#yankees

bonus: control it, mr jalen "heart eyes" brunson

JOKE-OGRAPHY:

This comic was inspired by my little cousin and goddaughter who chose St. Clare as her confirmation saint. Congratulations!

St. Clare was a contemporary of St. Francis of Assisi (the bird guy, yeah). She was one of his first followers, moved by his lifestyle of radical, joyous poverty in imitation of Christ, and his dedication to the poor and sick. After St. Francis's example, St. Clare founded and wrote the monastic rules for her own order, the Order of Poor Ladies (later called the Poor Clares, after her). These were the first monastic rules known to have been written by a woman!

In this cartoon, I tell a legend about St. Clare that's been passed down for ages. The vision on the wall made her a patron saint of extrasensory perception, which is pretty esoteric for a Catholic patronage. In the 1900s, she was also declared the patron of television and computer screens, once the Church saw the evangelical power of new media. Screens are powerful portals of both good and evil, so it's good to have a saint looking out for them, even if she died WAY before they were invented. Maybe St. Carlo Acutis can explain them to her now. Buddy-patron series when?

⸻

The first thing you notice is how different Cam looks when baseball isn't dictating his life.

He's sprawled out on the towel next to yours, one arm thrown over his eyes to block the sun, his other hand resting on his stomach. His hair's messy from the saltwater, sticking up in the back, and there's sand dusted across his shoulder. His breathing is slow and even, like he might actually fall asleep right here on this quiet stretch of beach in Turks and Caicos. That alone feels like a small miracle.

During the season, Cam runs on a clock. Every day is mapped out down to the hour, wake up, work out, eat, stretch, throw, review film, sleep, repeat. You've watched him set alarms for naps and turn down dinner invitations because his routine doesn't bend for spontaneity.

But here, there's no schedule. No bullpen sessions or reporters or pressure. It's just the two of you with an entire week and nowhere to be.

He'd slept until ten this morning and when he finally rolled over to find you already awake, scrolling through your phone, he'd smiled and pulled you back down into the sheets. You'd ordered room service for breakfast and eaten it on the balcony in your pajamas while the ocean glittered below. He'd kissed your shoulder and said, "We should do this more often."

You'd agreed.

Now it's late afternoon, and you've been at the beach for hours. The sun is golden and gentle, the kind of light that sinks into your skin and makes you feel lazy in the best way. A few other people dot the sand, but it's quiet. Private. Peaceful.

Cam shifts beside you, and you glance over.

He's not sleeping. He's watching you.

You catch his eyes just before he looks away, and something about how quickly he does it makes you pause. He reaches for the water bottle between your towels like that's what he was doing the whole time, but you saw the way his gaze had been resting on you, steady and focused, a little too intense for a lazy beach day.

"You're staring," you say, propping yourself up on one elbow.

Cam takes a sip of water, his expression unreadable. "I'm allowed."

"At what?"

He sets the bottle down and looks at you again, and this time he doesn't look away.

"You."

It's such a simple answer, but the way he says it makes your stomach flip. There's weight behind it, something simmering under the surface that wasn't there this morning.

You laugh, trying to shake off the sudden warmth in your chest. "I've been here the whole time, Cam."

"I know."

He says it quietly, almost like he's admitting something, and then he leans back on his towel and closes his eyes. But you can tell he's not relaxed his jaw is tight, his fingers drumming once against his thigh before he stills them.

That's when you realize he's been quiet today. Not in a bad way, not distant or upset, just... quiet. The kind that means he's thinking too hard about something he's not saying.

You let it go for now and lie back down, but you're suddenly aware of him in a way you weren't before. The space between your towels feels smaller. Every time you shift or stretch or reach for your phone, you can feel his attention on you like something tangible.

⸻

An hour later, you get up to go into the water, and Cam follows without a word.

You just stand, brush the sand off your legs, and start walking toward the ocean. When you glance back, he's already on his feet.

The water is perfect warm and clear, the kind of blue that doesn't look real. You get in up to your waist, then dive under, letting the salt wash over you.

When you surface, Cam is a few feet away, watching you.

"What?" you ask, smoothing your hair back.

He shakes his head, smiling a little. "Nothing."

But it's not nothing. You can see it in the way he's looking at you, like he's trying to commit this moment to memory.

A wave rolls in, and you brace yourself, laughing as it lifts you off your feet for a second. Cam moves closer, his hands finding your waist to steady you, and suddenly the playful moment shifts into something else entirely.

