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Right now, he’s in a good mood. He’s happy to have the boys here, happy to play host.

But I know how quickly that can change.

Dad gestures to the food. “I brought lobster rolls, some fried fish, corn. Help yourselves.”

They descend on the kitchen island like vultures, eating it out of the containers, not even bothering to grab plates. Grease drips onto the counter, bits of breading scatters across the surface.

Cameron looks horrified.

I shrug my shoulders at him, apologetic, but also conveying: this is just how it is here.

Billy comes in carrying Liam’s bags, then heads back out for Cameron’s and mine. He moves through the space with ease, knowing exactly where everything goes.

“Billy, you eaten yet?” I ask.

“Yes, sir. I grabbed something in town.”

“Billy, make sure the rifles are ready for tomorrow. I want to head out at dawn,” Dad says, playing director.

Billy knows the schedule. He’s been doing this for years.

“Already done, sir. They’re in the gun safe, cleaned and loaded.”

“Good man.”

Billy nods and heads back outside.

I watch the exchange and feel that familiar discomfort, the awareness of Billy’s position, how my father speaks to him. It’s not unkind, exactly. But it’s not equal either.

Dad wanders off to his room, the only one upstairs, with windows that look out over the vast property. His domain.

As soon as he’s gone, the room relaxes again. The guys return to their usual volume and energy level.

I grab another beer and try to shake off the tension.

Later, when everyone has passed out, sprawled on couches, curled up in chairs, snoring in bedrooms, Cameron and I are finally alone.

The bedroom I usually sleep in has two queen beds with a small nightstand and lamp between them. I throw myself down on the second bed, exhausted.

Cameron locks the door and sits on the first bed, removing his shoes. We undress together, down to our boxers. I think he’ll stay in his own bed, but he doesn’t. He crosses the gap between our bed and crawls on top of me. His body relaxes immediately. It’s like a house settling at night. All the tension, all the performance, just melting away.

He’s finally safe to let his guard down.

I kiss him, and he tastes like beer. His kissing is slow and sloppy. He’s still drunk.

He groans, and I freeze.

“No, Cam,” I whisper urgently. “You can’t make any noise, okay? You have to be quiet.”

He furrows his eyebrows. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’m scaring him. But I can’t risk it here, not with my dad upstairs. I hope Cameron understands.

I lean forward for more kisses. Cameron is hungry for me after a whole day of pretending. And I’m hungry for him too. I trace the shell of his ear with my fingers, then his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. Cameron rolls onto his back on the bed and pulls his boxers off. He’s hard.

He looks toward the door with a nervous glance.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “Locked.”

I reach over and turn off the lamp, submerging the room in total darkness.