pouts.

“She just looks so sad and she’s gonna be all alone,” he sighs. “What if she’s scared of the fireworks?”

“She’s gonna be with Yelena on the fourth, Bob. She will be okay. Or would you rather kill this trip so we can stay home and be cat parents?”

He breathes deeply, shaking his head before ushering her inside so he can close and lock the door.

“Good. We need to get moving before everyone else decides to start driving too. Don’t wanna rush,” you remind him, tossing him the car keys. “We’ll switch halfway, okay?”

He nods, and after he’s adjusted his seat and set the GPS up, you guys are ready to go start the steady crawl towards Lake Erie.

“I wish you’d told me you shared a lake house sooner,” you say when you guys are finally cruising. Holiday traffic is still low, and you finally relax.

“I forgot. Never had a reason to go,” Bob hums. “The guys normally use it to film anyways. Can’t remember the last time it was a holiday home proper,” he adds.

“The guys? I thought it was just yours and Joaquín’s, you didn’t tell me you had other friends,” you say.

“Of course I have other friends,” he says, offended. “Do you think Joaquín’s the only person I talk to?”

“He’s the only one you talk to me about,” you argue, “and Bucky but I had to be surprised by him, remember?”

Bob goes to argue, then sighs. “I told you. I like keeping you to myself,” he says with a squeeze of your thigh. You try not to focus on the warmth of his hand, turning your attention to the passing scenery.

“Joaquín also likes being the only one who’s met you,” Bob continues. “He likes being special that way.”

“Watch the road,” you remind him, when you feel his eyes on you. Joaquín’s becoming a Topic in your relationship and you’re not sure how to navigate it, caught between trying not to hurt Bob’s feelings and exploring the weird butterflies any mention of his name bring up in a deep corner of your stomach. Bob says he doesn’t really care — that bringing him into the fold won’t hurt him as much as you think it will — but you struggle to square his reassurance with the fact that Joaquín is his best friend.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Bob says, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “You’re not meant to think this weekend,” he reminds you, and the butterflies are gone, replaced by a small spark as you cast your mind to what lies ahead.

“You nervous?” you ask him.

“I’m not the one who has to be nervous,” he reminds you. “That’s all you.”

He’s almost got the faux confidence down to a tee.

“I know, but I just wanna remind you that we don’t have to do this. This can just be a holiday,” you say. You reach out so you can squeeze his thigh. “It can just be normal,” you remind him. “Safe.”

He takes your hand in his.

“It’ll be safe either way,” he says, bringing your hand up so he can kiss the back. “That’s the whole point remember. Safety. I’d be a bad boyfriend if I wasn’t safe with you.”

You smile at him. Weeks of talking, whittling down roleplay fantasies into something that Bob would be comfortable doing with you as a beginner had led to this — a trip to Lake Erie so he could give you the stranger danger roleplay you’d been begging him for since you first watched one of his more intense videos.

“Thank you, Bob.”

“Always. I’ll do anything with you.”

You hum, content as you settle in to the passenger seat and continue to watch the scenery pass you by. The roads aren’t as busy as you thought, holiday goers apparently kicking off their Fourth of July weekends a little later than you thought they might. It’s good. An early arrival meant more time to settle, to familiarise yourself with the lake house before getting into the weekend’s objective.

The drive is smooth, even as traffic begins to build and the sun begins to beat down relentlessly, forcing you to keep the aircon on.

You stop for lunch — gas station pies and energy drinks — before Bob insists on driving the rest of the way.

“Finding the turn to the lake house is difficult. We miss it whenever we go,” he says, planting himself stubbornly in the driver’s seat.

“Then you should’ve let me drive the first half.”

“Sure, but I don’t mind. You’re a pretty passenger princess.”

“Don’t flatter me Bob. I’m driving us home,” you concede.

“If you remember,” he laughs.

“I’ll remember,” you say, showing him the reminder you’ve put in your phone.

“I’ll delete it while you sleep,” he threatens, pulling back onto the interstate.

You just laugh, adjusting the volume on the radio as he cruises, beaming at your lack of argument.

By the time you arrive, you feel stickier than you have any right to, your legs dead beneath you.

You stretch your legs as you bring things into the house, having a look around as Bob turns on the aircon and packs away the food you brought.

It’s cosy, not at all the type of place you expected to be used ‘just for filming’. Board games are piled on the coffee table, and there’s a rack of haphazardly stacked DVDs next to the TV.

“Who’s who?” you ask, looking at a framed picture on the mantle. You recognise Joaquín, though his hair is shorter. There’s a blond with his arm wrapped around Bob and a somewhat nervous looking brunette next to the blond.

“Johnny,” Bob says pointing at the blond, “and Peter,” he says pointing to the brunette. You commit their names to memory.

“You’d probably like Peter’s girl, MJ,” he says. “I should probably introduce you soon.”

He wraps his arms around your waist and presses his nose into your hair.

“You don’t have to. You can wait until you’re comfortable,” you say. “I can wait.”

“I’m comfortable now. It’s just weird y’know. Haven’t been this serious with someone in a long time. I don’t wanna jinx it,” he whispers.

You turn so you can cup his face in your hands.

“Bob, you don’t have to. I’m happy to wait for as long as you want me to,” you remind him. You lean into him so you can give him a soft kiss. “You can set the pace for this, I’ll follow,” you whisper.

“So good to me,” he says, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he crushes you into him. “The videos, and the relationship and this,” he starts, his hand slipping under your shirt. “You’re so good to me. I love you.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it thrills you to hear it nonetheless.

He pulls away with a sigh, motioning for you to follow him over to the couch where he pulls you into his arms.

“Promise me you’ll tell me if you’re even the tiniest bit uncomfortable tomorrow,” Bob pleads. His voice is muffled by your stomach, but you hear the tremor, the slight note of hesitation. “I love you. I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, not for the first time.

“I know you love me,” you say. “You’ve never shown me otherwise,” you say, twirling his hair around your index finger.

“It’s gonna feel like I don’t tomorrow. Gonna feel like I hate you,” he says.

He laughs at the soft sigh you let out.

“You want that? Want it to feel like I hate you?”

He’s looking up at you, something imperceptible swimming beneath the blue of his eyes.

“Isn’t that the point?”

You’re ignoring the way his hand has snaked between your legs again, gliding between your folds with the utmost ease.

“It’s a yes or no question. Do you want it to feel like I hate you?”

The soft authority in his voice sets your skin alight, and you can feel desire bubbling up in you again as if he hadn’t just spent the past hour turning you inside out with satisfaction.

“A little bit,” you say.

You’ve gone over this already. Rules, safewords, and colour systems. Everything to gently guide you into a big new step for your relationship while assuring Bob that it wouldn’t change how you saw him, but you’d repeat it as many times as he needed to hear, iron everything out down to the minute details if it meant putting his mind at ease about what you wanted.

“I’ll do that,” he says with a gentle kiss to the flesh near your belly button, dipping his head lower so he can kiss at your thighs too. “I’m gonna be a little mean tomorrow,” he reminds you again. “It’s not how I feel about you.”

“I know, honey,” you sigh out when he nips at the soft flesh on the inside of your thighs.

