#camwint

I’m not sure how most people start their mornings. Maybe with a nice cup of coffee or yoga or something. I know it’s not really recommended to look at your phone right when you wake up, but it’s quite hard to ignore the constant ringing coming from my bedside table. Since I’m not very technologically advanced, I haven’t figured out how to change personalized ringtones which makes the call even more annoying. I think he made it annoying so that I would have to talk to him to get the persistent quacking sound to go away. Not that I mind talking to him.

“Oh my god what?” I pick up and Cam’s never sounded more frantic in his life, which is saying a lot, considering how high strung he usually is.

“FINALLY! I’ve been texting you for hours, can you please let me in?” Not even on my days off can I catch a break. 

“Can I put some pants on first? I literally just opened my eyes”

“Dude it's like noon, aren't you usually up by now? Anyway why are you not wearing pants, that’s freaky” I can practically hear the smirk on his face. 

“I had off today, let me live.” I hang up and grab my pajama shorts off the floor, pulling them on as I walk to the door to let him in, not really caring that I haven’t brushed my hair yet. Not like he can judge, I’m about 95% sure he doesn’t even own a hairbrush.

I flip the lock open and he steps in, pushing past me to put his bag on the counter and opens my fridge. “I can’t believe you’d ignore me like that, you’re so rude. Have you made coffee?” 

“Are you sure you need coffee? You seem like, bugged out this morning.” I haven’t really gotten a good look at his face yet, but I bet his pupils are blown right now. 

“Come on babe, don’t make me do the hobby lobby mom, but first coffee!” He throws up a peace sign that’s supposed to be ironic but I know deep down his apartment would be decked out in Rae Dunn if he wasn’t trying to give off an I’m-so-much-deeper-than-you-look-at-my-jazz-vinyl-collection vibe. 

I grab two mugs from the cabinet and cross in front of him to my coffee maker, pushing his stupidly lanky self out of the way. Have his biceps gotten bigger?

“You know, if you wanted to hang out, you could’ve just said so, you don’t have to pretend to like the coffee I buy.” The brew stops and he sneaks up behind me, pouring some creamer into my mug, pressing a little bit too close to my back. I can practically feel his breath on my neck.

“I don’t pretend to like it, I actually only tolerate your personality so I can indulge in your stupidly expensive drinks and not have to pay for it myself.” I don’t bring up that he’s the one who bought me this blend, he knows I like to at least pretend to be independent. He presses a quick kiss to my cheek, grabbing his mug and walking towards the sofa. We’ve never really acknowledged how close we are, but I know people notice. His band mates especially. I should probably ask him why he keeps me around, the classic ‘what are we’ bullshit, but I’m not entirely sure I’m prepared to handle anything other than ‘I’m head over heels in love with you, stay with me forever.’

“So did you come over here for a reason or were you just bored?” I sit down next to him, taking small sips of my drink, trying to wake myself up.

“I can’t just wanna see you? Spend the morning with my favorite girl?” He takes the mug out of my hand, sitting both on the glass table in front of us and puts his hands on my shoulders, making me look at him. My god he’s actually sober. “On a completely unrelated note, what are you doing tomorrow night?” 

“Nothing that I know of, why?” Please ask me to see your show, I love you watching you perform.

“Fantastic, our photographer got sick and we really need someone that knows how to at least kind of work a camera” I take another sip of my coffee, rolling my eyes playfully.

“Oh so free labor?” He smirks, knowing I’d drop everything to help him out.

“You’d be paid in mediocre music and maybe a really sweaty gross hug after” Yes please. “Don’t pretend you don’t love looking at me.” 

“Fine, I’ll do it. But I’m holding out for that hug.” I say half-joking. He knows I can’t say no to him.

“You’re an angel thank you so much”

“You know you could’ve asked me over text, right? Had me thinking you were getting cancelled or something.” He pulls his phone out and texts me the venue details.

“Yeah but where’s the fun in that?”

a/n: hi this is my first fic, please someone tell me it’s not the worst thing you’ve ever read so i don’t pull my hair out ❤️

anyways ummmm i might update this i really wanna get back into writing because i have a lot of fun doing it, my main blog is just linked to all of my public socials so im posting this here because im not fully used to embracing my cringe or wtv

I must have been raised from the grave. There’s a shovel digging into my forehead and the sheets are all wrapped around me like a noose. I peel open my sleep-sticky eyes, burning where I left in my contacts overnight. For a second, I wonder why there’s a kitchen in my bedroom before I remember I moved house. I feel around on my dresser for my phone. It’s 11am. Clutching my head so it doesn’t fall apart, I wriggle out from under the blankets, my neck and shoulders aching and stiff. A chilly draft hits me, so I spare a glance at the window, expecting to see that I’d left it open overnight, but no, it’s only open a crack and Cameron is on my fire escape. Everything floods back to me in vibrant technicolor. So that’s why I feel like I’ve been fucked sideways.

He’s wearing Vince’s Knicks sweatshirt – the same one I threw on when he did his prom-posal stunt – and a pair of my fleecy pyjama pants, too short to cover most of his shins. His hair is all wet, and a pair of dark sunglasses shield him from the mid-morning light. He’s hunched over and focused, with his phone and the notepad from my fridge on his lap. He plucks the tiny end of a cigarette from his lips, balancing it next to the pen between his fingers, and taps something out on his phone. It plays some synthesizer chords that he softly sings along to. I strain my ears to hear the lyrics, though my head pounds with the effort.

“Love will come

When you got too much under your arms

Oh, mama

Love will come on

Love will make you fit it all in the trunk of your car

Oh, mama

Dance in the rain, watching the lights

Ma-my love is far away

Huntin’ the moon, chasin’ her down

Love takes miles, love takes years

I better start a-walkin’, baby

Love takes miles, love takes years.”

Muffled by the glass, the words are clunky and unrefined in his gravelly morning voice. It’s beautiful. Of course it is. Everything that pours out of him is silver moonlight. My phone slides off the bed and clatters on the floor. He looks up and offers me an embarrassed smile that quickly cracks into a grin of unabashed delight.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” He lowers his sunglasses to look at me properly, and in that moment I realise I am nude as the day I was born.

I hiss through my teeth and gather the sheet up to my chest, but he just laughs and ashes out his cigarette.

“Did I wake you up?”

“Mmmph.” I mumble noncommittally. “I didn’t think I drank that much.”

“What?” He gathers his stuff and makes to open the window.

I wave him off, grasping around for something like a jacket to wrap around myself. The winter chill blasts me as he crawls back inside. He must notice me shivering as he hurries over and wraps his arms around me. It’s too hot under his weight, confusing and suffocating. I try to shimmy away from him, but he doesn’t understand.

“What is it, sweetheart?” In the painful reality of the morning after, the new pet-name feels like a joke at my expense.

“Head hurts.” I turn as far away from him as I can and cover my eyes.

“You’re hungover? You didn’t drink that much.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Fuckin’ lightweight.”

I let out an irritable squeak and wrench his arm off my shoulder, losing the sheet in the process.

“Shh, shh, honey.” He pulls it back up around me and kisses my throbbing temple, but leaves me free of his embrace. I’m grateful. “I’m sorry. Oh, shit.”

He pulls back the sheet just a little and pokes two fingers gently at my neck.

“Ah.” I hiss, but it’s not a bad pain. Whatever he’s touching feels kind of good. “What is it?”

“Zombie bites.” He snaps his teeth together.

“Oh.” I feel around for them, gasping as my fingers find a particularly sensitive spot on my collarbone.

“I really did a number on you, huh?” His face folds sympathetically, but he sounds kind of proud. “You got me too, though.”

“Woah.” I wince as he pulls down the neck of the sweatshirt to show off his spattering of maroon bruises. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“I want like fifty more of these as soon as you feel better.” He’s making me blush, and the rush of blood to my head makes it spin. In spite of myself, I lean over on his shoulder. “Oh, baby. You got Tylenol?”