You're chest deep in the water now, far enough from shore that no one's nearby. His hands stay on your waist, his thumb brushing the skin just above your swimsuit line, and the touch is so deliberate it makes your breath catch.

"You know what you're doing, right?" he says, his voice lower than before.

You tilt your head, playing innocent. "I'm swimming."

His mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. "Sure."

He's close enough now that you can see the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than it should. For a second, you think he's going to kiss you. His eyes drop to your mouth, and his grip on your waist tightens just slightly—

And then someone laughs loudly from the beach. A jet ski roars past in the distance. Cam pulls back not far, but just enough. His jaw tightens, and he lets out a slow breath through his nose, like he's forcing himself to behave.

"Come on," he says, his voice rough. "Let's go back."

⸻

Back on the sand, the tension doesn't break. If anything, it gets worse.

Cam stays calm about it, which somehow makes it more unbearable. He's not obvious, not doing anything anyone else would notice. But you notice.

His hand settles on your lower back as you walk to the towels, palm warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress. When he hands you a drink from the cooler, his thumb brushes your hip and lingers just a second too long.

When you pull the cover up over your head, his eyes follow you the way his gaze drags over your shoulders, your waist, your legs before he looks away and takes a long drink of his beer makes your pulse skip.

Later, when you bend down to grab your sunglasses from the beach bag, he goes completely still. His hand tightens around the bottle.

It's maddening.

The worst part? He's not even trying to hide it anymore. Every time you catch him looking, he holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary, like he's daring you to say something.

So you do.

You wait until you're sitting next to him under the cabana at the beach bar, the sun starting to dip lower in the sky, everything bathed in gold. He's nursing a drink, eyes on the horizon, and you finally call him out.

"You've been quiet today."

Cam glances at you, then back at his glass. "Have I?"

"Yeah."

He shrugs, but there's something deliberate about the casualness of it. "Didn't realize."

"Is something wrong?"

That makes him pause. He sets his drink down and reaches for your hand, fingers curling around yours. When he lifts your knuckles to his mouth and presses a kiss there, it's so gentle it almost makes you forget the tension from earlier.

Almost.

"Nothing's wrong," he says quietly.

You wait for him to continue.

He sighs, thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand. "I just like looking at you."

The honesty in his voice makes your chest tighten, but before you can respond, he keeps going.

"You look happy here. Relaxed. I don't get to see you like this enough."

God, that shouldn't hit you as hard as it does.

He's right, though. During the season, you're both always moving, always busy, always trying to fit your lives around his schedule. Here, there's no rush. No pressure. Just the two of you, and the ocean, and all the time in the world.

"Cam," you start, but he's not done.

His gaze drops just for a second to your mouth, then lower, to where the strap of your swimsuit peeks out from under the wrap. When his eyes meet yours again, there's a heat in them that wasn't there before.

"And I've been trying to be good about it," he adds, his voice rougher now.

Your pulse kicks up. "Trying?"

Cam leans closer, and the air between you feels charged, heavy with everything he's been holding back all day.

"Trying really hard."

The words land like a match struck in the dark, and suddenly you understand everything.

He hasn't been quiet because something's wrong. He's been quiet because he's been holding himself back all day wrestling with the need to touch you, forcing his hands to stay to himself in public, pushing through every moment when all he wanted was to pull you somewhere private and show you exactly what's been on his mind.

You can't stop looking at him now the tension coiled in his shoulders, his fingers tightening around his glass, the hunger in his eyes as they keep drifting back to you like he can't help himself.

"We should head back," you say softly.

His gaze sharpens, and for a moment, he doesn't move. Then he nods, drains the rest of his drink in one swallow, and stands.

He offers you his hand.

When you take it, you feel the barely restrained control in the way his fingers close around yours.

⸻

The walk back to the villa feels longer than it should.

You don't say much to each other. The silence between you is thick and heavy, charged with anticipation.

The sun has dipped low enough that the sky is painted in shades of orange and pink, but you barely notice. All you can focus on is the warmth of Cam's palm against your lower back, steady and possessive through the thin fabric of your cover up.

His touch isn't casual anymore. There's intention behind it his fingers spread wide, his thumb brushing against your spine with every step.

You try to focus on the path ahead, the ocean behind you, anything other than the way your body is hyperaware of every point of contact between you. 

But it's impossible.