“I know. Just reminding you. I love you,” he says, and then spends the rest of the night showing you, bit by bit, with soft gentle nips followed by even softer kisses. I love you whispered after slow, soft drags of his tongue against your core, over and over again while he drives you to the edge.

When he’s done, he clings to you until you both fall asleep, warm and sticky and wholly satisfied, on the living room couch with the TV still running in the background.

When you wake up the next day you’re in bed, a sticky note on the bedside table.

Gone out walking. Didn’t wanna wake you. I’ll see you soon :).

Love you. ♡ ♡ ♡

The clock on the bedside reads 11:45 am. You’re not sure when he got up and you consider texting him, but decide to give him his space, busying yourself with tidying up and cooking.

When the space is clean, and you’ve had lunch and Bob still isn’t back you decide to take a dip in the hot tub, poring over the instructions someone has handwritten and left in a basket on the deck. You turn down the heat, sighing in relief as you take a dip. Even with the sun overhead beginning to beat down on you, you feel content.

Out here it’s quiet, the sounds of traffic so far off they don’t even register. You know the lake isn’t too far away and you consider packing a big and sitting lakeside instead, but the thought of walking in the heat keeps you in the water.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been in there, eyes closed as you listen to an audiobook when you hear the doorbell ringing. You think you’re imagining it at first, but when it rings a second and then third time you reluctantly climb out.

“I’m coming!”

You dry off as much as possible, trying not to track water through the house you’ve just cleaned.

“I’m sorry, I was a bit distracted,” you say, opening the door without checking. You expect it to be Bob, but it’s not. It’s a stranger on the other side, dressed in a tank and board shorts, brown hair dishevelled and cheeks red.

His eyes linger on the way your wet bikini clings to you and you wish you’d at least thought to put a t-shirt on before answering.

“Sorry. Can I help you?”

“Uh yeah. Car broke down and my phone’s dead. Can I use yours to call a tow?”

You should wait for Bob to get back, but you have no reason to doubt him. He looks sweet enough.

“It’s on the coffee table in the living room,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. “I’m just gonna get dressed,” you explain as you click the door shut behind you.

“Thank you,” he smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Had to walk through so much fucking nature. Didn’t think anyone lived out here,” he says, looking around the living room his eyes landing on a picture of you and Bob.

“Who’s this?”

“My boyfriend,” you answer.

“Is he home?”

Without thinking, you tell him the truth — that he’d gone out on a walk, but he was going to be back soon.

The stranger just nods, and you take that as your cue to slip out, shuffling down to the bedroom.

When you’re in the bedroom, pulling Bob’s shirt over your head you’re thrilled, heart racing in excitement. You never realised Bob could slip so easily into the role of stranger. Sure you’d seen it on screen, heard Joaquín talking about how he could turn it on when the cameras started rolling but seeing it live? Mesmerising in a way you couldn’t quite describe.

You join him in the living room again, where he’s flipping through TV channels, with his feet on the coffee table. You try not to get annoyed because you just cleaned up, but you remember he’s been walking for some time and is probably just tired.

“Would you like some water?” you ask, ignoring the cold prickly feeling you get when his eyes land on you.

“I’d love some, thanks,” he says, turning his attention back to the TV.

“Were you able to get someone on the line?” you ask when you’re back, putting a cold glass of water on a coaster for him.

He takes a sip, then sets the glass down — not on the coaster — before turning back to you.

“Yeah. It’s gonna be another two hours before they can get someone to me. Is it okay if I stay here?”

You can tell he’s not asking, because he’s nestled himself comfortably into the couch cushions.

“Sure,” you squeak out, pressing yourself into the corner of the couch. If he notices how far away you are, he doesn’t say anything, focusing on the TV instead.

The next time he speaks to you, its to ask for the toilet and you sigh in relief when he’s gone. It’s fine at first, the opportunity to catch your breath and relax without worrying about the strange man on your couch, but when five minutes turns into ten turns into fifteen, you feel a strange turning in your stomach. The house is too silent, and you don’t like the thought of him being somewhere you can’t see him.

He’s not in the guest toilet when you check, and your blood runs cold when you realise he’s not in the main bathroom either.

When you do find him, he’s in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed as he thumbs through something. Your stomach drops when you realise just what they are.

A stack of Polaroids, meant only for Bob. Pictures taken when you’d helped Joaquín film for his channel in the spring.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

If your tone of voice rattles him, he doesn’t show it.

“I found these lying around. I was interested. Is that you in the pictures?”

His voice is steady as he holds one of them up. It’s you and Joaquín, smiling into the camera while he gropes at your breast.

“That’s not your boyfriend, but that is you?”

You reach out for the picture but he yanks it away, steadying you with his free hand.

“I’m not done looking.”

“They’re not yours to look at,” you remind him, making another grab for the pictures. You’re unsuccessful and all it does is irritate him.

“Shouldn’t have left them lying around then. It’s like you wanted me to find them.”

“You aren’t even supposed to be in here,” you remind him again, voiced laced with anger. “They’re not for you.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Who are they for then?”

“None of your business.”

“Don’t be like that,” he says, clicking his tongue.

“They’re mine,” you half yell. “I’ll be however I want.”

The rest of the pictures are spread out behind him, out of reach, and your stomach turns as you think about him seeing them. There are so many. Some are just you, almost naked but not quite, pouting into the camera. Joaquín is in a couple. Bob is in most. He picks up another one that’s just a picture of Bob’s hand over your tits, squeezing softly, your faces off camera.

“This still you?” he asks, waving the picture at you.

“Please just give them to me,” you plead. “They’re private.”

He seems to think for a moment, hands resting on his knees before he speaks.

“Show me,” he says, like it’s the most obvious idea in the world. “You show me those pretty tits and I’ll give them back to you. Just wanna see if they’re as good as the pictures,” he says.

“ I just have to show you?”

“Scout’s honour,” he says.

Your gut says no, tells you not to trust the type of man who would go snooping in a woman’s bedside drawers after she welcomed him into her home, but you just want the polaroids back. You slide Bob’s t-shirt off, standing in front of him in nothing but your bikini.

His eyebrows shoot up as he motions to the bikini.

“No. You can see them well enough. Give me my pictures back,” you say holding your hand out.

“I wanna see your tits, not the bikini.”

“You’ve seen them in the pictures. This is my house. You don’t walk in here and violate my privacy and think you can tell me what to do,” you say, trying not to let your voice betray the fear you feel. Your stomach is a sinkhole, growing bigger and bigger with each passing second as he looks you up and down.

“Stop wasting my fucking time. Take it off,” he says, “now.”

His eyes never leave you, and you don’t have a shot at moving him.

“Just fucking take it off. No point being shy when you’re already a slut.”

You flinch, but your hands come up to the bikini tie, tugging it loose.

“There we go. Not so hard is it,” he groans, watching as the material floats to the floor. “Fuck, better than the pictures. C’mere, let me see ‘em up close.”

You listen this time, feet shuffling as you inch towards him.

“You said you just wanted to see,” you remind him, the sinking feeling in your gut all consuming as he gives one of them a harsh squeeze.