“M-mm.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll go to the bodega and get some.”

“Gatorade in the fridge.” I mutter. “Need… an everything bagel.”

“Okay.” He chuckles. “Gatorade, Tylenol, everything bagel. Anything else you require, your highness?”

“Just… just the Gatorade. I’ll go with you. Get some breakfast.”

“You sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yeah.” I mumble, then once again with more conviction. “Yeah. Just need to shower first.”

“You want help?” He looks hopeful.

“What?” None of this makes any sense to me.

“Okay, okay.” He smiles fondly and smooths my hair back. “Not a morning person, are we, little princess? I’ll get your drink and then you have a nice hot shower.”

I reach up and take up a handful of his damp hair.

“You’ve already had one?”

“Hope you don’t mind.” He nuzzles my hand. “I got out a dry towel for you.”

It’s not like it’s the first time he’s showered at my place. It wouldn’t even be the first time he’s helped himself to a towel. But it disturbs me for some reason I can’t place. It’s like he lives here already. What would that even mean? Who is he to me now? Is he my boyfriend? My best friend with benefits? What fresh fucked up dynamic have we gotten ourselves into. I think I’m going to be sick but I swallow it and let his hair go as if it’s burning me.

“Thanks.”

I’m two Tylenol deep with my sunglasses on and Cameron’s too-big Stetson shading me from the weak sunlight that filters through the clouds. My eyes are shut. I’m relying on Cam’s protective arm around me to guide me blind along the sidewalk. I can feel the city thrumming up through my feet, hear it roaring and wailing around me, pulsing through my brain. I love this place, but god, does it hurt sometimes.

“Careful, there’s a step.” Cam takes a curve in his path, leading me into what I guess is an alleyway, and then inside somewhere. “Good girl.”

It’s blissfully quiet in here. From the bread and coffee smell and the Joni Mitchell drifting from the PA, I can tell we’re in Bissel. Cam claims it’s the best kosher cafe in all of New York City, and I really can’t argue with him. It’s haunted frequently by him and the other Geese members, and used as the default meeting spot for anything band related. He guides me down into a booth. It’s dark enough in here that I can take the hat off and peak my eyes open.

“Still hurts?” He asks as I clutch my pounding forehead.

“Unh.” I utter.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He kisses my hair even though it’s wet. “You want coffee? White mocha, extra hot, extra shot, extra chocolate, extra everything?”

“Mmhm.” I reach for his arm to let him know I’m grateful. “Lox and schmear, please, Cameron.”

“Oy yoy yoy...” He puts on the thick Yiddish accent he does when he’s imitating his grandfather. “Lox ‘n’ schmear? You been hangin’ ‘round the shul, hah, shefele?”

He’d make me laugh, any other day. I manage to lift my face and give him the saddest look I can muster over my sunglasses.

“Aw, baby, I’m sorry.” He pets my head, laughing, but there’s concern in his doe eyes. “I’ll get it for you.”

“My wallet’s in my bag.” I gesture vaguely.

“Don’t worry about it.” He’s gone before I can argue.

I slide my glasses onto my head and drag my hands down my face. I have to talk to him. We have to have it out. What is this? What’s happening? What am I to you? Who the hell are you to say you love me after all this time? If I have you, and it’s all I’ve wanted since I was sixteen years old, why do I feel so terrified? Under what circumstances did this happen? Was the whole prom-posal date situation a conscious set-up so you could sleep with me? Or was it more of an accident? Do you want to do it again? Are you my boyfriend? You said you love me, and you said you’ll never leave me. Is that something you know you’re capable of? Can we get married? Now? Tomorrow? When? Can I put my fingers in your mouth?

He’s only gone a minute or two, and soon enough he’s back at my side. I try not to look too crazy when I look up at him. He’s still wearing his sunglasses, and he looks like Dylan when he went electric. I want to just grab him and kiss him until the pain in my head makes me pass out.

“They’ll bring it over.” He puts down a table number and slides in beside me. Why can’t he just sit across from me? My heart is hammering against my chest and I’m too warm and too scared. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Cameron, I-”

“What’s up, fuckers?” It’s Max. He flops down across from us, grinning. I wince at his volume and he bares his bottom teeth in apology.

“Hey, man.” Cameron’s voice is a little tense for the casual greeting. I swallow a scream. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t a guy get a little hot breakfast action?” A frown curdles his smile. “What the fuck happened to you guys?”

“Her majesty had a little too much to drink last night.” Cam drawls, rubbing a soothing circle on my back as I sit forward and rest my head in my hands. Do I really look that shitty?

“I didn’t drink half as much as you. It’s not fair.”

“I know, baby.” He coos. I wish he wouldn’t call me that in front of Max. “If I could have the hangover for you, I would.”

“You don’t want this.” It’s so hot in here. “Trust me.”

I strip off my jacket, desperate to combat the stifling atmosphere. I don’t know what it is about winter that makes people think it’s appropriate to have the heater up to like eighty degrees. I’m stuck between feeling relieved for the delay and wishing Max would just leave us alone. He’s a nice guy, but damn it, we have things to discuss. This is a matter of life and death. But maybe delaying the inevitable will grant me a few more minutes alive… I gather up my hair in my hand and hold it at the base of my neck, pressing the back of my hand on my cheek in a pale attempt to cool it. Cameron has started talking rapidly about nothing in particular, his scorching hand cupping the side of my neck.

“…I dunno, man. Anyway, there’s this new DIY venue downtown called like ‘Don’t Fuck with Mr Zero’ or something…”

“Cam, get off me.” I claw at his hand, but he’s stuck too me like a leech.

“…some girl runs it out of her basement, I don’t know if it’s strictly legal…”

“Get off! It’s too…” I grab hold of his wrist and wrench him off me. “…hot.”

My eyes meet with Max’s. They’re very wide and he’s gone very quiet, grinning in barely contained glee. Cameron has finally shut up about ‘Mr Zero.’

“What- wh-what is it?” I demand. “I’ve got something on me, don’t I?”

“You could say that.”

“Max.” Cameron warns.

“Cam, what is it?” The panicky creep of embarrassment is working its way into my voice.

He sighs, frowning in sympathy.

“Zombie bites.”

My hand flies to my neck. The bruises are hot and tender under my touch.

“Max!” I whip around to look at him, sending a crushing jolt of pain through my skull. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, it’s not? ‘Cause it looks like you guys fucked nasty.”

“We did not fuck nasty!” I wince at the sound of my own voice. “We… we didn’t. We just… Cameron, tell him!”

“We made love.”

“Mazel tov!”

“Cameron!” I’m horror struck. Why the hell would he say that?

“Baby, he knows.”

“What?” I gape. “What does he know?”

“Very little, generally.” Max stretches, casual despite my distress. “But I know he’s been avoiding fucking you for like three? Four years, maybe? Diabolical, in my opinion.”

I’m completely fucking mortified.

“Nobody tells me anything.”

“Hey, man, I don’t meddle.” He looks over at the counter where they just read out an order for one ‘Darcy O’Queef.’ “That’s me. Okay, I’ll see you guys later. Allison, don’t run him ragged, alright? We gotta rehearse tomorrow.”

“Shut up.” I bury my face in my hands.

“See ya, man.” Cam shifts beside me as he daps him up. As I hear Max walk away, Cam turns back to me and nuzzles his nose into my temple. “What is it, hm?”

“That was so humiliating.”

“Hey, it’s okay. He wasn’t making fun of you, he was making fun of me ‘cause I’ve been such a little bitch about the whole scenario.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly. “It means I should have been loving you this whole time, but… I dunno, I guess I was too self absorbed to do anything about it.”

Love. The word still sounds foreign coming from his voice.

“Cameron.” I rub my eyes. “How… how much of last night do you remember?”

He smiles, amused, and pushes his sunglasses onto his head, pinning his hair back underneath them.

