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The dots appear.

HotnReddy: It’s okay. I shove back.

The show smile slides back over his face, bright and wicked and practiced enough to look easy.

HotnReddy: Chat later?

Later is dangerous.

Bentley84: If they give you a minute.

The change is subtle at first. His shoulders settle differently. His mouth curves. His eyes lift toward the lens with a confidence that feels almost lazy, though I know by now there is nothing lazy about it.

Clint understands the camera better than he pretends. He knows when to lean close and when to pull back. When to laugh. When to let silence make the room work harder.

The private window remains open, but no new messages appear. For a moment, I sit there foolishly waiting for one anyway.

On-screen, Clint stretches one arm over his head, then the other. The movement lengthens him, draws the room’s attention exactly where he wants it.

BigDog469: there it is

MouthyMike: finally

MNTopDad: damn man

FootGuyBob: still thinking about those feet

Clint laughs.

“Bob, I’m starting to worry about you.”

FootGuyBob tips.

Clint glances at the amount and shakes his head. “Not that worried.”

He reaches for the lube, and the room shifts.

So do I.

My fingers still at the edge of the laptop. The smile leaves my face before I decide to let it go. Clint unscrews the cap with the same easy sarcasm he uses for everything else, but his posture has changed again. This is not the private man answering me between requests. This is the performer accepting the room’s hunger.

It’s something I shouldn’t watch.

The thought arrives clean and immediate: close the laptop.

Stand up. Walk upstairs and try, again, to sleep in the bed you shared with the man whose son is currently naked on your screen.

I do none of those things.

Clint rubs the lube between his fingers, slow enough to make the scroll stop. He speaks to them, teasing, promising nothing. The words blur a little because I’m no longer listening in the same way.

The room is pushing him, and I am part of the room. The realization lands hard enough that I lean back into the couch cushions.

It’s not that I want him. Want is simpler than this.

Baxter lifts his head from my thigh, annoyed by my movement. Barret, stretched dramatically across the rug, opens one eye.

“It’s fine,” I say.