“Think about it as payment for wasting my time,” he replies. “Uh uh. Don’t start crying yet,” he says when you let out a shaky whimper. “I’m not doing anything bad. Just having a feel.”

He lets go of the polaroids, but only so his hand can snake around your thigh and tug you between his legs.

You try to stay calm, focus on a spot on the wall behind him. Bob will be home soon. Bob will handle this. Bob would never let you get hurt.

“Aw, you’re shaking. You scared? You don’t need to be scared. Not of me,” he whispers, lips brushing against the swell of your breast. “I’m not scary. Just curious. What’s so special about you that he shares, huh?”

Despite the sweat clinging to your body you’re ice cold, tongue turned to lead in your mouth as he nuzzles between your breasts, sighing into them. Your silence is a neon green light, emboldening him as he places soft kisses along them before taking a nipple into his mouth.

You find your voice, albeit small and shaky.

“You said you just wanted to see. Scout’s honour.”

“I’m not a fucking Scout.” He hesitates slightly before adding, “You might be dumber than I thought. Letting a man you don’t know into your house. Taking your shirt off because he made you an empty promise.”

He latches his mouth over your nipple again, fingers digging uncomfortably into your waist. In the living room, the TV still plays, the distant sound of sitcom studio laughter echoing down the hall as he he grunts around your tit.

“My lucky day. Dumb bitch with her boyfriend out the house. Couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

You shudder, pushing at his shoulders to get him off of you. Your resistance is rewarded with a bite, quick and harsh, that stops you in your tracks.

“Quit it,” he grunts. “You wouldn’t be in this position if you didn’t want to be. Could’ve left and called your boyfriend home but you didn’t, so don’t act brand new now.”

You have nothing to say to that, because a part of you knows he’s right. That if you’d done the logical thing, you wouldn’t be in this mess.

“That’s it,” he says with a smile, switching over to the other breast. He gives it the same treatment, licking and sucking and biting while he moans into you and there’s a brief moment where he moves off of you and you think he’s done but then his fingers snake under the waistband of your bikini bottom and you jolt away, perplexed.

“That’s not what we agreed on,” you remind him, hands closed around his wrists as you pry him off. “I’ve given you more than you wanted. Give me my pictures back.”

You lean forward to reach for them, stretching past him and you’re almost there when you flips the script on you and stands up so he can push you into the mattress.

His grip is tight, the weight of him heavy as he holds you in place and despite the way you struggle you don’t budge.

His fingers find the edge of your bikini bottoms again, tracing along the edge as he presses his growing erection to the back of your thigh.

“You really thought that would be it? What am I supposed to do with this, huh,” he says grinding into you.

“Not my problem. You need to get off of me,” you kick behind you blindly, feel hope when your foot catches his thigh but he doesn’t budge.

“I’m just having a feel,” he says, finger pressing over your clothed clit.

You let an involuntary whine slip through, the heat of embarrassment blooming in your stomach.

“There we go. Now you’re being honest,” he croons.

“No. Anything else, please,” you beg.

If you offer him something worthwhile, you think you can still walk out of this with the pictures and what’s left of your dignity. “I’ll suck you off okay? Swallow and everything, please, just not that.”

He just hums, fingers working over your clit in small, tight circles as his hips rock against the back of your legs.

“Please I just want my pictures. They’re special,” you plead again.

“So you’ll let me do this then?”

He presses his fingers against your clothed slit, holding you down when you jerk away.

“My mouth. We can do that. As rough as you want,” you offer. “Not that please.”

“You keep saying you don’t want this but your pussy says otherwise,” he says, pressing his finger through the material of your bikini bottoms. “Feels like she wants this. Sure your boyfriend won’t mind. Maybe we’ll take a picture and leave it for him huh? Show him how you get around when he’s not here.”

You shake your head.

“It’s not like that. He knows. He knows about his friend,” you whimper, trying to pull away. The arm pushing you down presses harder.

“So you’re a slut with permission, then. Even better. Sure he won’t mind if I get a turn.”

“Don’t call me that,” you reply, squirming in an attempt to get him off of you. Even a little more space will do, a little relief from the press of his erection against you.

“What do you call it then? When you have a boyfriend who loves you and you fuck his friends and keep the evidence? What do you call it when you answer the door for strange men in nothing but a wet bikini and a t-shirt?”

He turns you over and when you look into his eyes you feel a chill run through you. There’s nothing behind them, and you know pleading with him is useless but you try anyway.

“Do you want them? You can keep them,” you try, head tilting towards the pictures. “It’s fine, it’s not a big deal.”

You clamp your thighs shut but he pries them open, dragging you closer to him as he settles between them.

“Seemed like a big deal when you got your tits out for me,” he purrs. He leans down so he can press a kiss to your collarbone. “Colour?”

It throws you, takes you a moment to respond but he doesn’t do anything while he waits, just rubs gently at your thighs with his thumb.

“Green,” you manage to get out. He smiles, then its gone when he buries his face back into your chest.

“Seemed like a big deal when you were offering to let me fuck your face in exchange for the pictures,” he reiterates, mockingly repeating your words back to you. You squirm, but his grip never falters. “What’s the difference between my dick down your throat and right here,” he says, slipping his fingers between your bikini bottom and your embarrassingly wet folds.

“I don’t want that. That’s the difference. It’s too far,” you reason.

“Not about what you want. You said you’d do anything, right? Anything to keep your little pictures. Might as well let me in. Your boyfriend won’t mind will he?”

“He will,” you wriggle away, manage to gain a little room before he pulls you back against him with an exasperated sigh.

“Don’t be so difficult, okay?”

He strokes your face gently, thumb lingering over the corners of your mouth. He lets his hand glide down your body, almost tender. “Just be a good girl for me. Let me see what you’ve got,” he groans as he undoes the tie on his board shorts, pushing them down just enough to free himself.

You whimper when you see him, thick and hard and leaking, waiting for you. You shake your head when he presses his tip against your clothed core.

“You think I’ll fit?”

He almost sounds curious enough to genuinely care, but the way he pushes against you lets you know one thing: he’ll make it fit.

You breathe deep try to relax, use your hands to push against him but he’s surprisingly sturdy. Before you can protest he’s pulling your bottoms to the side.

“Oh god look at her. Won’t even have to do anything,” he sighs, sliding the tip between your lips. He starts with a few testing prods, watching your face as he does, and then without warning he pushes into you, his other hand tightening on your hip to keep you in place.

“Fuck, that feels good. I’d pass you around too if I were him,” he grunts when he’s all the way in. The stretch is one you’re not prepared for, and it stings, brings tears to your eyes that you try to hide by turning your face.

“Hey, hey, don’t do that,” he says, voice soft as he stills. “Don’t do that, okay. You gotta look at me.”

You nod blinking back back the tears.

“Do I need to stop?”

You shake your head, then remember what he said about using your words.

“No. It’s okay, I just wasn’t prepared. I’m used to… I’m used to the prep,” you answer truthfully. It’s embarrassing. You’d begged him for less consideration and when he obliged, you couldn’t even take it right away.

“No, no. Just, give me a moment, please. Come here, I miss you,” you say reaching out.

“You miss me?”

“I miss you,” you answer, ghosting your lips over his when he leans down.