“All of it, as far as I’m aware. I wasn’t that drunk.”

“Oh.” I swallow. Shit. Is that a good thing? “So you- you remember what you asked me? When you were…”

“When I was balls deep inside you begging you to please, please, please let me be your boyfriend?”

“Cam, shut up!” I whisper-yell, even though he only murmured it to me.

“What are you embarrassed for?” He cracks a grin. “I’m the one acting like a dog in heat.”

I don’t know if my face has ever been this red before.

“Okay. So you remember then?” He nods. “Well, does that mean we’re, y’know, together? Or-or were you just, y’know…”

His grin falters and fades.

“You’re having second thoughts.” He sits back, giving me space, and starts fiddling with the table number, twirling it around and around. “I, uh… yeah, I thought maybe you were this morning, but… I dunno, I thought you might come around. I… I shouldn’t have asked you like that. I put you on the spot. You deserve better than that. I, um… yeah, we, um- we could just, y’know, take it slow?”

“Cameron Winter, what the hell are you talking about?” I snap. “We’ve been taking it slow this entire time! If you’re looking for a way out, just tell me. I think I deserve a little honesty.”

“Wha- no. No! Baby, I- Allison.” He sighs, squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again. He looks a little steadier. “I love you, and I really, desperately want to be with you. I don’t want a way out, honey, trust me. I just… if it’s too much for you, and- and if you need your time, and your space, and whatever you need, I’ll give it to you. Okay? I’ll wait for you.”

He looks at me with those wounded animal eyes. Stray dog with a broke leg on the side of the road. Disarming. I feel like I’m going to cry in front of him again, so I bap him on the chest with the flat of my hand.

“Fuck off!” I grab his collar. “You’re an idiot. Of course I want to be with you. Stupid.”

He shows me his dimples.

“Fine! Fine. I’m your boyfriend, you’re my girlfriend. End of story.”

“End of story.” I glare up at him, fighting the smile that’s aching on my cheeks.

“Good. Fine.” He tries to look nonchalant and fails, tripping us both into a fit of giggles. “Come here! Come here, grumpy. Gimme a kiss? Seal the deal?”

“Fine, fine.” I roll my eyes and it feels like my optic nerves just pulled something loose in my brain. I clutch my forehead. “Oh, god.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He cradles my cheeks in his big, gentle hands. “C’mere. Kiss it better.”

He leaves a few soft kisses on my forehead, like a balm for the poison in my skull. Two more on each of my eyelids, another on my cheek, and then, at last, one on my lips. Like liquid morphine on my tongue, my pain is quickly forgotten as he works his nectar-sweet mouth against me.

“I love you.” I mumble around a mouthful of his tongue. “Baby, I love you.”

He’s relentless, palming my cheeks, stroking my hair, blotting out the world with his love,

“Two lox on everything?” A nasal, drawling voice pipes up.

I have to be the one to pull away and look, mortified, up at one of the waitresses we’ve come to know fairly well.

“Cam, is that us?”

“Uh-huh.” Cam turns, blissed out and almost cross-eyed.

“You guys must be pretty hungry if you’re eating each other, huh?” She lifts her bushy eyebrows, tongue touching the corner of her lip.

“Thank you, Adrienne.” I bite my finger in embarrassment. She cackles.

“Waiting on anything else?”

“Just coffees.” Cam says serenely.

“Alright, alright, that won’t be long.” She’s still laughing as she dips away, and I see one of her coworkers start up too as she nears the counter.

I aim a light whack on Cameron’s shoulder.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Stop embarrassing me!”

Now he’s laughing at me.

“Oh, lighten up, princess.”

He’s so cute. So sleepy. My sleeves are rolled up and he’s sitting on the counter, practically leaning on me as I coax him to stay awake. “I thought you wanted a fresh face. You gotta stay still.” I tilt his head up, and he smiles sweetly at me. 

“Your hands are so warm,” he mumbles, nuzzling his face into my palm. 

“I know, honey, I’m trying to get you clean.” I mumble, turning the water on to heat up. 

He looks back up at me, scrunching his eyebrows together as he frowns. “Can’t we just do it in the morning? I’m so tired…” He slouches over, pressing his head against my chest. He smells like smoke and stale beer and that metallic tang of adrenaline cooling on his skin.

I run the tap until it's warm, soaking a washcloth, and he watches me with this half-lidded, almost melancholy expression that makes my chest ache. I press the warm cloth to his jaw, and he hums, low and content, eyes fluttering shut completely now. The stubble catches against the cotton, scratchy and rough, and I can feel him melting into me. His whole body going loose and trusting, all that post-show wired energy finally draining out of him.

"Stay with me Cam," I whisper, and he makes this small sound, not quite a word, more like agreement, his head heavy against my shoulder.

I reach for the shaving cream with my free hand, shaking the can with a soft rattle while my other stays anchored at his waist, keeping him steady, keeping him here. He tilts his head back when I bring it to his face, trusting and pliant, letting me spread the white foam over his sharp jaw, his upper lip, and that patch of stubble beneath his lower lip that always grows in thickest and itches when he forgets to shave for too long. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, still humming with leftover stage heat, and I work slowly, carefully, like I'm handling something precious.

I can't help it. I lean in and kiss his forehead, right at the hairline where his hair is starting to curl from sweat and steam. He smiles with his eyes still closed, that sweet, private smile he only shows me when we're alone like this, when the performance has ended and he's just Cameron again, just mine.

"You're not helping," he mumbles, but he's grinning now, lazy and loose, his hands finding my hips and holding on.

"Shh." I kiss the corner of his mouth, careful not to smear the cream, then the bridge of his nose, then his cheek, soft and quick, barely there. "I'm doing very important work here."

He turns his head, chasing my mouth, and I let him catch me for a second. Just a press of lips, mint and sleepiness and the faint bitterness of cheap venue beer still lingering. I pull back, picking up the razor, running it under the warm water until it's ready.

"Hold still, baby. Seriously."

He tries. He really does. But every time I lean in to guide the blade, I press another kiss somewhere, his temple, the shell of his ear, the spot just beneath his jaw that makes him shiver and laugh softly. He keeps making these pleased noises that vibrate through his chest into mine, his hands tightening on my waist. I take him not grinding on my leg as a sign that he is truly spent, so I try to work quickly. 

"You're gonna cut me," he says, not sounding particularly worried about it, his voice thick with exhaustion.

"Never." I tilt his chin up with two gentle fingers, guiding the razor carefully down his neck in smooth, even strokes. The blade scrapes softly, clearing clean, pink skin in its wake. 

He opens his eyes then, just barely, looking up at me through his lashes with something so open and vulnerable it makes my breath catch, makes my chest ache with how much I feel for him in this moment. "I know," he says, simple and sure, and I have to kiss him again, deeper this time, forgetting the razor entirely until I remember and pull back with a soft laugh against his mouth.

"Okay, okay. You're distracting me." I kiss his jaw once more, then his throat, feeling him swallow beneath my lips. "Let me finish."

I work in silence for a while, the only sounds are the running water and his breathing, slow and steady. I rinse the blade, clear another strip of foam, kiss his shoulder through his t-shirt, then his collarbone where it's exposed. He watches me like I'm something miraculous, like I'm the one who performed tonight instead of him.

"Almost done," I murmur, though I'm dragging it out now, enjoying this too much to rush. I press my palm to his cheek, feeling the smooth skin there, and he leans into my touch, eyes closing again.

"You're so good to me," he whispers, and my heart cracks open a little more.

I run the warm cloth over his face again, wiping away the last of the foam, gentle and thorough. He's so soft now, pink and clean and smelling like my soap instead of the club. That smoky, beery residue replaced by something simple and ours. I kiss his newly-shaven jaw, then his chin, then the corner of his mouth, lingering there while his hands find my hips again, pulling me closer, anchoring himself to me.

"Better?" I ask against his lips.