Cam is right there, close enough that his arm brushes yours. You can smell the salt and sunscreen on his skin. When you glance up at him, you can see the tension in his jaw.

He's not looking at you, though. His eyes are fixed straight ahead, like he's concentrating on something, and that somehow makes it worse.

Because you know exactly what he's concentrating on. You know he's counting down the seconds until you're alone.

You reach the private path that leads to your villa, and there's no one else around now just the two of you, the fading light, and the sound of your sandals on the stone walkway.

"You're still quiet," you say, trying to break the silence.

Cam's hand tightens on your back, and he finally looks at you. The intensity in his eyes makes your stomach flip.

"Not for long," he says, his voice low and rough.

The promise in those three words sends heat flooding through you, and suddenly you're walking faster, your pulse racing as the villa comes into view. Cam keeps pace with you easily, his hand never leaving your back, and when you reach the door, he pulls out the key.

His hands are steady as he unlocks it, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing has gone just slightly uneven. He pushes the door open and steps back to let you in first, ever the gentleman, but the second you cross the threshold, everything changes.

The door closes behind you with a soft click, and then Cam is there his hands on your waist, spinning you around to face him.

You barely have time to register the look in his eyes before his mouth is on yours.

This kiss is nothing like the sweet, lazy ones from this morning. It's all hunger and need, every ounce of restraint he's been holding onto all day finally snapping. It steals the breath from your lungs, his lips demanding as his tongue slides against yours with a desperation that makes your knees weak. One hand cups the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you, while the other grips your hip hard enough that you feel the pressure of each finger through the fabric.

You make a sound something between a gasp and a moan and Cam swallows it, kissing you deeper, harder, like he's trying to make up for every moment he couldn't touch you today.

The beach bag hits the floor with a dull thud, forgotten.

"Cam—" you start, but he cuts you off with another kiss, somehow even more intense than the last.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he murmurs against your mouth, his voice rough and low. His hands slide down to your thighs, and then he's lifting you, walking you backward until your back hits the wall near the entryway.

The cool surface shocks your sun warmed skin, but it only lasts a second before Cam presses against you, his body hot and solid and everywhere. You feel the hard planes of his chest, the strength in his arms as he holds you up, the way his hips pin yours to the wall.

"All day?" you manage, breathless, your fingers tangling in his hair.

"Since you walked out in that swimsuit," he says, his mouth moving to your neck, kissing and biting the sensitive skin just below your ear. "Since I watched you put sunscreen on. Since you bent over to grab your sunglasses and I had to sit there and pretend I wasn't losing my mind."

His teeth graze your pulse point, and you arch into him, a whimper escaping your throat. Your cover up has ridden up, and his hands are on your bare thighs now, his palms rough and warm as they slide higher.

"You were staring," you say, trying to sound teasing, but it comes out shaky.

"I was." He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heated. "Couldn't help it. You looked too good."

His hand moves to the tie at your waist and tugs it loose with one smooth motion. The fabric falls open, and his gaze drops, taking in the swimsuit underneath the one that's been driving him crazy all day.

"This," he says, his fingers tracing the edge of the fabric at your hip, "has been a problem."

You laugh, but it turns into a gasp when his thumb hooks under the strap and pulls it aside, his mouth following the path his fingers just traced. He kisses your collarbone, your shoulder, the swell of your boob just above the swimsuit's neckline, and every touch feels like fire.

"You okay?" you tease, breathless. "Need a cold shower?"

Cam's hands tighten on your thighs, and he lifts his head to look at you. There's something feral in his expression now, something that makes your pulse stutter.

"Showers are done," he says, his voice rough and low. "Only thing that's gonna help now is you." His thumb digs into the soft flesh of your thigh, possessive and deliberate. "And you knew exactly what you were doing out there. Every time you stretched. Every time you smiled at me like that. You wanted this."

Before you can answer, he's kissing you again, and this time there's no gentleness to it. It's all heat and need and barely controlled desire, and you meet him with the same intensity, your nails scraping against his scalp as you pull him closer.

He makes a low sound in the back of his throat and then he's moving, carrying you away from the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and you feel the flex of his muscles, the way his hands grip you like he's afraid to let go.

He only makes it a few steps before he stops, pressing you against the back of the couch instead. His mouth never leaves yours, and his hands are everywhere sliding up your sides, tangling in your hair, gripping your ass and pulling you tighter against him.

The evidence of his desire is unmistakable, pressing against you through the thin fabric of his swim trunks, and it makes you dizzy with want.

