Page 46 of Full Tilt
The space surprises me—not because it’s flashy, but because it isn’t. Warm lighting, books stacked on low shelves, mismatched cushions, an old Exeter Seagulls fleece draped over the back of a chair. It’s not cold or staged—it’s lived-in. Personal.
And somehow, it makes my chest go all stupid and soft.
I call out, “You making tea?”
“Yeah,” he says, voice faint.
“Gross,” I reply with a grin. “That’s the most British thing about you.”
He snorts.
“Honestly, I’ve tried. It tastes like boiled regret and lost hope. Ted Lasso absolutely nailed it.”
His laugh carries from the kitchen—short, surprised, and real.
He returns a moment later with two mugs. He hands me one, and our fingers brush. I make sure of it. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he sits beside me, close enough that our legs touch. The tension’s still there in his posture, but I rest my arm on the back of the sofa behind him—not touching, not forcing, just letting him feel the option of closeness without pressure.
“You good with something easy?” I ask, flicking through the streaming menu.
He nods. “Yeah. Easy sounds great.”
I hit Play on something ridiculous and let the noise fill the space. The kind of movie that requires zero thought and rewards zero attention. My body’s still buzzing with everything that happened—every sound he made, the way he melted for me—but I keep my touches light, occasional, never pushing.
Just enough to remind him I’m here. That I meant what I said. That he doesn’t have to carry everything alone tonight.
He sips his tea. I sip mine, regretting every second of it. But I don’t say a word. Because Camden’s next to me on a sofa in his flat, his knee brushing mine, and for the first time all night, his shoulders have started to relax.
And I’ll take that over tea-flavoured disappointment any day.
I don’t knowhow long I’ve been out, but the first thing I register is a low voice and the soft press of a hand on my shoulder.
“Brent.”
My eyes peel open slowly. Everything’s dark, except for the low amber glow from a nearby lamp. The TV’s gone quiet, thescreen black. Camden is crouched beside the couch, looking at me, sleep-rumpled and steady.
My heart stumbles.
He’s trying to get rid of me. That’s my first, knee-jerk thought, and it stings. I sit up fast, blinking. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to crash. I can grab a cab, no big deal?—”
“No,” he says firmly, cutting me off before I spiral. “I just didn’t want to wake you too hard.”
I pause, staring at him, brain still rebooting.
He stands and offers me his hand. “Come on,” he says, quieter now. “You’ll sleep better in bed.”
For a second, my whole system malfunctions. My blood wakes up fast, and not just in my chest. My dick twitches, my pulse jumps, and the idea of his bed slams into me like a freight train. “Right,” I say, clearing my throat. “Yeah. Sure.”
He doesn’t look at me while he leads the way, just points to a half-open door off the hall. “Bathroom’s through there. There’s a new toothbrush on the sink.”
When I step in, the light flicks on automatically. Everything is crisp and neutral—grey tiles, soft towels, a faint clean scent that might be eucalyptus. And sure enough, on the edge of the basin: a still-packaged toothbrush and a tiny cup with toothpaste already squeezed out.
He thought about this before waking me. The idea gives me stupid, swooping butterflies.
I wash my face, brush my teeth, and try to get my heart rate under control. No luck. When I step out again and pad quietly towards the bedroom in nothing but my boxer briefs, I hear the water running in what’s clearly his en suite. Camden’s showering. Probably needed to decompress—his version of resetting.
But my body isn’t nearly as calm as my thoughts.
Just knowing he’s behind that door, water sluicing over that strong, solid frame… the image is enough to punch my cock straight up against the tight cotton of my boxers. The head slips past the waistband, leaving nothing to the imagination.