He nods, eyes heavy again, fighting to stay open, losing the battle. "Better," he echoes, and then he's tucking his face into my neck, arms wrapping around my waist, holding on like I'm the only solid thing in the room, the only real thing in a night that's been all lights and noise and other people's hands reaching for him. "Love you."

The words are muffled, half-asleep, but they land in my chest like something holy, like a promise. I press my cheek to the top of his head and hold him there, the razor forgotten on the counter, the water still running. Everything else is secondary to this, to him. Soft and clean and mine.

"Love you too," I whisper into his hair. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

He doesn't want to move. I can feel it in the way he tightens his arms, the way he burrows closer, seeking warmth, seeking me. But he's shivering now, the adrenaline fully faded, leaving him cold and loose-limbed and helpless. I turn off the tap with one hand, the sudden silence ringing in my ears, and then I'm coaxing him to slide off the counter, his legs unsteady as they find the floor.

"Up," I murmur, guiding him, one arm around his waist. "I've got you."

He leans on me heavily, all his weight trustingly against my side, and we stumble together toward the bedroom, him barely keeping his eyes open, his feet dragging. He’s so tired that his slouch practically makes him match my height. I pause at the doorway to kiss his temple, his cheek, the soft spot behind his ear, and he makes that sound again, that hum of contentment that I feel more than hear.

"You're taking care of me," he says, like he's just realizing it, like it's a surprise.

"Always," I tell him, and it's the truest thing I've ever said.

I get him to the bed and he collapses onto it, boneless and grateful, already curling onto his side, reaching for me. I climb in beside him, fully clothed, not caring, and he immediately tucks himself against me, his face pressed to my chest, his breathing evening out almost instantly.

I press kisses to the top of his head, his forehead, the bridge of his nose, anywhere I can reach, and he smiles in his sleep, his hand finding mine and holding on.

"Thank you," he breathes out, barely audible, and then he's gone, asleep in my arms, soft and clean and safe, and I stay awake just a little longer, holding him, counting my blessings in the dark, memorizing the weight of him, the trust of him, the love.

The hotel room smells like stale air conditioning and whatever cleaning product they use to pretend the carpet isn't thirty years old. I kick my shoes off near the door where they join the growing pile of clothes I've been dropping since we got back from the venue. A pair of black jeans, the shirt I sweated through during the set, a towel from the venue shower.

The show was good. The show was fine. The crowd was responsive, we played tight, nobody fucked up their parts. But my skin has been itching since I walked off stage, this restless energy coiling in my gut that I can't name and can't shake. Or maybe I can name it. Maybe I've been naming it wrong all night, calling it adrenaline when it's really just her, the absence of her, the space where she should be.

I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. The digital clock on the nightstand says 2:47 AM, which means it's... what, 11:47 PM for her? Or is it 3:47? I can never keep the time zones straight on this tour, and my brain feels too fuzzy to do the math right now. The distance feels impossible tonight, stretching between us like something physical, something I could choke on.

I reach for my phone on the pillow next to me, thumb hovering over her contact photo. She’s smiling at some restaurant, cheeks flushed from wine, that sweater she stole from me slipping off one shoulder. I want to hear her voice so badly it aches, a low throb in my chest that won't quit. But she's probably asleep, or if she's not asleep then she's at work, and either way she can't talk. Either way she's living in a different hour than me, moving through a different day, and I'm here alone in this room that could be anywhere, nowhere, any city in any country and it wouldn't matter because she's not in it.

I swipe open our messages instead, scrolling up through the conversation from this morning. Her texts are peppered with emojis, little updates about her day: coffee spilled on my keyboard, boss is being weird, miss you miss you miss you. I read them all again, lingering on the ones where she tells me what she'd do if she were here, the ones that trail off with ...anyway, get some sleep, rockstar because she knows I have a show. I read them until I have them memorized, until I can almost hear her saying the words, until the ache in my chest gets so bad I have to set the phone down.

My thumb hovers over the call button. Just hearing her breathe would be enough. Just knowing she's there, on the other end, existing in the same moment as me. But the little text under her name says she was active three hours ago, which means she's definitely asleep now, or deep in some project at work, and the thought of sending another message that goes unanswered for hours makes my chest feel tight in a way I don't want to think about right now. The silence of this room feels heavier than it should. I miss her laugh. I miss the way she hums when she's concentrating. I miss the specific weight of her head on my chest.

"Fuck," I whisper to the empty room, and my voice sounds wrong, too loud, too alone.

I roll over, burying my face in the pillow. It smells like industrial detergent, nothing like her shampoo, nothing like home. The sheets are scratchy and too tucked-in, hospital corners that make me feel like I'm sleeping in a coffin. I kick them loose, then pull them back up, then kick them off again. My skin feels too small, too hot, like electricity is arcing just under the surface. I keep reaching for her in my sleep, my hand finding empty mattress, and waking up confused and cold.

I need to sleep. We have a six AM lobby call and the bus ride to the next city is eight hours of sitting still, which will be hell if I'm running on three hours of restless dozing. Eight hours of watching the landscape blur past and thinking about how many miles are between me and her, how many states, how many hours.

It's far too hot in here, the AC unit rattling against the window but not actually cooling anything. I kick the sheets completely off and lie there in just my boxers, staring at the water-stained ceiling, my skin prickling with leftover stage adrenaline and something else, something that's been building since I woke up this morning. Loneliness, I think. Plain and simple. The kind that sits in your stomach and makes everything else feel hollow.

I'm hard already. I've been half-hard since the encore, since the crowd noise hit that peak frequency that always leaves me jittery and overstimulated. But it's not the same. The crowd isn't her. The applause isn't her voice. The hands reaching up from the front row aren't her hands, and I keep looking for her face in the audience even though I know she's not there, she'll never be there on this tour, and the disappointment hits fresh every single night.

Now, alone in this anonymous room with the highway noise humming outside, it's impossible to ignore. I want her. Not just her sex, though god knows I want that too. I want her here. I want her laugh filling this empty space. I want her cold feet against my legs under the covers. I want to complain about the scratchy sheets and have her agree, have her steal all the blankets and lay on my chest, have her exist in this room with me so it stops feeling like a tomb.

I reach down and palm myself through the cotton, groaning at the contact. It's been weeks. Weeks of shared hotel rooms and bus bunks and venue bathrooms with no privacy, weeks of being wound tight and unable to do anything about it. My balls ache, heavy and full, and even the light pressure of my own hand makes my hips jerk upward involuntarily. But it's not relief I'm chasing. It's her. It's the memory of her, the ghost of her, anything to fill this silence.

"Fuck," I whisper, squeezing harder.

I should just get off quick. Rub one out, take a shower, try to sleep. But quick isn't going to cut it. I can tell by the way my heart is hammering in my chest, by the restless energy crawling under my skin, by the fact that I'm already leaking enough to darken the fabric. And I know, even as I think it, that I'm not going to be able to finish thinking about nothing, thinking about no one. I need her. I need something of her.

I sit up and reach for my backpack, the one I keep by the bed with my essentials: my laptop, chargers, notebook, the little pharmacy of over-the-counter drugs I've accumulated. Melatonin. I need melatonin. My hands are shaking slightly as I unzip the front pocket, digging past receipts and guitar picks and a half-empty bottle of hand sanitizer. My fingers brush against something hard and rectangular.

The camcorder.

I pull it out and stare at it in the dim light filtering through the hotel curtains. The silver casing is scratched, the little screen still flipped shut, that faded band sticker peeling more than it was when she found it in the box. My heart starts pounding immediately, a heavy thud against my ribs that has nothing to do with caffeine or adrenaline. It has to do with the fact that this is all I have of her. This is all I get until the tour ends, until I can hold her again, until I can smell her hair and feel her heartbeat against my palm.

I know what's on this.