"Cam," you breathe, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.

His hair is a mess from your fingers, his lips swollen, his chest heaving as he takes you in completely wrecked, and you've barely even started.

"You're impatient," you say, trying to catch your breath.

Something flashes in his eyes amusement mixed with heat and he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear.

"I waited," he says, his voice a low rumble that you feel as much as hear. "That was me being patient."

His mouth finds your neck again, and his hands slide up to push your cover up off your shoulders. The fabric pools at your elbows before falling to the floor, leaving you in just your swimsuit.

Cam's hands map every inch of newly exposed skin your shoulders, your arms, your waist like he's been dying to touch you without barriers. His fingers trace the line of your spine, and when you arch into him, he makes that sound again, the one that tells you he's barely holding on.

"Bedroom," you manage between breaths, and he nods, though he doesn't move right away.

Instead, he kisses you again slower this time but no less intense. His tongue slides against yours while his hands cup your face, tilting your head to exactly the angle he wants. It's possessive and tender all at once, and it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are so dark they're nearly black, and he says roughly, "Bedroom."

He sets you down but keeps one hand at your waist while the other tangles with yours, walking you backward through the villa. You barely register the open floor plan or the ocean view through the balcony doors.

All you can focus on is Cam how he's looking at you like you're the only thing that exists, how his thumb strokes your hip, how he keeps stopping every few steps to kiss you again like he can't help himself.

You bump into the doorframe, and Cam steadies you with a hand on your waist, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Careful," he murmurs, but there's heat in his eyes that says he's anything but careful right now.

"Your fault," you shoot back, and he laughs a low, rough sound that makes your toes curl.

"Yeah, it is," he agrees, backing you through the doorway.

The bedroom is bathed in the last golden light of sunset, the sheer curtains billowing slightly from the open balcony doors. You can hear the ocean, smell the salt in the air, feel the lingering warmth of the day.

But all of that fades when Cam's hands slide up your sides again, when his mouth finds yours, when he walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands framing your face.

"Tell me if you want me to slow down," he says, and despite the urgency thrumming through both of you, there's genuine concern in his voice.

You shake your head, your hands sliding up his chest to curl around the back of his neck.

"I don't want you to slow down." The words come out steadier than you expected. "I want you."

Something in his eyes shifts softens and intensifies all at once and then he's kissing you again. This time there's no more stopping, no more waiting.

⸻

Cam's hands move to the straps of your swimsuit, sliding them down your shoulders with a deliberate slowness that contradicts the urgency from moments ago. Now that you're here, now that he finally has you alone, he's savoring every second.

"You have no idea," he murmurs against your lips, his fingers tracing the line where fabric meets skin, "what you do to me."

He kisses you again, deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours as his hands work the swimsuit down your body. The fabric peels away from your skin, and when it falls to the floor, Cam pulls back to look at you.

The way he looks at you makes your breath catch. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something almost reverent in his gaze even as electricity radiates from him.

"So fucking pretty," he says, his voice rough. His hands map your body your shoulders, your boobs, your waist, your hips like he's memorizing every curve. "You were killing me out there today."

"Was I?" you ask, trying for teasing, but it comes out breathless.

"You know you were." His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you gasp. "Stretching out on that towel, coming out of the water with your hair wet and that smile on your face. Looking at me like you didn't know exactly what you were doing."

His lips trail down your throat, across your collarbone, and then lower. He kisses the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple before he takes it into his mouth. The sensation makes your knees weak, and you reach for him, fingers threading through his hair.

"Cam—" you start, but he's already guiding you down onto the bed, his body following yours.

The sheets are cool against your back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his skin as he settles between your thighs. He's still wearing his swim trunks, and you can feel how hard he is through the fabric, the pressure making you ache.

But he doesn't rush. Instead, he kisses your mouth, your jaw, your neck, working his way down your body with a focus that makes you dizzy. His teeth graze the sensitive peak of your other breast before soothing it with his tongue, and you arch into him with a moan.

"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Let me hear you."

His hands slide down your sides, tracing patterns that make you shiver. When he reaches your hips, he pauses, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin there before his forehead comes to rest against your stomach. His breath is warm on your skin.

"I kept thinking about this all day," he says, his voice lower and rougher than before. "About getting you alone."

He lifts his head, and when his eyes meet yours, there's something raw beneath the hunger something vulnerable that makes your chest tighten.