“Say the word and I’ll stop,” he remind you again.

“Don’t. I like you like this too,” you say. It feels better now, less pain more pressure and you squirm impatiently.

“Yeah? You like when I take?”

His grip on you tightens, and you watch something in him shift as his eyes harden again and his stare sends a shiver down your spine.

“I’ll take then,” he says, one hand on your hip and the other on your shoulder. His eyes glide down to your tits, the way they bounce as he pushes into you, still a little soft at first then harder when he’s convinced you’re okay.

You grit your teeth, try blink away the tears stinging at the corner of your eyes and stifle the whimpers bubbling out of your throat.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t cry,” he coos, his thumb wiping at the corner of your eyes. “It’s gonna feel so good, know it is. She’s already taking it so well,” he pants. “Fucking beautiful the way she swallows me up. Maybe she’s made for me instead. Maybe I’ll cancel the tow truck and just stay here,” he says, pace brutal as he finds that deliciously sweet spot inside of you.

“Not yours,” you manage to get out. He’s not interested in your protests, his thumb pressing into your mouth. He hisses when you bite down, then grabs your face, fingers digging in hard.

“Told you not to make this difficult,” he says with a hard squeeze. “All you have to do is behave,” he instructs, hand moving down to rest on your throat. “That’s all. Just behave until I’m done. Don’t make me hurt you.”

You want to point out that he’s already hurting you, that the way his fingers dig into your thigh as he holds the bikini bottoms in place is going to leave bruises, but the soft pressure of his palm on the column of your throat reminds you who’s in charge.

He moves his hand, places his index then his middle finger in your mouth, cocks an eyebrow when he feels the testing bite you give him before you relent.

“That’s it, good girl,” he coos, even as the tears spill from the corner of your eyes. “So pretty with your mouth full,” he sighs, eyelids fluttering shut as he presses his fingers into your mouth. “Should’ve taken you up on that offer,” he grunts, only stopping so he can tug at the strings on your bottoms, swatting the fabric away when the knots come undone.

He shifts so he can press his body into yours, pushing your knees into your chest as he continues fucking into you. Your pleas muffle around his fingers, but you’re losing your train of thought your body aching with a need you’re all too familiar with despite your resistance.

“Almost done, sweetheart I’m so close. See how easy it can be when you listen.”

You tug at his wrist, pulling his fingers out of your mouth.

“You need to pull out, please. Just this one thing,” you eke out, grimacing as his hands find your tits squeezing. The laugh he barks out chills you to the core, but you feel yourself clench around him and he falters.

“Don’t think I could if I wanted to, she’s squeezing so tight,” he whines. You try pushing at him, but he’s still sturdy, still relentless in his need to have all of you.

“S’okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay she wants this. Can feel her practically milking me, it’s okay.”

His fingers press down onto your clit and you buck into him. This is all the permission he needs to rub in tight circles.

“Just giving you what you want? Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You shake your head but this only seems to spur him on, until finally your body gives in, your walls spasming around him.

“Shit, I’m right there,” he pants, “can’t pull out, you understand right?”

You’re too tired to protest, and true to his word he’s not far behind you, spilling into you as he finishes, leaning down to press his forehead to yours.

You feel your heart hammering in your chest as he presses a kiss to your cheek, then your forehead.

“You okay? Everything’s fine?”

He brushes the tears off your cheeks, pulling out gently so he can roll over and pull you into his arms.

“Words, please,” he asks, when all you do is nod.

“Yeah, Bob. I’m good. I’m perfect,” you giggle.

“Need anything?”

“A bath would be nice. You guys have such a nice bath tub,” you yawn.

He’s up and running it before you can even put it together, gently guiding you into the tub. It’s steamy, and the water is just the right amount of warm as you slide in sighing. He waits on the side, hair damp with sweat, face flushed and eyes bright as he watches you relax.

“Get in with me. I miss you,” you say, sitting up.

“It’s your bath. I don’t wanna crowd you,” he hums.

“It’s big enough for both of us, get in,” you insist and he listens this time, stripping down and sliding in behind you. You let him kiss you, gentle along the nape of your neck as he squeezes you.

“You okay?” you finally ask, when you feel yourself settle.

“Of course I’m okay, I’m not the one—”

“I know that Bob. But I know it also felt… weird for you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I liked it. I like you a little scared, you were so good for me,” he responds, pressing a kiss into the crook of your neck. “I’ll need some time before we do that again,” he whispers. “I liked it, but I need time. Wanna be soft with you again. I love you.”

“Of course, honey. We don’t ever have to do it again if you don’t want–”

“Didn’t say anything about never doing it again. Just need a little break,” he assures you, pressing his face further into the crook of your neck. It’s comforting to have him there, pressed into you after the afternoon you’ve had. “I love you,” he repeats, over and over as his fingers drum on your hips.

“Love you too,” you sigh, your hand coming down over his so you can slot your fingers between his.

“We should probably hurry, before the water cools down,” Bob says, even though he makes no move to hurry.

living with the rest of your thunderbolts team in what valentina has dubbed the “watchtower,” you’ve gotten to learn all their quirks and habits.

alexei never dumps the popcorn kernels out of his bowl before placing them in the sink; ava doesn’t throw out the food that gets stuck in sink drain because it makes her gag; john talks way too loudly over the phone—basically yelling instead of talking like a normal person; bucky forgets his arm in the goddamned dishwasher most times; yelena leaves half-empty water bottles because she forgets to finish them, and then proceeds to get a new one and the cycle repeats; bob nearly burns the tower down every time he tries to bake something for everyone, and you?

you have a bit of a bad habit of stealing everyone’s clothes and personal belongings, though it’s never on purpose.

it starts with ava.

she lends you one of her off-white long sleeves when you're on your period and crying because your comfort crewneck is nowhere to be seen. she helps you slip it on, playfully teasing as you sniffle and huff like a child.

"are you always this whiny when you're on your period?" she asks once the shirt is on. you glare at her, ready to retort when you realize just how soft and silky and warm the shirt feels on your skin. it's like it's made out of heaven's clouds. the fatigue caused by your period screams at you to just sleep now that you're wearing such a comfortable shirt, and ava notices it. "get some sleep, yeah? just don't drool on my shirt. and wash it before you give it back."

and you did. wash it, at least. you just forgot to return it to her, especially since she forgets to remind you to give it back. so it stays tucked in the drawer where the rest of your comfort clothes goes.

bucky's leather jacket was another unintentional theft. he always wore it out, and he had even let you take care of it when he gets too warm on a night out with you and the rest of the team. the next time you're out at the bar all together, he hands you the jacket and you slip it on.

several shots of tequila later, you're being carried home by bob, bucky's jacket still on you. even when he drapes you over your bed and takes your heels off, your hands cling onto the jacket as you pull it tighter over you because you refused to let it go in your drunken state.

