The guys break off into giving each other some shit while my mind drifts to the unresolved off-screen storyline arc that unfortunately doesn't come with a neatly packaged, sharply edited happy ending.
Me and Scooter.
I wonder what's going on in his head. These are his final days on the show, the last scenes he'll be shooting with castmates and crew he's grown close to over the past six years.
Is he mad? Bitter? Disappointed?
He's acting calm and controlled, his face going through the motions. But I've studied him closely enough this season to know they're camera emotions, which aren't necessarily the same as real ones.
"Why are you staring off into space?" he asks, appearing next to me.
Two cameras are pointed at us, still rolling. "I must've drifted off while you were talking. Happens a lot, right?"
I press my hand against his forearm. It's meant to be a mocking gesture, but all it does is unleash a torrent of heat and all the many emotions I battle with each and every time I'm around him.
I want Scooter. I want him more than I've ever wanted anyone in my life. But I'm scared it'll never be anything more than just some nighttime fun that'll end as soon as his time on the show does.
"Happens all the time," he jokes back, smiling like the pro he is. "But I bet you'll miss my sedating voice when I'm gone."
I choke on my breath, and the editors are going to have their work cut out for them to make that appear as a scoff. It's the first time Scooter's mentioned his exit from the show on camera, and it makes it all too terrifyingly real.
"I guess," I say, scrambling for something snarky to add.
Come on, brain. Work with me here.
But I've got nothing. Because Scooter hit the nail on the head, maybe more than he intended to.
I really am going to miss him when he's gone.
Sex won't be happening tonight.
I know this before I get anywhere near Scooter's bedroom door. Not because I don't want to let him ravage me, but because it's clear something more important needs to take place. Something long overdue.
I just hope it isn't too much for him when I lay out my plans for what I'd like to happen next.
I open the door without knocking since my visits have become a nightly occurrence. How no one has cottoned on to it, I'll never know, but I'm sure glad they haven't. I'm having the best sex of my life.
Scooter is reading in bed, chewing on the edges of his glasses. The bed isn’t buried in vet mags like usual, it’s covered in stacks of official-looking paperwork.
"What's all this?" I ask, walking over.
Scooter startles, like he didn't hear me come in, and begins gathering them up. "Oh, nothing. Just boring tax stuff."
"Oh. Okay."
I hang back, waiting until he's scooped up all the papers and tucked them under his bed, mainly to give him some privacy but also for the added bonus of checking him out. His black onesie clings to his body, outlining the broad lines of his chest and the curves of his thighs sinfully well. The neckline sits slightly open to reveal his smooth skin, and his thick brown hair is a total mess.
"Sorry about that," he says once he's done, a streak of worry still shadowing his expression. "Now, would you like to sit on my face or should we jump straight into it?"
I chuckle, and despite my dick reacting very favorably to his suggestion, I sit down on the edge of the bed and say, "Actually, I think we should talk."
His face adjusts, like he knew this was coming. "That's a good idea. What would you like to talk about?"
"Us."
He gives a firm nod, again like this is something he was expecting. "What about us?"
"A few things but, specifically, our future. And if we even have one."