"I was scared," he admits, the words coming out like a confession. "Scared that if I touched you the way I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to stop. That I'd lose it right there on the beach in front of everyone."

His thumb traces a slow circle on your hip.

"You have no idea what you do to me. How hard it is to keep my hands to myself when all I want is you."

The honesty in his voice, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing that matters it breaks something open in your chest.

He kisses your stomach, just below your navel, and then lower. Your breath hitches as his intentions become clear. When his mouth finds the inside of your thigh, you can't hold back the whimper that escapes.

"Cam, please—"

"I know," he says, and there's something almost smug in his tone. "I've got you."

Then his mouth is on you, and coherent thought becomes impossible.

The first touch of his tongue makes you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. He groans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body as he devours you like a man starving.

There's no hesitation, no tentative exploration. He knows exactly what you need, exactly how to make you fall apart, and he uses that knowledge without mercy. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, alternating between broad licks and focused attention on your clit that makes your thighs shake.

"Fuck," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Cam, oh my god—"

He hums in approval, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open. The salt from the ocean is still on your skin, mixing with the taste of you, and he can't get enough. His tongue circles your clit before he sucks it gently, and the sensation makes you buck against his mouth.

"Stay still," he murmurs, his voice muffled but commanding, and the authority in it makes you clench around nothing.

He slides one finger inside you, then two, curling them until stars burst behind your eyelids. His mouth and fingers work together, building pleasure in waves that threaten to pull you under.

"You're so wet," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are slick, his eyes dark as he watches you. "So perfect. I could do this all night."

"Don't stop," you beg, and he gives you that dangerous, quiet smile you've been seeing all day.

"Wasn't planning on it."

He doubles down with renewed intensity, his tongue working your clit while his fingers pump in and out. The sounds are obscene wet and desperate but you're too far gone to care. All you can focus on is the pleasure building in your core, the way his fingers hit that spot inside you that makes you see white, the way his mouth feels like heaven and sin all at once.

"Cam, I'm—" you start, but you can't finish the sentence.

"I know," he says against you. "Come for me. Let me feel it."

His words push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you with an intensity that steals your breath, your body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure roll through you. Cam doesn't stop, working you through it until you're trembling and oversensitive, until you're pulling at his hair to make him stop.

He presses one last kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body, and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his lips.

"You're so beautiful when you come," he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. "I love watching you fall apart."

You're still catching your breath, but you manage to reach between your bodies, your hand finding the waistband of his swim trunks. "Your turn."

He helps you push them down, kicking them off the rest of the way, and then he's naked above you all lean muscle and sun kissed skin. His cock is hard and heavy between you, and when you wrap your hand around him, he groans, his hips jerking forward.

"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes falling closed. "You're gonna kill me."

You stroke him slowly, your thumb brushing over the head, and he shudders. After only a few moments though, he catches your wrist and stills your hand.

"I need to be inside you," he says, his voice strained. "Right now."

He reaches for the nightstand and pulls out a condom, rolling it on with shaking hands. The fact that he's barely holding on sends your pulse racing all over again.

When he settles between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, he pauses. His eyes find yours, and despite the desperation written all over his face, there's tenderness there too.

"You okay?" he asks.

"More than okay," you tell him, hands sliding up his back. "I need you."

That's all the permission he needs. He pushes forward slowly, and the stretch of him filling you makes you both moan. Even though you're soaked from your orgasm, it takes a moment for your body to adjust.

"Jesus," he grits out, jaw clenched. "You feel so good."

He bottoms out, hips flush against yours, and stays there for a moment, letting you adjust. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin, and you can feel the tension in every muscle as he fights for control.

"Move," you whisper, and he does.

His first thrust is slow and deep, pulling a moan from both of you. He drives in harder the second time, more desperate, and then he's setting a rhythm that makes your toes curl. Each stroke hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

"Fuck, yes," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "Just like that."

Cam's control is slipping. You can see it in the way his movements become less measured, more frantic. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and the sounds he's making low groans and muttered curses send heat racing through you.

"You're mine," he says, his voice rough and possessive. "Say it."

"Yours," you breathe, and the word seems to break something in him.

He shifts the angle, one hand sliding under your knee to push your leg higher, and the new position tears a cry from your throat. He's deeper now, hitting places that make your vision blur, and you can feel another orgasm building already.

His eyes lock on your face, dark and hungry.

"Let me see you," he murmurs, his voice strained. "Let me watch you come on my cock."