I found the battery charger in my parents' house before I left, packed it without really thinking, telling myself it was just in case, just backup, just practical. But I knew. I've known every night since I left her standing on the sidewalk outside of our apartment three weeks ago, waving until we couldn't see each other anymore. Three weeks. It feels like three years. It feels like I've been carrying her absence in my pockets, heavy as a fucking brick.

I should sleep. I should take the melatonin and close my eyes and think about literally anything else. New music, setlists, lyrics, whether my guitar needs new strings.

Instead, I pop the battery compartment open. The little green light blinks awake when I click it into place, fully charged, ready.

My mouth goes dry.

I shouldn't. I told myself I wouldn't do this every night, that I'd save it for when I really needed it, that I wouldn't let myself become dependent on a recording when I have the real thing waiting for me, missing me, hopefully touching herself and thinking of me at this exact moment in some parallel timeline where the hours align. But the real thing is two thousand miles away, and I'm here, and the loneliness is swallowing me whole, and I need to see her. I need to remember what it feels like to be known.

But I'm already pressing the power button. The screen flickers to life, that mechanical hum filling the silent room like a secret.

The date stamp still reads JAN 1 2019, blinking, wrong. But I don't care about the date. I navigate to the playback menu, my thumb hovering over the thumbnail that shows a freeze-frame of her. Hair spread on the pillow, her mouth open in a gasp I can already hear in my memory.

The audio hits me first. That wet sound, intimate and unmistakable, the sound of my mouth on her, of her body responding to me. Then the image resolves, her thighs spread, my shoulders between them, the curve of her back arching off our bed.

"Oh god," I breathe, and my free hand is already moving, pressing against the hard outline of my cock through my boxers.

I watch myself lick her on the small screen, watch her hands tangle in my hair, her hips bucking against my face. She sounds good, so good, these high, desperate whines that I didn't fully register at the moment but now, hearing them isolated through the camcorder's tiny speaker, make my stomach clench with want. But it's not just want. It's grief. The desperate, aching knowledge that this is past, this is gone, this is a moment we had and won't have again until I'm home, until the tour ends, until the miles between us shrink down to nothing.

My cock throbs against my stomach, straining against my boxers. I push the waistband down and take myself in hand, hissing at the contact of skin on skin. I'm already fully hard, flushed dark and leaking steadily, the head slick with precum. I give myself a slow, experimental stroke from base to tip, my grip loose, teasing, and my hips buck upward immediately, seeking more friction.

"Shit," I breathe.

On the screen, she's whimpering, these high, desperate sounds that I can feel in my teeth. I tighten my grip, matching the rhythm of my past self's tongue on her, my hand moving in long, slow pulls that make my stomach muscles clench. I'm already so sensitive, so ready, that every stroke sends sparks up my spine. But I keep thinking about how far away she is, how I can't touch her, how this recording is all I have, and the pleasure mixes with something sharp and painful in my chest.

I watch myself crawl up her body on the tape, my face shiny in the dim light, and she opens for me, takes me into her mouth with that same expression, eager and overwhelmed and completely trusting. The camera angle shows her face as I slide deeper, her eyes fluttering shut then forcing themselves open to look at the lens. I miss her eyes. I miss the way she looks at me like I'm the only thing in the room, like I'm home.

"Fuck, baby," I whisper, my hand moving faster now, thumb swiping over the head, spreading the wetness there. "Look at you. I miss you so fucking much."

I can hear myself on the tape, my voice rough and breaking, telling her she's good, telling her to take it. The bed creaks. The wet sounds fill the room, louder now because I've turned up the volume, desperate to hear every whimper, every gasp. I want to crawl through the screen. I want to reach into the past and pull her into now, into this lonely room, into my arms where she belongs.

I'm fucking my own hand in earnest now, hips lifting off the mattress to meet each stroke, matching the rhythm of my past self on the screen. The friction is perfect, my grip tight and hot, my palm slick with precum. I watch her take me deep on the tape, tears in her eyes, drool on her chin, and I remember exactly how it felt. The heat of her, the way she moaned around me, the vibration of it traveling up my spine. I remember her hands on my hips, her nails digging in, the way she hummed when I hit the back of her throat.

"God, yes," I pant, my free hand coming up to grip the pillow above my head, my hips snapping upward faster. "Just like that, just like that…"

The camera gets set down on the tape, angled toward us, and now I can see myself enter her, can see her face as I push in slowly, her mouth falling open in that perfect O of pleasure and stretch. I match my strokes to the rhythm on screen, fucking my fist like I'm fucking her, my hips jerking up off the mattress with each thrust. But it's not the same. It's never the same. My hand is cold, and empty compared to her. 

"You're such a good girl for me," my recorded voice says, hoarse and breaking "Such a good girl, taking it so well. Taking all of me…” God, I wish she was here.

My hand is flying now, rough and desperate, my cock slick and hot in my grip. I can feel the orgasm building fast and hard at the base of my spine, a tight heat that's been coiling there for days. My balls draw up, tight and heavy, and I spread my legs wider, bracing my feet against the mattress to get better leverage. I'm chasing it now, chasing the release, chasing the memory of her that will have to be enough because she's not here, she's not here, she's not here.

On the screen, she's getting close too, her head falling back, her thighs clenching around my hips. "Gonna come," she warns, her voice high and broken, and I remember the feel of her clamping down on me, the way she pulsed around my cock. I remember the way she says my name when she comes, like a prayer, like I'm the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

"Come for the camera," I hear myself beg on the tape. "Let me see it, let me film it…"

She arches off the bed with a cry that sounds like my name, her body shaking, her face completely open and vulnerable, and I can't hold back anymore. I come with a groan that sounds like it tears out of my chest, my hips snapping up hard, my cock pulsing in my fist as I spill over my hand, my stomach, the scratchy hotel sheets. It goes on and on, pulse after pulse, my whole body shuddering with the release of tension I've been carrying for days. I keep stroking through it, milking myself, my hand slick and messy, my breath coming in harsh gasps that sound like sobs.

I collapse back against the pillows, my chest heaving, my hand still wrapped loosely around my softening cock. The tape is still playing, showing us cuddling after, showing my face buried in her neck. But I'm already getting hard again just listening to her voice, just remembering the feel of her, and the need is still there, the ache is still there, because coming didn't fix it. Nothing fixes it except her.

I should clean up. I should sleep. The clock says 3:12 now, and the lobby call is looming, hours away but not enough hours, never enough hours. But my body doesn't care about schedules or time zones or the miles I still have to travel before I see her again. My body only knows that it had her, once, and now it doesn't, and the recording is playing again from the top, showing her laughing as I fumble with the camera, showing her pulling her shirt over her head, and I'm already getting hard again, already aching again, and the loneliness feels like it might split me open.

But I don't stop.

I tighten my grip again, slower this time, building back up gradually. I'm sensitive, almost too sensitive, the head of my cock flushed and tender, but the ache is good, the friction perfect. I watch the tape from the beginning again, studying every expression on her face, every arch of her back. My thumb circles the head, spreading the wetness there, teasing the sensitive spot underneath until I'm fully hard again, throbbing in my fist.

The second time takes longer. I edge myself, bringing myself close then backing off, my hips stuttering helplessly against empty air. I think about her hands on me, her mouth, the way she whispers my name when she's close. I think about the weight of her thighs on my shoulders, the exact taste of her, the way she clenches around me when she comes. I think about how she smells, like that vanilla shampoo she uses, like sleep, like home.

"Wanna come home," I whisper to the screen, to the ghost of her on the tape, my voice breaking. "Please, I need to come home. I'm so lonely, baby. I'm so fucking lonely without you."

The words taste like salt. My face is wet, and I don't know when that happened, but I don't stop, I can't stop, I'm chasing something now that isn't just orgasm, it's connection, it's her, it's the feeling of being known and wanted and kept that only exists in this recording and in my memory.

