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I still can’t speak. The words are there, but they’re trapped:

I’m not leaving. I’m staying with you. I choose you.

Cameron takes my silence as an answer.

He sits up abruptly, swinging his legs off the bed. “Right,” he says, and now he sounds angry. “Right. Of course.”

“Cam—”

But he’s already up, already walking toward the door. He leaves without looking back, and I hear his footsteps heavy on the stairs.

I sit there alone in his room, staring at the closed door.

I wait for him to come back. He will. And then I can explain. I can tell him what I couldn’t say before. I just need a minute to pull myself together.

I stand and strip off my clothes, changing into the sleep clothes I brought, my red-and-black tartan drawstring pants and a black Henley. The fabric is soft against my skin, comfortable.

I lie down on Cameron’s bed and pull his pillow to my face, breathing in. It smells like his shampoo and his skin.

There are so many things I want to try with Cameron. It would be fun, I think, to make a list. To explore every possibility together. I think about the four-poster bed in the guest bedroom. I wonder what it would be like to let him fuck me. I’ve never tried it. I never wanted to with Thom, never felt safe enough to be that vulnerable. But Cameron loves it. I’ve watched him come undone when I’m inside him, watched the pleasure transform his face. Would it feel like that for me? Would it be good?

My cock is fully hard now, pressing against the soft cotton of my sleep pants. I palm myself through the fabric, thinking about Cameron.

Where is he?

But minutes pass, and he doesn’t return.

I sigh and sit up, adjusting myself. I need to find him so I can explain.

I pad to the door and open it slowly, listening. The house is quiet. I descend the stairs carefully, trying not to make any noise, straining to hear a sound that might tell me where Cameron is.

At the foot of the stairs, the murmur of voices stops me. Low, hushed tones drift from the living room. I move silently toward the sound, stepping into an atmosphere softened by amber lamplight that leaves the corners of the room in deep shadow.

Cameron and Whitney are huddled on the sofa, their heads inclined toward each other, speaking at a volume too faint for me to catch the words. It all feels fiercely intimate. I hesitate on the threshold, caught between the urge to retreat and the risk of startling them, before deliberately stepping into the light where his eyes can find me.

He stiffens when he spots me. Whitney lifts her head and turns.

“Lucien!” Her face lights up. “Oh, I love your pajama pants!”

I blink, taken aback by the enthusiasm. I thought they were having a serious conversation, maybe about me, or about the situation, but Whitney’s acting like they were just chatting. The tension in my shoulders eases. I move to one of the big white armchairs and sit.

“Thank you.” A smile tugs at my mouth.

Whitney tilts her head, studying me. “You know, they match the scarf you were wearing earlier. It’s a beautiful scarf.”

“Thank you,” I repeat, feeling warmth creep into my cheeks. “I got it a while ago.”

“Did you get it in Scotland?” she asks, her eyes bright with genuine curiosity.

“Yes. In a mill shop in Inverness. They have all the tartans there.”

“Oh!” She leans forward, her eyes even brighter now. “And which tartan is this one?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “Um. It’s…it’s the Cameron clan tartan.”

Her hands fly to her mouth. She makes a sweet, small “Aw” sound and then turns to look at Cameron, her eyes glistening with understanding.

Cameron still won’t look at me.