But before he could open his mouth to tell the other man to cut it out, Scott murmured, “You were incredible there at the end. Didn’t expect you to snatch P3 after the horror show in Q1 and Q2.”
“It’s just P3,” Cam said dismissively, flicking a look at him.
Scott was lying with his eyes half-lidded, looking completely relaxed and comfortable.
His feet were still tucked beneath Cam’s thigh.
Cam returned his gaze to the telemetry, deciding not to comment on it. It would only make it weirder.
He had more important things to focus on anyway.
***
Cam strode toward his suite on Sunday evening, post-race adrenaline still fizzing faintly in his body.
Second place. It wasn’t what he had wanted. He’d wanted to win Silverstone. With the German Grand Prix out of the calendar, this was the closest thing to a home race Cam had. And he’d fucking lost. No matter how much he told himself P2 was a good result after the shaky start to the weekend, it did nothing to quell the dissatisfaction under his skin. He’d wanted more. The frustrating part was, he could have won if Hunter hadn’t driven the race of his life.
The door clicked shut behind him, and before he could even process the quiet of the suite, Scott appeared from his bedroom.
“You’re back already?” Scott said, blinking at him. “I thought you’d celebrate with the team longer.”
Cam scoffed. “It’s just a second place,” he said testily. “Not worth celebrating.”
“Okay,” Scott said, his voice laced with humor. “No need to bite my head off.” He stepped closer, his eyes soft. “Come here.”
Cam barely had time to raise an eyebrow before Scott’s arms slipped around his waist in a firm, grounding hug.
It felt so different from the quick hugs he was used to receiving in the paddock. Scott didn’t thump his back or shout congratulations into his ear. He just held on, one hand spreading warmth between Cam’s shoulder blades.
Cam exhaled, tension draining from the muscles he hadn’t realized were clenched. For the first time since the race, his mind was quiet.
“There you go,” Scott murmured. “You were still holding it, champ. The tension.”
“I always hold it,” Cam said into his shoulder.
“That’s precisely my point.” Scott pulled back only enough to look at him, then guided him toward the couch with a hand on his wrist. Cam went without protest, sinking heavily into the cushions.
Scott sat down close—of course he did—and after a brief pause, reached up to loosen the collar of Cam’s team shirt. “You’re practically vibrating.”
“That’s leftover adrenaline.”
“And stress.”
Cam gave a harsh chuckle. “Occupational hazard.”
Humming, Scott placed his hand on the back of Cam’s neck and began rubbing slow circles with his fingers.
Cam’s eyes slipped closed. He groaned.
“Good?”
“Yeah. Keep doing it.”
Scott laughed softly and shifted closer until their thighs pressed together. His touch stayed unhurried, confident, like this wasn’t a strange thing to do to a man he hadn’t known all that long. The strangest part was it didn’tfeelstrange at all.
For a while, neither of them spoke, the silence settling between them, broken only by the distant hum of traffic outside and the soft rasp of Scott’s fingers against his skin.
After a few minutes, Cam leaned sideways unconsciously. His temple brushed Scott’s shoulder. Scott didn’t comment. He just adjusted, angling himself so Cam could rest more comfortably.