When I finally let myself go over the edge the second time, it's quieter, deeper, a full-body shudder that starts in my toes and works its way up. I come whispering her name into the dark room, my hips jerking in short, helpless thrusts, the last pulses dripping over my fingers, my stomach, making a mess of the sheets. It feels like giving up, like surrender, like admitting that I can't do this without her, that every mile between us is a wound.

I lie there panting, my hand still loosely wrapped around myself, the camcorder humming on the pillow beside me. I'm boneless now, empty in a way that doesn't feel good, just feels like absence. I bring my hand to my face and smell her on my skin, or imagine I do, and I'm already drifting off before I remember to clean up. The tape is still playing, showing us tangled together, showing the ceiling fan spinning above our bed, and I want to crawl into the screen and live there, in that room, in that moment where she still exists beside me.

But instead of sleeping, I reach for my phone.

The screen lights up my face in the dark room, harsh and blue, showing the time, showing the distance, showing all the notifications I haven't checked because none of them are her. I pull up her contact again, our message thread, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I know she's asleep. I know she won't see this until morning, that the time difference makes this a ridiculous hour to be texting anyone. I know I'll probably wake her, or she'll wake up confused, worried, and I hate that I'm doing this, hate that I need her this much, hate that I can't just be okay alone like I'm supposed to be.

I type it anyway, my fingers clumsy with post-orgasm languor and something else, something that feels like desperation:

i miss you so much it hurts

I stare at it for a long moment, the cursor blinking, the blue light making my eyes water. Then I add:

just watched the tape. twice. i love you so much. can’t wait to come home to you.

I hit send and set the phone face-down on the nightstand, the screen still glowing faintly against the wood like a nightlight, like a promise. I tuck the camcorder back into my backpack, in the pocket with my passport, where I promised her I'd keep it. Where it will be safe. Where I can reach for it again tomorrow night, and the night after, until I'm home with her and can make new memories, new tapes, new reasons to miss each other.

I close my eyes and sleep comes finally, heavy and dreamless, her voice still echoing in my ears, her ghost still warm in the bed beside me.

We're on the bed, propped up against the headboard with pillows stacked behind us, my back pressed flush against Cameron's chest. The afternoon light filters through the curtains in thick, honey-colored stripes, catching the dust motes and turning them golden as they drift through the air. The full-length mirror hangs on the wall directly across from the foot of the bed, positioned perfectly to catch us both in its frame. Our reflection clear and unavoidable, every movement mirrored back at us.

His right hand has been between my legs for what feels like hours, though it's probably only been twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of slow and deliberate torture, two fingers working deep and steady, curling just enough to brush that spot inside me that makes my breath hitch and my toes curl. I'm soaked, embarrassingly so, and he hasn't stopped commenting on it, his voice low and conversational against my ear like he's discussing something mundane while his fingers ruin me.

"You're dripping," he murmurs now, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. I feel the vibration of his voice more than hear the words, my whole body attuned to every point of contact between us. His fingers slide out slow, deliberately, and I whine at the loss, my hips chasing his hand, trying to keep him inside me. He ignores me, bringing those same fingers to his mouth to suck them clean, watching my face in the mirror the whole time. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and when he pulls his fingers out with a wet sound that makes me flush darker, he smiles, all crooked and knowing.

"Tastes good, too," he says, and then he's turning my face toward him, his hand sliding from my jaw to cup the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss that's deep and slow and devastating. His tongue slides against mine, tasting me, tasting himself, and I moan into his mouth, my hand coming up to grip his wrist. When we break apart, he's breathing harder, his forehead resting against mine for a moment before he guides my face back toward the mirror.

"Don't look away," he reminds me, his voice gentle but insistent. "I want you to see what I see."

I whimper, the sound high and needy in the quiet room. My left hand has found his knee, gripping tight, but my right hand has been wandering, restless and seeking. I can feel him against my lower back, hard and obvious even through the layers of his jeans and my thin cotton dress. Every time I shift, even slightly, I feel the length of him press more firmly against me, and it's making me dizzy.

I reach back with my right hand, fumbling for the button of his jeans, but he catches my wrist before I can get there. His left hand, which had been resting on my hip, moves to intercept me, fingers circling my wrist and pulling my hand away from his body and back to my own thigh.

"Uh-uh," he says softly, his mouth still at my ear. He presses a kiss to my temple, lingering there, his breath warm. Then his lips trail down, finding the curve of my neck, and he sucks, soft at first, then harder, drawing the skin into his mouth until I'm gasping, my head falling to the side to give him better access. "No, baby. This is about you."

"But I want," I start, my voice rough and broken already, and he makes a soft shushing sound against my throat, his teeth grazing the spot he just sucked, his hand on my wrist guiding my palm to rest on my own knee instead.

"I know what you want, know what you need," he murmurs, and there's a smile in his voice, fond and teasing. He kisses his way up my neck, finds my jaw, nips at the corner of my mouth before turning my face toward him again for another slow, deep kiss. His tongue slides against mine, lazy and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world. When we break apart, his eyes are dark, his lips swollen. "But I want to watch you. I've been thinking about it all day. How you'd look, all spread out and pretty, trying not to come while I tell you how gorgeous you are." His hand leaves my wrist and slides back up my thigh, fingers trailing fire along my skin. "Can you give that to me? Can you let me have this?"

I nod, helpless, already acquiescing because he asked so sweetly. He rewards me by shifting his hips slightly, grinding his erection more firmly against my back, and I gasp at the pressure. But then his hands are moving, both of them, sliding under my dress to hook into the waistband of my underwear.

"Lift up," he whispers against my ear, and I do, just enough for him to work my panties down my thighs, my knees, pulling them off completely and tossing them aside. I'm bare now under my dress, exposed and vulnerable, and he makes a soft sound of approval, his hands sliding back up my legs, spreading my thighs wider, holding me open.

"Good girl," he whispers, and then his right hand is moving again, reaching for the little silver bullet on the nightstand. I watch in the mirror as he retrieves it, as he holds it up where I can see it, his left hand still spread against my inner thigh, keeping me open, keeping me exposed. "You know what this is?"

I nod again, my throat too tight to speak. The vibrator is small, sleek, innocent-looking, but I know exactly what it can do.

"Say it," he prompts, teasing. He leans in, his mouth finding my neck again, sucking another dark mark into my skin while his left hand holds me steady, holds me open. I can feel the pull of it, the heat spreading under my skin, and I gasp, my head falling back against his shoulder. "Use your words, sweetheart."

"Vibrator," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper, and he hums against my throat, satisfied, his teeth grazing the fresh hickey before he pulls back to look at me in the mirror.

"Good. And where does it go?"

I whine, high and frustrated, my hips lifting slightly off the bed in invitation. "Cam, please,"

"Where?" he insists, softer but firm, and he brings the toy to my inner thigh, presses it there just below where I need it, the vibrations traveling through my skin in maddening waves. His left hand keeps me spread, his fingers digging slightly into my skin, holding me open for him, for the mirror, for everything. "Tell me where you want it."

"My," I swallow hard, my face burning as I watch myself in the mirror, my legs spread wide, his hands holding me open, his mouth already working on another spot on my neck, sucking hard, marking me. "My clit. Please, my clit…"

"There's my girl," he murmurs, approving, and he finally, finally, presses the toy against me, no barrier now, the vibration concentrated and shocking. I cry out, my back arching, my head trying to fall back, but his mouth is still on my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point, his right hand keeping the vibrator pressed firm against me.

"Don't look away," he reminds me, his voice rough against my skin. He pulls back from my neck, his chin wet from kissing me, his eyes dark and focused. He turns my face toward him again, kisses me hard and deep, his tongue sliding against mine in rhythm with the vibrator, and when we break apart he's breathing hard, his forehead against mine. "I want you to see. Look how pretty you are."