He slows, his movements becoming deliberate and controlled. Before you can protest, he pulls out and sits back on his heels, then his hands find your waist. In one smooth motion, he's pulling you up and into his lap.

"Come here," he says, his voice rough with need.

You straddle him, your thighs bracketing his hips, and the new angle makes you both groan. When you sink down onto him fully, his head falls back.

"Fuck," he breathes, his hands gripping your hips to guide you. "That's perfect."

You brace your hands on his shoulders and start to move, rolling your hips in a rhythm that makes his fingers dig into your skin. This position puts you in control, but the way he's looking at you like he's completely undone, like you're the only thing in the world that matters makes you feel anything but.

"Look at me," he says, one hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.

When your eyes meet his, the intensity there steals your breath.

"Don't look away. I want to see everything."

Being this close, this connected, watching each other fall apart it's almost too much. You can feel every breath he takes, see every flicker of pleasure that crosses his face, the way his body responds to yours.

His words and the relentless rhythm push you closer to the edge. Your hands scramble for purchase on his back, your nails leaving red lines on his skin, and he groans at the sting.

"So close," you manage to say, and he nods, reaching between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit, and the added stimulation is all it takes. Your second orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, your body clenching around him as pleasure floods every nerve. You cry out his name, your back arching, and watching you come undone sends Cam over the edge.

He buries himself deep with a low groan, his hips stuttering as he comes. You feel him pulsing inside you, see the way his face contorts with pleasure, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, your bodies slick with sweat and still tangled together. The room has gone dark now, the sunset faded to night, and the only light comes from the moon reflecting off the ocean outside.

Cam's weight is heavy on top of you, but you don't mind. You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the way his heart races against your chest, and he turns his head to press a kiss to your shoulder.

The kiss lingers there, soft and unhurried, and you feel the shift in him immediately. The urgency that had driven him since the door closed is gone, replaced by something gentler that makes your chest feel warm and full.

He lifts his head to look at you, and even in the dim moonlight, you can see the softness in his eyes. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone, and he smiles a real smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"More than okay," you tell him, and it's the truth. You feel boneless and satisfied, your body still humming with aftershocks.

He presses another kiss to your forehead before carefully pulling out, and you immediately miss the closeness. After disposing of the condom in the bathroom, he returns and slides back under the sheets, pulling you into his arms without hesitation. 

You go willingly, your head finding its place on his chest, right over his heart, while his arms wrap around you like he's trying to keep you as close as possible.

⸻

For a while, neither of you speaks.

There's only the sound of your breathing gradually evening out, the distant crash of waves against the shore, and the rustle of palm trees in the warm breeze drifting through the open balcony doors. Cam's fingers start tracing patterns on your back lazy lines that make you shiver despite the warmth. His touch is feather light, almost absent minded, like he's not even aware he's doing it.

You're aware of every point of contact between your bodies, every gentle brush of his fingertips, every rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

"So," you say eventually, your voice soft in the darkness. "That's what all the staring was about."

You feel more than hear his laugh, a low rumble in his chest. His hand pauses on your back for just a moment before resuming its gentle exploration.

"Yeah," he admits, shameless. "That's what it was about."

You tilt your head to look up at him, propping your chin on his chest. Even in the low light, you can see the hint of a smirk on his lips.

"You were really staring," you tease. "Like, a lot. I thought maybe I had something on my face."

"You did," he says, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. "That smile you get when you're completely relaxed and happy." His thumb strokes the sensitive skin there, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. "Drives me crazy."

Your heart does a little flip at the honesty in his voice. "You could've just said something."

"We were in public," he points out, his other hand finding your hip beneath the sheets. "And I was trying to behave."

You can't help the laugh that escapes. "That was you behaving?"

He exhales slowly, and when he speaks, there's something raw underneath the humor. "That was me being a goddamn saint. Every time I looked at you, I forgot to breathe. Sitting there pretending to be casual while all I could think about was getting you alone."

"Poor baby," you say, your tone teasing even as you press a kiss to his chest. "Had to spend the day at the beach with your girlfriend."

His hand tightens on your hip, pulling you closer. 

"Had to spend the day watching you in that swimsuit, all gorgeous, knowing I couldn't do anything about it until we got back here."

"You did plenty in the water," you remind him.

"That wasn't nearly enough." He shifts, rolling slightly to look at you better and brushing a strand of hair from your face. His expression is so tender it makes your breath catch. "I wanted to memorize you today, the way you looked so happy and free. I don't get to see you like that enough during the season."

