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The laptop waits across the room like it already knows where this ends.

I let go of the comforter. My hands ache. My chest is tight.

I sit up and the sheets fall to my waist. In the dresser mirror, I catch myself looking exactly like a guy who has lost an argument with his own body.

I swing my legs off the bed and plant my feet on the cool tile. For a second, I just sit there, hard and tired, and mad about both.

This is not what camming is for.

I stand, and the room tilts only a little, an echo of the hangover that started me down this road, but now entirely from no sleep. My body feels heavy everywhere except the part of me that’s aggressively awake.

I hook my thumbs into my underwear and push them down as I cross the room. They drop somewhere behind me.

The chair is already positioned in front of the desk. Ring light behind the laptop. Curtains closed.

I sit. The vinyl is cold against my bare ass and back.

I open the laptop, and the fan whirs to life. It sounds like surrender.

The login page loads. Username, password, dashboard—I know the sequence all too well. Notifications I do not want to read.

No Bentley.

Good.

Safer.

The mirror catches me. Bare chest. Bare thighs. Morning scruff. Not polished. Not smooth.

That should make me close the laptop. Instead, I turn on the ring light. The circle flares white.

There he is. Or there I am. The difference is thinner than I want it to be.

I hear Zane in my head, easy and dismissive.

This is work. It’s money. This ain’t real life, man.

I drag a hand over my face.

“PV isn’t real life,” I mutter.

The words sit there after I say them.

Louisville is real. PV was supposed to be the escape. Now my body doesn’t know fake from real.

I click through the last settings.

No expectations. No promises with this show. Good tokens, bad tokens—irrelevant.

My finger hovers over the button. For one second, I almost stop.

Then the room opens. For a second, nothing happens. Then the first viewer appears. Then another. Three more.

Names stack in the corner. Not many. Not a crowd. Just enough for the threshold to become real. A list of names like a wall to hide behind.

My stomach tightens. My breathing changes. My dick thickens a little more.

I lean back in the chair and let the screen hold me.