I force my eyes open, forced to stare at my own wrecked reflection. My hair is tangled, spread across his shoulder in dark waves. My lips are parted, swollen from his mouth, my cheeks flushed a deep pink that spreads down my neck and chest. I can see the marks he's left, dark and blooming on my throat, my shoulder, claiming me. His left hand is still spread against my inner thigh, holding me open, fingers digging into my skin, while his right hand works the vibrator slow and maddening.

"Feel that?" he asks, his hips canting forward slightly, grinding himself against my lower back in a slow, deliberate roll. I can feel how hard he is, the length of him pressing insistently through the denim. "Feel what you do to me? Just from sitting here, letting me play with you?"

I nod, frantic, my hips rolling up toward the toy, but he pulls it back just enough to deny me, circling my inner thigh instead, the vibrations teasing and indirect. His mouth finds my neck again, sucking another mark, his teeth grazing the skin, and I whimper, my hand finding his hair and tangling there.

"So impatient," he tsks, his mouth curving against my shoulder. He kisses his way up my neck, finds my mouth again, his tongue sliding against mine slow and deep, his hand still holding me open, exposed. When we break apart, his eyes are dark, his breath hitching slightly when I grind back against him. "You're not usually this whiny, are you? Just because I'm taking my time?"

"Cameron," I breathe, and it's a whine now, high and needy, my hand finding his knee and gripping tight. "Please, I need,"

"What do you need?" He brings the vibrator back, presses it firm for three perfect seconds right where I need it, and my eyes roll back, my mouth falling open on a silent gasp. He takes advantage, his mouth finding mine again, his tongue sliding against mine, swallowing my sounds. When we break apart, he's smiling, his thumb tracing my swollen lower lip. "This? Or do you need to come? Because you're not ready yet. You're not there."

"I am," I insist, desperate, bucking my hips, and he laughs, low and warm, vibrating against my spine. He turns my face toward him again, kisses me deep and slow, his hand still holding the vibrator against me, and when we break apart he's breathing harder, his eyes dark.

"You're not," he contradicts softly, clicking the toy up a notch. The buzz fills the room, louder now. His mouth finds my neck again, sucking another mark, his left hand spreading me wider, holding me open for the toy, for his eyes, for the mirror. "You're close, but you're holding back. I can feel it. You're thinking too much."

My right hand wanders again, sliding back behind me, searching for him, for the button of his jeans. I want to feel him, want to wrap my hand around him and make him feel as crazy as I do. But he catches my wrist again, his left hand leaving my thigh for just a moment to intercept me, to pull my hand back to my own body.

"No, baby," he repeats, gentler this time, his fingers threading through mine and squeezing. He brings my hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to my palm, then to my wrist where my pulse is hammering. "This is about you. Let me give you this. Let me take care of you."

"But you," I try to protest, my voice cracking, and he turns my face toward him, kisses me again, deep and slow and devastating, his tongue sliding against mine until I'm breathless. When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine, his eyes meeting mine, dark and serious.

"I'm fine," he murmurs, his lips brushing mine as he speaks. "I'm better than fine. I'm exactly where I want to be." He kisses me again, softer this time, a brush of lips. "Just focus on feeling good. Can you do that for me?"

I nod, helpless, and he rewards me by pressing the vibrator firmer, by grinding his hips up against my back in a slow, steady rhythm. His mouth finds my neck again, sucking another mark, his teeth grazing the skin, and I gasp, my hand gripping my own thigh hard enough to leave marks.

"Look at yourself," he prompts, his voice dropping lower, honey-sweet. He pulls back from my neck, his chin wet, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "Look at those marks. Look how pretty you are, all marked up and spread open for me."

I shake my head, or try to, but his right hand tightens on my jaw, keeping me still, keeping me looking. The vibrator presses closer and I moan, the sound breaking in the middle. He leans in, his mouth finding mine again, his tongue sliding against mine, swallowing my sounds, and when we break apart he's smiling, his thumb tracing my swollen lower lip.

"Come on," he coaxes, cruel and gentle at the same time. "Two words. Not hard."

"I, " My voice cracks. "I can't…"

"You can." He clicks the toy higher, the buzz intense now, and my hips jerk up involuntarily. His erection is insistent against my back, a hard line of pressure, and when I grind back against him he groans, his hand faltering on my face for just a second. He recovers, his mouth finding my neck again, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the skin. "Fuck, see? You don't even have to try. Just sitting here, whining, and you're wrecking me. Now say it."

"I'm pretty," I gasp out, desperate, but he shakes his head, clicking the vibrator down again to the lowest setting, the change so sudden that I actually cry out in frustration. He turns my face toward him, kisses me deep and slow, his tongue sliding against mine, and when we break apart he's breathing hard, his eyes dark.

"Nope," he says, almost sing-song, his thumb tracing my cheekbone while his left hand holds the toy just barely against me. "Not like that. Like you believe it. Like you're not just saying it because you're dripping and desperate and three seconds from crying."

"I am," I whine, and I hate how high my voice sounds, how needy and broken. He kisses me again, softer this time, his lips brushing mine, his tongue teasing against my lower lip.

"You're what?" He brings the toy back up, circles it slow, watching my face in the mirror with an intensity that makes my skin burn. His mouth finds my neck again, sucking another mark, his hand spreading me wider, holding me open. "You're pretty? Is that what you were going to say?"

I nod, frantic, my hips rolling in tight circles, chasing the sensation. I'm so close, have been for so long, hovering on the edge while he plays with me. He pulls back from my neck, turns my face toward him again, and kisses me, deep and slow and devastating, his tongue sliding against mine in rhythm with the vibrator, and when we break apart we're both breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together.

"Say it louder," he murmurs, his mouth at my ear, breath hot and uneven. He's not as composed as he pretends to be; I can hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his hips keep canting up against my back. "Let me hear you mean it."

"I'm pretty," I choke out, and my voice shakes, tears actually pricking at my eyes from the frustration and the pleasure and the overwhelming intimacy. "I'm pretty, I'm,"

"Again," he interrupts, soft but firm, and clicks the vibrator higher. His hips grind up against my back, his own control fraying at the edges. He turns my face toward him, kisses me hard and deep, his tongue sliding against mine, and when we break apart his eyes are dark, his lips swollen. "Mean it this time. Look at yourself and mean it."

"Pretty," I gasp out, my voice cracking, my whole body arching into his hands. "I'm pretty, I'm pretty, please…"

"There she is," he murmurs, finally approving, his voice rough with his own restraint. The vibrator presses in hard, right where I need it, and his hand slides from my jaw to tangle in my hair, pulling my head back gently so I have to see myself come apart. "There's my girl. Now you can come."

The orgasm rolls through me in waves, my breath catching in my throat, my body shaking against him in silence at first, then a broken, breathy moan spills out, high and helpless, my fingers clawing at his thighs behind me. He keeps the toy pressed there, keeps me riding it, his hips still grinding against my back in rhythm with my aftershocks, his mouth finding my neck again, sucking one last mark, his teeth grazing the skin.

When I finally go limp against him, trembling and spent, he clicks the vibrator off and drops it on the nightstand. His arms come around my waist, pulling me back more firmly against his chest, and I can feel how hard he still is, can feel the tension in his body from holding back.

I reach back again, my hand fumbling for his jeans, wanting to return the favor. But this time, instead of stopping me, he catches my wrist and guides my hand forward, pressing my palm against the bulge in his jeans, letting me feel how much he wants this.

"Yeah?" he murmurs against my ear, his voice rough and low, his hips canting up into my touch. "You want to take care of me now?"

I nod, turning my head to try to kiss him, and he meets me halfway, his mouth finding mine over my shoulder, his tongue sliding against mine slow and deep. When we break apart, he's breathing harder, his hand still tangled in mine, guiding me to pop the button of his jeans, to pull down the zipper, to slide my hand inside and wrap my fingers around him.

He's hot and heavy in my grip, impossibly hard, and I start to stroke him, my rhythm unsteady from the aftershocks still coursing through my body. But then he covers my hand with his own, slowing me down, guiding my movements until I'm stroking him slow and deliberate, my grip loose and teasing.

