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He comes, exploding onto my chest, and I keep pumping him until he’s shaking and spent.

He slows down, his movements becoming uncoordinated, and he almost collapses onto my chest. But he remembers the cum at the last second and grips the headboard instead, holding himself up while I lift my hips and fuck into him.

I can still feel the pulsing of his orgasm, his body tightening around my cock in rhythmic waves. I can’t hold back anymore. I let myself come, throwing my head back as the feeling takes over me.

For a few seconds, I’m wiped clean. My only awareness is the sensation of Cameron’s body, the way he feels around me, the way he’s looking at me. And then slowly, I come back to myself, like I’m being born, like I’m seeing the world for the first time.

A world with Cameron by my side. A world where this is real. Where we’re real.

Cameron lifts off me, saying he’s going to get a towel.

“Wait—” I start, but it’s too late.

I watch as cum dribbles down his leg. He looks down, then back at me, horrified and embarrassed.

I laugh to break the tension.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Cam. It’s hot.”

He laughs too, the tension breaking, and grabs a shirt from the floor to clean himself. He throws another shirt to me so I can wipe my stomach.

“We’ll do laundry,” he says.

But I don’t care about laundry. I don’t care about anything except him.

I pull him down onto the bed next to me, wrapping my arms around him and holding him close. He settles against my chest, his breathing still slightly elevated, his skin warm against mine.

“Let’s do stuff that’s only ours,” I tell him, kissing his hair.

“I love you, angel,” he says, his fingers gripping my bicep.

“I love you too, baby.”

CHRISTMAS EVE

37

CAMERON

Lucien’s arm drapes across my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

For a moment, I just lie there. Taking it in. The weight of him. The reality of him in my bed, in my house, in my life. It’s Christmas Eve.

Everything feels different now. As though the universe quietly reconfigured itself while we slept, leaving behind a shape I have yet to learn.

I slip out of bed carefully, trying not to disturb him. He stirs but doesn’t open his eyes. He drags my abandoned pillow into the empty space and holds it close. The gesture leaves my throat thick with an ache I can’t swallow.

Downstairs, the kitchen is heavy with the scent of coffee and cinnamon rolls. My mother is at the island, arranging fruit on a platter with the same exhausting precision she applies to every corner of her life. Across the room, my father sits at the table, buried behind a newspaper. It’s an actual, physical print edition because some habits are simply sacred to him.

“Morning, honey,” Mom says warmly. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah.” I pour myself coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands. “Really well.”

Dad looks up from his paper. “Cameron, after breakfast, want to take the dogs out? Let them run around a bit?”

It’s not really a question. It’s the kind of thing he phrases as a question but means as a plan.

“Sure,” I say.