"i'll get it back from her in the morning, it's fine." bucky says when bob flashes him an apologetic smile.

when bucky asked you about it, you told him you'd get it cleaned because your body glitter had gotten all over it. he forgot to follow up on it, and now it just hangs in your closet.

with john, it was a navy blue zip-up hoodie that was impossibly soft and warm on the inside, with hand-warming pockets and even a hidden security pocket inside. that was a bit of an intentional theft when you first saw it on him. you had even told him yourself you'd steal it from him one day, but you didn't think you'd actually get the chance to.

it was entirely his fault for leaving it in the common room, draped over the recliner chair he always sits at. you had waken up unusually early, socked-feet soundlessly meeting the floor with every step you took towards the large sofa in front of the tv. you were only in a long, over-sized t-shirt with a neckline you cut yourself, and some mini shorts you scored from a women-owned, small shop online before they could sell out.

it was always extremely cold in the morning, and so, you looked around the common room for something to keep you warm. maybe a blanket someone left over, or-

john's sweater.

the sight has you perking up and basically scrambling off the sofa to his recliner. you slip it on and instantly, it feels like being wrapped in the warmest hug you've ever known. it's heavy-weight, the inside lined with fleece, and the hem of the sweater rests just over your mid-thigh along your shirt.

when he sees you wearing it after his after-workout shower, he gawks at the sight. Before he can even yell at you to take it off, you're sinking further into the couch and zipping the zipper all the way up. "Please! I was cold and this was the only thing here! I promise I'll give it back after!"

he tares you down for a second before sighing. he walks over to the sofa, and you think he's gonna make you stand and take it off, but instead he nudges your legs off the cushions, and takes a seat beside you. "i get to change the tv then."

you didn't give it back. you stored it in your comfort drawer, right next to ava's shirt. and you know better than to wear it around the tower when john's around, and he doesn't really care enough to steal it back from you when he sees you wearing it during your period days.

with yelena, it's a hair clip she let you borrow once for an event.

“yelena!” you sing-song her name, head popping out the corner of her door while she smooths out her black slacks. “can i borrow those cute butterfly clips you have? the green ones? i feel like my hair is missing some accessories.”

she looks away from her reflection, fingers pausing in their attempt to put her earrings in so she can give you her full-attention. her eyes rake over your form. she hums, “yeah, your hair looks like it’s missing something. go for it—just don’t forget to give them back to me.”

you gasp, “i’m offended you think i’d even forget to return them!” taking the clips from her bureau, you give her cheek a swift kiss as you pass by. “i promise i’ll give them back to you!”

unlike everyone else, yelena’s already resigned herself to losing those clips the second you even came into her room. when you squeeze her shoulders, she huffs a laugh. and with a soft smile, she watches you leave, because, truthfully, she bought those clips knowing you’d one day ask for them.

with alexei, it’s a thick, warm, fur blanket he had imported over from russia. valentina wasn’t exactly happy when she saw the charge of 100,000 dollars on the team’s credit card statement—no one was. but he swore the blanket was worth it. you all thought it was bullshit, and you especially might’ve kept insinuating he had to have been scammed to pay such a high sum for a blanket.

then, it happened.

with the basket of clean laundry in your arm and propped on your hip, you walk into the common room and sit yourself down on the couch. it’s the only room in the tower with a big enough tv for you to enjoy your shows, so you figured folding your laundry here would be more enjoyable for you.

after catching a rerun of a movie and a few repeated episodes, you finished with your clothes and somehow ended up laying down on the couch. you know you’re supposed to be getting up and taking your clothes back to the room, but the couch is just so comfortable and the sun is filtering in so perfectly…

it’s not your fault you ended up falling asleep. the universe plotted against you!

after an hour, the elevator dings, and you’re still out cold.

“… no, alexei, you cannot make prison stew for dinner again. bob couldn’t even make it to the bathroom to throw it up in time!” yelena groans, rubbing her temples.

“lena, he just has a sensitive tummy, it’s okay. everybody else ate it perfectly fine!”

“that’s not true, we all-!”

“sh, sh, shh!”

alexei holds out a finger, and yelena only frowns until she follows his gaze. you’re passed out on the couch, lips slightly parted and your glasses askew on your face from laying on your side.

yelena huffs out a small laugh, but alexei softens at the sight. he quietly pads over, which is a feat in of itself, and removes your glasses from your face. he places them on the coffee table before looking over to yelena, who now stands just a few feet away.

“should we move her?” she asks, but alexei just shakes his head.

grabbing the laundry basket, he hands it over to yelena. she arches an eyebrow at him, but takes it nonetheless. “take that to her room. and bring my blanket—the expensive one. she’ll catch cold if she’s not covered up.”

and how could yelena say no?

while she’s gone, alexei just sits on his haunches and watches you sleep. he feels a stirring in his chest, an ache of nostalgia settling in his bones. he remembers, back in his hydra days, when yelena and natasha would wear themselves out playing that they’d just come inside and pass out on the couch together. melina would always grab some blankets from the hallway closet, and lay it over them. in those domestic moments, he let himself forget the mission and just pretend that he actually did have a family.

and now, he does. he has yelena back, and he has you and the rest of the team. so, he takes the blanket from yelena when she returns, and drapes it over you. he tucks you in so carefully, afraid to wake you when he just wants to make sure the cold doesn’t reach you from any gaps.

when he’s done, he can’t help but breathe out a soft laugh. he’s smiling, but there’s that sadness in his heart that’s weighing him down. he could’ve had these moments if he were a better person back then. he could’ve been a better dad to yelena.

as if she knows what he’s thinking, yelena kneels down beside him. her hand finds his, head resting on his shoulder.

—

when you wake, an hour later, you find yourself so warm and comfortable, you almost let yourself fall back asleep. until you realize the common room is way darker than you remembered it being.

with the blanket over your shoulders, and your glasses back on, you take the elevator to the floor with everyone’s rooms. you drop off the blanket on your bed and rush back out to head to the dining area. reaching it, you see everyone already setting the table.

“hey,” bob smiles, being the first one to spot you as he sets a can of soda on your placemat, “you’re awake.”

“ah! the sleeping beauty awakes! how was your sleep, huh?” alexei sets the pot of food down on the counter before walking over to you, arms spread out to envelop you in his famous bear hug. you wince, but accept it anyways. “do you like the blanket?”

“oh my god, yeah! i’m sorry for saying you were scammed. it’s like a dream-blanket, i almost didn’t get up.”

“good. it’s yours.” he pats your back, casually gifting you the blanket that's cost him the shit end of the stick with valentina like it's no big deal.

“what?” you pull away from the hug, gaping at him. yelena takes the pot to serve the food while everyone else takes their seat at the table. “a-alexei, i can’t accept that. you spent-”

“no. it’s yours, and that’s that, do you understand?” he points a finger at you, tone so parental that it makes your eyes water.

you never had that before.

so with a watery smile, you go for another hug. “thanks, alexei.”

bob’s signature navy blue crewneck is the only stolen article you wear like a badge of honor.

you forgot to bring a sweater on a trip out to get some groceries once—accompanied by bob since the rest of the team was out on some mission.

stepping out of the convenience store, the new york chill seeps deep into your bones and makes you shiver. bob, basically a human furnace due to the sentry serum, doesn’t hesitate to place the grocery bags down so he can shrug off his crewneck, and lend it to you. he doesn’t comment on the way you smile so shyly as you slip it on, or the way you can’t seem to make eye contact with him the rest of the way back home.

even when you arrived, you never once took it off. didn’t even try or think to do so. even through dinner and your movie session, not once did you change out of it.

even as you both headed to your rooms and exchanged good nights, you don’t try to give it back. bob doesn’t say anything.

he doesn’t even comment on the fact that he never gets it back. he sees it on occasion when you wear it around the tower like it’s always been yours.

in the mornings, when the morning chill is too much for you. on your daily walks to the park because the new york breeze makes you shiver otherwise. when you’re sad and need to feel connected to something, it’s on. and sometimes, when he’s gone into your room to slip in beside you because the voices get too loud, he notices you’re wearing it to sleep.

when you knock on his door with the crewneck in your arms, he frowns, confused. “what’s with that? are you giving it back?”

you scoff, trying to play off your embarrassment at his question. “jeez, you’d think i never return anything i borrow-”

“you don’t.”