Your chest aches in the best way. You reach up to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble there. "I'm always happy with you."

"I know," he says softly. "But this is different. This is you without any stress or worry. Just... you."

He leans down to kiss you, slow and sweet. "This version of you, completely relaxed—I love seeing it." He trails off for a moment, like he can't quite find the words. "I love all of you, but this..."

"I love this version of you too," you tell him. "Relaxed Cam. Off-season Cam. The one who sleeps in and walks around barefoot and doesn't check his phone every five minutes."

He smiles against your lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You kiss him again, just because you can. 

"Though I have to say, I also love the version of you that spent all day trying not to jump me and then completely lost it the second we were alone."

His laugh is warm and genuine. "You should be proud of me for lasting as long as I did."

"Oh, I'm so proud," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "You made it a whole thirty seconds after the door closed."

"Thirty seconds of incredible restraint," he argues, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine. "I deserve a medal."

"You deserve something," you mutter, and he grins.

He shifts slightly, reaching for the water bottle on the nightstand, and when he brings it to your lips, his hand cups the back of your head with such careful tenderness it makes your throat tight. "Drink," he says softly, watching you take a few sips while his thumb strokes your temple.

After setting the bottle aside, he pulls the sheet up around your shoulders, tucking it against your skin like you're something precious. He presses a kiss to your forehead the same spot he always kisses when he's trying to tell you something he doesn't have words for and you settle back against his chest, your body molding to his.

The contentment you feel is almost overwhelming, the kind of bone deep satisfaction that comes from being exactly where you're supposed to be.

After several minutes of comfortable silence, your stomach decides to make its presence known with a low, unmistakable growl.

Cam's chest shakes with laughter beneath you. "Hungry?"

"We never ordered dinner," you realize, lifting your head to meet his eyes.

"We got distracted," he says, completely unrepentant.

"You distracted me."

"You distracted me first," he counters. "Walking around all day looking like that."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "So what now? I'm starving."

Cam reaches for his phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen. "Room service is still open for another hour. We could order something."

"In bed?"

"In bed," he confirms, already pulling up the menu. 

"We're not leaving this room for the rest of the night."

You glance toward the door, where your beach bag and both swimsuits lie in a heap where they were hastily discarded. "We should probably at least pick those up."

"Later," Cam says dismissively, his attention still on the phone. "What do you want to eat?"

You list off a few things, and he adds them to the order along with his own. When he's done, he sets the phone aside and pulls you back into his arms.

"Thirty minutes," he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"What are we supposed to do for thirty minutes?" you ask innocently.

His hand slides down your back, and you can feel his smile against your hair. "I'm sure we'll think of something."

But despite his words, neither of you moves. You're both too comfortable, too content to do anything but lie there wrapped up in each other. The ocean continues its steady rhythm outside, and moonlight paints silver patterns across the sheets.

Cam's fingers find your hair, combing through it gently. You close your eyes at the sensation. This quiet intimacy might be even better than what came before the urgency has faded, leaving only tenderness and the simple pleasure of being close to someone you love.

"Hey," Cam says softly, and you open your eyes to find him watching you.

There it is. That look from the beach, from the water, from the walk back to the villa. But now you understand what it means when his eyes go dark and focused, when his gaze traces over your face like he's trying to memorize every detail. It's not just desire, though that's part of it. It's love and possession and wonder all mixed together the look of someone who can't quite believe you're real, that you're his.

"What?" you ask, even though you already know.

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he cups your face in both hands and kisses you, slow and deep and full of everything he can't say.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his eyes are still on you, unguarded in a way that takes your breath away.

The beach had never been the dangerous part, you realize. Privacy was.

"Holy shit," he finally says, his voice muffled against your skin.

You laugh, breathless and satisfied. "Yeah."

He lifts his head to look at you, and there's something soft in his expression now, the earlier intensity replaced with tenderness. He kisses you slowly, sweetly, and the contrast to moments ago makes your chest ache.

"You're incredible," he murmurs against your lips.

"So are you."

You curl into his side, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as it gradually slows.

Outside, the ocean continues its rhythm while the warm breeze drifts through the open doors, carrying salt and night blooming flowers. Cam's fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, and you feel completely content.

"Still think I was being patient?" he asks after a while, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You tilt your head to meet his eyes. "Barely."

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest as he pulls you closer. "I'll take it."

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