"Like this," he whispers, his forehead dropping to rest against my shoulder, his eyes still open and watching in the mirror. "Slow. Want to feel you. Want to watch you touch me."

I follow his lead, my hand moving in the rhythm he's setting, slow pulls from base to tip, my thumb circling the head on every upstroke. He's groaning now, low and continuous, his hips rolling up into my grip, his hand still covering mine, adjusting the pressure, showing me exactly what he likes.

"That's it," he breathes, his voice strained, his body tense against my back. He turns his head, finds my mouth with his, and kisses me deep and slow, his tongue sliding against mine in rhythm with my hand. When we break apart, he's panting against my lips. "Just like that, baby. So good. Your hand feels so good."

I watch us in the mirror fascinated, my hand wrapped around him, his covering mine, guiding me. His face is wrecked, his eyes dark and unfocused, his mouth slightly open as he pants against my shoulder. I can feel him getting close, feel the way his thighs tense beneath me, the way his grip on my hand tightens.

"Don't stop," he whispers, and it's almost a plea, his hips stuttering up into my grip. He turns my face toward him again, kisses me hard and deep, his tongue sliding against mine, and when we break apart his eyes are dark, his breath coming in gasps. "Just like that. Slow. Want to feel it. Want to feel you make me come."

I keep the rhythm steady, my hand moving slow and deliberate, watching his face in the mirror as he falls apart. He's beautiful like this, unfocused, desperate, all his careful control stripped away. His hand tightens on mine, showing me to grip harder, to twist slightly on the upstroke, and he groans, loud and broken, his whole body going rigid against my back.

"Fuck," he chokes out, his hips jerking up once, twice, and then he's coming, spilling over my fingers, his body convulsing against mine as he rides it out. I keep stroking him through it, slow and gentle now, until he whimpers, oversensitive, his hand squeezing mine to stop me.

I turn my head, find his mouth with mine, and kiss him deep and slow, my hand still wrapped around him, feeling him pulse and soften against my palm. When we break apart, he's smiling, lazy and satisfied, his eyes dark and fond, his mouth finding mine again for one last soft kiss.

"Good?" I ask, echoing his earlier question, and he laughs, warm and breathless, his arms wrapping tight around my waist, his lips brushing my jaw, my neck, the marks he left there.

“...I don’t know, I just don't understand why people are so stupid. It’s like, obviously, if I agreed to swap shifts with him, then he would take mine, like you wanted a different day, you still have to show up on that fucking day.” I pause to take a sip of my water, and in my rant, I notice that Cameron has stopped responding. “Cam? You ok?”

He looks tired in a way that goes deeper than tired, like it’s sitting in his bones. His hands are folded tightly in his lap, fingers pressing into each other like he’s trying not to fidget. I’ve seen him tired before. This isn’t that.

“Have you been eating enough?” I ask without thinking too hard about it. That makes something flicker across his face, quick and guarded.

“I’m fine,” he says, but it comes out quieter than usual.

I watch him for a second longer than I usually would, and it clicks in a way that makes my chest feel strangely soft. My poor baby is starving. 

I shift a little closer, so I’m actually looking at him properly. “Cameron…” I start, and he tenses like he’s been caught. “You could’ve just asked.”

“I didn’t want to take advantage,” he says carefully, like each word is something fragile. He says it like he’s been carrying it alone for a while.

I reach for his arm before I even think about it. He doesn’t pull away. “You’re not taking advantage,” I say, firmer now, because I mean it. “If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t say yes.”

He looks at me for a long moment like he’s trying to decide if I’m serious. It almost hurts how unsure he is about it. “I don’t want to be too much,” he admits finally, voice barely there. 

“Oh Cam…” I say sympathetically, tilting my head slightly as I furrow my eyebrows at him. “You could never be too much.” I brush his arm softly, scooting closer to me

“I’m just so scared of hurting you.” His eyes meet mine as he looks up, and he looks terrible. His eyes are glassy, and he looks like he’s on the verge of tears. I know he doesn’t need as much sleep as everyone else, but he looks completely worn out. 

“Cam, how long have you needed to, you know…” I trail off, and he looks away, not saying anything. “Wait, have you not fed since the last time? Baby, that was like 3 weeks ago, that’s too long.”

“Ok, maybe, but you were on your period, and I didn’t want you to get like, I don’t know…” He trails off, looking down as he quiets. 

“Anemic? You don’t need to worry about that. I can eat a steak or something.” I let go of one of his hands, bringing mine up to his face and caressing him gently. “You need to take care of yourself too.” 

He looks back up at me, a tired smile resting on his face. “You make it really hard to argue with you.” He murmurs, knocking his forehead against mine. 

“Good.” I whisper, kissing him gently. 

His smile softens for a second, tired and fond, before it fades into something more hesitant. I can feel the shift immediately. The uncertainty creeping back in now that this is actually happening.

My thumb brushes over his cheek gently. “Cam,” I murmur, quieter this time. “It’s ok.”

He nods once, but it’s small and careful. Always careful.

I don’t think he even realizes how tightly wound he is until I slide my hand into his hair and feel him practically melt under it. “There you go,” I whisper softly. “Come here.”

He exhales shakily through his nose before leaning in slowly, like he’s still giving me the chance to stop him even though I’ve made it very clear I won’t. I tilt my head slightly for him, fingers still running through his curls. His hands settle carefully at my waist, almost tentative, like he’s afraid holding me too tightly might break something.

He tugs my shirt to the side, nuzzling his face into my neck as he lays me back on the couch. I can feel his breath on me, nose brushing against my skin as he takes me in. I’m not sure that I would do this for anyone else. He plants soft kisses on my collarbones, and I dig my fingers in his hair. “Cammy, that tickles…” 

I feel his chest move against mine as he giggles. “Oh, I’m so sorry angel.” He says teasingly, rolling his eyes. 

I let out a soft sigh as I feel his teeth sink into me, just above my collarbone. It’s strangely intimate, an act this tiring yet fulfilling. It feels a bit like the first time you have sex with someone who truly understands you. It’s deep but soft. Even in his desperation and need, he still handles me so carefully. The initial sting fades quickly, much quicker than last time, and for a bit, it actually feels kind of good. I whine and tug at his hair as he takes what he needs from me. 

“There you go, doing so good.” I whisper softly. The tension starts leaving his body and it’s evident in the way his shoulders relax, the way his grip on my hips softens from nearly desperate to something more relaxed. My fingers keep moving through his hair, pulling gently. 

He exhales shakily against my skin, and the sound alone tells me how exhausted he must’ve been. By the time he finally pulls away, it’s slow and reluctant.

His forehead drops against my chest as he breathes deeply for a second, and I swear I can feel him melting into me now that the edge has finally been taken off.

“Hi,” I murmur gently.

A tired laugh leaves him, muffled against me. “Hi.”

I smile, brushing some curls away from his face. He already looks better. Less pale. His eyes aren’t nearly as glassy now.

“There he is,” I whisper fondly. “You look much less sick now. Do you feel better?”

He looks up and kisses me gently, and I can faintly taste my blood on his tongue. It’s kind of hot. “Much better.” He pulls away from me, his expression shifting immediately. “You need to eat something.”

I stare at him for a second before laughing softly. “Cameron…”

“I’m serious.” He pushes himself up onto one elbow, still hovering over me protectively. “You need iron.” I open my mouth to protest, but he shuts that down right away. “Shut up, I’m gonna make you spinach, and you’re gonna eat it.” 

“Okay, whatever you say, Dr. Acula.” I can’t help smiling at how genuinely concerned he looks now that he’s not half-delirious from hunger. I am a little glad that he’s so worried, because I do feel slightly dizzy. “You know, usually aftercare involves cuddling…”

He turns his head towards me and smirks. “You know, I think I can arrange that.” 

Yeah, this is definitely worth the blood loss and bruising.