“listen, it doesn’t smell like you anymore, so you’re temporarily getting it back, okay?” you rush out, shoving it into his hands. your arms are folded over your chest as you huff, eyes averted from his. which means you don’t catch the way his eyes widen and cheeks turn pink.

“oh, go-got it.” he swallows thickly, hands clenching into fists around the material. he can smell your laundry detergent and that scent that’s just so uniquely you on it. “yeah, um… yeah, i-i’ll wear it again.”

“thank youuu, bye!”

and with that, you speed-walk back to your room. bob can’t get that crewneck on any quicker as soon as you’re gone. and he finally understands why you steal everyone’s clothes. because the scent of you surrounding him is the most comfort he’s ever felt in a long time.

-

Dragging his ass out of bed stopped the spiral, at least for a moment.

That was why he was in the common room at midnight, why he found you slumped over on the couch, head pillowed on one hand, your knees against the tall leather cushions, faced away from the television, which was still on. Bob muted the informercial (they were trying to make Snuggies happen again and there were dumber ideas, he supposed) and fetched a fleece blanket from the basket at the end of the sofa.

His brain quieted down as he looked at you. Awake, you were a condensed bundle of energy, but asleep like this you were peaceful, soft, your chest rising and falling evenly, your lashes plush and pretty on your cheeks.

Bob shook out the blanket and leaned down to cover you; the instant one velvety corner brushed your bare arm, you shifted, lips moving around a wordless complaint. He had been so busy looking at your face he missed the arm flopped between you and the couch back, your hand in your sleep shorts, disappearing toward…

“Shit,” Bob whispered, blinking hard. He had frozen in place with the blanket in both hands, holding it out like he was a matador with a cape and you his sleepy bull. Maybe it was best if he just covered you up, that would solve every problem all at once. Yeah. He would do that—

You moved again, this time with your hand trapped between your thighs and your legs squishing together as you wiggled. Wiggled and moaned.

Moaned his name.

Bob folded the blanket in on itself, jerking backward like just proximity to your body might set him on fire.

You threw your head back, neck stretched, eyes clenched shut. “Mm,” you whimpered, bucking against your hand. “Right there.”

Where, where, where? He had to know where. You were dreaming about him. Dreaming. About him. He was pretty sure half of the New Avengers support staff and maybe a teammate or two had a crush on you, and you were thinking about him, the guy who mostly ate cereal and went to therapy for a living, the guy who sometimes did the dishes, the guy who probably would’ve been voted Most Likely to Trip at Graduation if he had ever managed to finish high school.

Maybe you meant another Bob. You had lived a lot of life, maybe you knew all kinds of Bobs…

“Please, oh my God. You’re so…you’re so…” Your hips raised up off the couch as you swiveled onto your back, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on your forehead as your hand moved more swiftly up and down in your shorts.

Bob clutched the blanket over his waist, painfully aware that if you woke up, you would see exactly how much he loved those dirty little noises you were making. Dirty little noises that were private, perhaps about him but not for him. He had just made the extremely mature decision to put the blanket back and tiptoe away when your eyes snapped open on a gasp.

You froze. Bob froze. Time froze. The building was suddenly so quiet, Bob could hear his blood roaring through his veins.

“H-Hi,” you whispered, hand still in your pants, eyes wide.

“Hey.” He showed you the blanket, as if that explained his presence, his inability to respect your private moment, his existence on Earth. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

You swallowed, pressed your lips together, then glanced down toward your waist. “I’m afraid this is exactly what it looks like.”

“Okay,” Bob said, developing an instantaneous fever.

“Okay,” you said.

Bob pushed one trembling hand through his hair, never letting the blanket drift too far, never letting you see the absolute tent in his pajama pants. “You were saying things.”

Your eyes somehow got bigger. “What things?”

“Things like…” He would rather die right there with a raging boner than recreate your moaning and whimpering. “Things like my name.”

“Okay,” you said, out of breath.

“Okay.”

You stared at each other like the first one to blink had to pants Walker at the next team dinner.

He couldn’t take the silence anymore, or the want.

“I liked it.”

You pulled your lower lip between your teeth, raised your brows.

Bob stared at that lip, hungry. “Did you finish?”

You shook your head slowly from side to side, chest pumping, breasts straining through the tight, thin fabric of your tee. “N-No.”

Bob shivered, nerves singing, skin electric like he had licked a socket. “Do you want to?”

You reached for his hand, and that was all he needed. He dropped down onto the couch, wedging himself between your legs, covering both of you with the blanket. A million ideas occurred to him at the same time—you could sixty-nine, or just do sex, or sixty-nine and then do sex, or he could go down on you, or you could just make out for a while and rub against each other, or…or…

Bob went with the first thing he saw, which was your hand as you pulled it out of your panties. He grabbed that hand by the wrist, lifting it to his face, worshipping it, kissing your damp palm, then pushing your wet fingers into his mouth. You groaned, squirming against him. He rolled into the space between you and the back of the couch, resting on his side, your fingers still hot on his tongue as his left hand slid down your stomach, underneath the waistbands of your shorts and panties. Your thighs twitched apart and Bob took the invitation, sliding his fingers through the soaked mess you had made of yourself.

“Oh,” you whimpered, needy and soft, bucking, head falling back. “That feels good.”

You didn’t have to do anything else, he would’ve been more than content to stay like that, sucking on your fingers while you purred under his touch, but then you had to go and reach back for him, dragging his hard dick out of his flannel pants, your left hand pumping slowly up and down, learning his dimensions.

He tried to swear around your fingers, but it came out garbled. That was fine. He didn’t need to say anything anyway, just needed you to keep doing that, that thing where your thumb swirled around the head of his dick on the upward stroke. His eyes rolled back as you lubricated the next stroke with his precum, spreading it up and down, slippery, velvety… Fuck, that was nice. That was… Bob pushed his hips against your hand, groaning, biting down on the louder, more ragged noises that would get you both in trouble, an outcome that was beginning to feel very, very likely as his thumb grazed your clit and you cried out in pleasurable surprise.

You shared a guilty look, then laughed, and Bob shook his head, a bit dazed.

“Too loud,” he whispered, then tongued your wet thumb, drawing it back between his lips, scraping his teeth across it. Your eyes fluttered shut. He wanted to feel that, too. He fished his right arm out from under you, holding himself up on his elbow and pushing his thumb between your sweet, swollen lips. Moaning softly, you sucked on him, timing the rolling of your tongue to the leisurely pace of your hand moving up and down his cock.

Bob had never fingered someone while making prolonged, desperate, adoring eye contact, but he decided then and there it was his new favorite thing. You looked so pretty and content with his thumb in your mouth, and your teeth worrying the pad made his head spin. He circled your clit faster, pushing you, ready now to do what he had offered—finish you off. His middle finger darted lower, seeking through your dripping folds, finding a snug home in your body, gliding with a snap, curling after the second knuckle.

But you were not to be outdone. You stroked him just as steadily, mimicking the thrust of his finger inside you, giving him a little taste of what it would be like to fuck in earnest. His vision got weird at the edges, silver and white, the tug of your hand yanking on something he felt in his spine, urging him toward a prickle of heat that built in his throat.

“Mmhm,” you moaned around his thumb, reading his mind.

Bob nodded, not knowing what else to do, because it felt so good, because it was everything he wanted—you finding your pleasure, you getting breathless and sweaty underneath him, you riding his hand like you were back in that delicious dream. But it was real, real and getting realer as he felt that tug on his spine spread like molten honey to his groin.

You unraveled first, thank God. He didn’t think he could last another second. The suction of your mouth around his finger stopped, your upper body bending as you shivered, clamping down on him, grinding yourself frantically against his thumb. It was suddenly so much wetter inside you, and he was the reason why and you wanted him there and you were huffing out the whiniest noises around his thumb—

The white halo around his vision bled inward. For a second everything was too hot, too fast, too intense. He let your finger fall out of his mouth, jerking his hips forward as he finished all over your stomach. He had tried to aim for the blanket, but you wouldn’t let him, watching with half-lidded eyes as his hips stuttered, ass and abs clenched before he slid bonelessly back down to his knees.

When he could feel his hands again, Bob pulled his shirt over his head, wiping up the mess on your bare skin with his ears turning fuchsia.

“I didn’t, um, it’s kind of a mess,” he mumbled, balling up his shirt and dropping it on the floor next to the sofa. You reached down and tugged on those same burning ears until he crawled up to lie next to you.

Sleepy, cozy all over, Bob nestled his head into your left shoulder, leg flopped over yours. He hummed deep in his chest as your fingers found their way to his head, scratching lightly over the back of his scalp.

“You meant me, right?”

Your eyes opened slowly, chin dipping as you looked down at him. “What?”

“The Bob…when you were saying Bob before. You meant me…” He shifted around, pointing at his own chest. “Me Bob.”

“No, I meant the other Bob Reynolds.”

He swished his lips to the side, shy.

“You know, the one who took three buses and a train to get gelato for my birthday?” You smirked, pressing a little kiss to his forehead.

“I didn’t mind,” he mumbled. “Wasn’t a big deal.”

“The one who lets me win at Mario Kart…”

“Only when it gets embarrassing.”

Snorting, you snuggled closer, your free hand smoothing over his bare chest, staying over the place where his heart thundered to meet your touch. “You never let John win.”

Bob shrugged. “‘Cos the noises he makes are hilarious.”

“Well anyway,” you said with a sigh. “That’s the Bob I meant, if that’s not you then this is going to be pretty awkward.”

He pressed his nose more firmly into your neck, simultaneously hiding and trying to climb inside your skin. “I guess that’s me Bob.”

“My Bob,” you corrected, settling down against him like you might both fall asleep that way.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling, nodding off. “That one.”

It’s kind of the last thing you expected.

This week was supposed to be about soup and board games and helping your aunt clear out her garage. It was supposed to be about sourdough starters and running errands.

It was not supposed to be about open mic nights at bars and hot strangers with guitars.

And voices that tickle your spine until you have goosebumps all over.

And blue eyes you could sink into and drown like you never learned how to swim.

It was not supposed to be about one night stands.

But, alas.

The blue eyes are closed. He’s still sleeping.

Cameron.

That’s his name.

Cameron.

You can still remember last night in flashes. His voice through the microphone. The scrape of his thumb over guitar strings.

The way he looked at you across the crowded bar like he already knew how the night would end.

And maybe you did too.

You remember his hands around your waist in the kitchen while you laughed into his shoulder. Remember him kissing you slow enough to make you yearn for more.

Yearn.

For a man you’d met less than three hours ago.

You remember thinking: oh, this is trouble.

Now he sleeps beside you completely unaware of the damage he’s done.

Mouth slightly open.

Hair a mess.

One hand curled loosely against your waist.

You should leave now, probably. Before you turn this into something it isn’t.

Instead you stay exactly where you are.

Cameron shifts in his sleep. Closer. His arm against you tightens.

Half-asleep, he murmurs against your neck, “Morning.”

“Good morning,” you whisper, trying to sound like you haven’t been awake for the better part of an hour just staring at his face. You gather the sheet over yourself, suddenly very aware of your own naked body.

He opens his eyes, barely, looking at you like somehow he didn’t expect you to reply. Like he wasn’t sure you weren’t just a dream.

His voice is rough with sleep. “You’re very pretty.”

You snort with laughter.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Is that your go-to?”

“My go-to?” he repeats, visibly offended.

“Yeah. Your morning-after line.”

“You say that like I have a system.”

“You don’t?”

He shakes his head. “This doesn’t happen to me often.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. “I bet I can predict your next move, though.”

“There are no moves.”

“Right. So you’re not going to get me a cinnamon roll for breakfast?”

“No, I’m not—” He pauses abruptly. “Wait, what? How did you—”

“Last night, I told you I’m new to town and you said…”

Your voice trails off. That’s enough to spark his memory.

“That you should try the cinnamon rolls from the bakery,” he concludes.

“And you specifically said they make a great breakfast.”

His face shifts. Like he’s just now putting two and two together.

“But that’s not a move,” he says.

“No?”

“That’s just—”

“Yes?”

“Information that could improve your quality of life.”

“It’s that good?”

He nods.

You consider him for a moment. He seems sincere, and even if it is a move, like some sort of thank you for the sex, have a cinnamon roll and don’t be mad if I never call you scheme, what is really the worst thing that could happen?

That you leave here with two orgasms and a sugar high?

There are worse fates.

“Then I guess we’re having cinnamon rolls,” you say.

“Give me thirty minutes.”

He gets dressed like he’s already late for something—and for a moment you think he’s freaking out that you might not be here if it takes him a minute longer than he’s promised. You shrug off that thought as quickly as it comes.

Before he’s out the door, you realize that while last night has left you happy and satisfied and relaxed beyond measure, it has also left you icky. Dried sweat. Remnants of perfume. Whatever is left of your makeup.

“Uh, Cameron?”

He turns quickly. “Yeah?”

“Can I take a shower?”

“Sure. Through there,” he says, pointing to a door in the hallway. “Extra towels in the cabinet.”

You nod.

He leaves.

Thirty minutes doesn’t leave you with a lot of snooping time—not that you would, anyway, but you do glance around as you head to the shower, making a few accidentally-on-purpose stops along your way. The house is nice, well built, with a lot of wood and knickknacks that don’t really scream Cameron, but you just met the guy so what do you know? Maybe the little horses have a story behind them. Maybe the framed cross-stitch pieces were passed down to him. Maybe he got the place furnished and hasn’t had time to redecorate anything besides his room.

Maybe—

Maybe it’s been fifteen minutes and you still haven’t gotten to the shower.

The water pressure is bad. Like, really bad. And he doesn’t have nice products, but other than that it’s a fairly uneventful shower until—

The front door slams shut.

And just before you have a chance to call out his name, someone else does it for you.

“Cameron?”

It’s a woman’s voice.

A chill runs through your body.

You don’t reply.

You run through the possibilities in your head. This isn’t his house. He’s house sitting. Or he’s a burglar. A scammer. A real estate agent with boundary issues.

Or—

He’s married.

You don’t like any of the options.

Not because of him—God, no. If he’s a liar or cheater or whatever, good riddance. You do not care.

But simply because now you’re complicit. And naked. In a stranger’s house.

That’s the kind of thing that gets people shot.

“Your car isn’t out front,” the woman calls out.

The voice sounds frail, a little hesitant too. And it’s getting closer.

You turn off the shower. She knocks on the door. Your heart jumps and your eyes flick to the handle.

Locked. Thank God you had some sense.

“Cameron, are you in there? Is everything okay?” the woman asks. 

“No, sorry, wrong person,” you blurt out, because you have to say something.

There’s a long pause.

“Who’s in my shower?”

“Funny story. I thought this was Cameron’s shower and not, um—I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m his grandmother.”

He lives with his grandmother?

Weird.

And sweet.

And—

Oh, for fucks sake. Get out of the bathroom.

You look around frantically only to discover that your clothes are exactly where you left them.

On Cameron’s floor.

The only thing you have is panties. Skanky panties.

That’s what your aunt had called them when you were unpacking. Then she’d laughed and said you would not be needing such things in Sowell Bay.

Joke’s on her.

You toss them on and reach for a towel, starting to wrap it around your chest before it hits you.

Modesty, maybe.

Or just the possibility of getting shot, which is still very real, and if that happens you do not want to be wearing skanky panties and a towel and end up the star of the most unfortunate crime scene photos.

Because the woman outside the door may very well be Cameron’s grandmother and she may be sweet and understanding to naked strangers and not shoot you—but what if the man you met isn’t Cameron at all? 

What if the real Cameron is dead and stuffed in a closet somewhere and you were just a bit of entertainment for Scameron while he waited for grandma to come back so he could finish what he—

Oh, God. You have to stop listening to true crime podcasts.

And you can not go out there in a freaking towel.

There’s another knock at the door.

“Whoever you are, will you please come out?”

A quick glance around the bathroom proves most unhelpful to your current predicament—until you spot something hanging from a hook on the back of the door. A shapeless lump of dark fabric.

A sweatshirt.

Cameron’s, most likely. Unless his grandma is secretly an oversized sweatshirt kind of baddie.

You snatch the sweatshirt off the hook. It’s soft, probably from years of washing. Still warm, somehow, from the shower steam.

And before you can stop yourself, you bring it up to your face.

Big mistake.

It smells like him.

Not gross, sweaty boy smell. Just—him. Faint detergent, subtle woodsy cologne and skin.

Your stomach flips immediately.

“Oh, you are pathetic,” you whisper to yourself.

Cameron’s grandma clears her throat outside the door.

You pull the sweatshirt on quickly and then, carefully, crack the bathroom door open.

The woman waiting outside is about five feet tall with silver hair, a cozy cardigan and practical shoes. Her eyes glaze over you—bare legs, Cameron’s sweatshirt, wet hair—and for a moment you expect a scolding.

But then, she simply tilts her head to the side and mutters, “Oh, dear.”

“I’m sorry, I—” you stammer, but the rest of the words fail to materialize.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not even supposed to be back yet.”

She starts walking down the hall, gesturing for you to follow. You do.

“I’m Tova,” she says.

You reach the kitchen. Tova starts putting on a pot of coffee.

You stand there awkwardly.

“And you, dear?” she asks. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m—”

The front door opens. Both of you turn to look.

Cameron walks in carrying a stack of two white bakery boxes.

He’s smiling. Actually smiling. Hair damp from the rain, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Okay,” he starts, “I was just gonna get cinnamon, but they were doing something new with pistachios, so I—”

He freezes.

You and Tova stare at him from the kitchen.

He walks over, eyes peeled on you and your bare legs and the whole situation at hand, and sets down what he’s brought on the counter.

“Uh, so, uh—”

“Relax, Cameron, we’re all adults here,” Tova says and begins unpacking the contents of the bakery boxes onto a decorative plate.

He rubs the back of his neck. “You said you wouldn’t be back until tonight.”

“Margaret’s husband developed chest pain, so we all came back early.”

“Oh.”

“He’s fine.”

“Great. Awesome. Fantastic for him.”

Tova walks over to the cupboard to grab coffee mugs.

Cameron leans into your ear and whispers, “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper back, “why didn’t you tell me your roommate is eighty?”

“Fair point.”

“I haven’t seen you around Sowell Bay before,” Tova says, gesturing for both of you to sit down, and you feel obligated to obey.

“I’m just visiting.”

“Mm,” she says, pouring coffee into three mismatched mugs. “Sowell Bay has a habit of keeping people who need keeping.”

Cameron looks at her like she’s practically arranging a marriage.

You laugh.

“I’m going to take my coffee outside,” Tova says. “You two can pretend I’m not even here.”

“It’s raining,” Cameron tries to argue.

“There’s a roof over the deck,” Tova replies. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

And then, wearing another cardigan on top of the other one, she goes out into the cold misty air where rain is still falling and disappears from view.

Cameron nudges the plate of baked goods closer to you. You grab a cinnamon roll and take a big bite. It is exactly as good as he has described it to be.

He watches you and the way your lips can’t help but curl into a smile. You wash the bite down with coffee.

“She seems really nice,” you say, nodding your head towards the window. “Did you grow up here?”

He shakes his head. “We only met about six months ago.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

“You do?”

“I mean, my aunt is expecting me to go list all her Beanie Babies on Facebook Marketplace,” you say, unable to hide the hint of amused disdain in your voice. “But I think that can wait.”

“Alright.”

“Unless you’re scared, of course,” you add quickly.

He looks into your eyes from over the rim of his coffee mug. “Scared of what, exactly?”

“I don’t know. The longer I spend here, the more I like it,” you say. Then, you bite your lip. “I might fall in love with Sowell Bay and never leave.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Good cinnamon rolls.”

“Can’t argue.”

“Nice scenery.”

He shrugs. “When you can see it through the fog.”

“Friendly people,” you say.

Your cheeks are burning. He can see it, you know he can. He’s staring, now, and you don’t know if you’re supposed to break the silence or—

He clears his throat.

“Friendly octopuses, too,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Like I said,” he says. “It’s a long story.”

“Well?” you ask.

“Well what?”

“Go on, then.”

Cameron smiles.

This week was not supposed to be about cinnamon rolls, grandmothers and blue-eyed boys with stories to tell.

But, alas.