Cameron
MY FEET SLAM AGAINST the dirt and the leaves, my Vans making far too much noise for my liking.
Atticus is chasing me, hunting me, and it feels phenomenal. Like he wants me badly enough to run and run for miles, like I’m something worth chasing.
I can hear his gaining footsteps behind me, but I don’t relent, only pushing harder. I’m strong, and I spend a lot of time in the gym, but I’m not necessarily the fastest guy. And today, I’m grateful for that.
I’m almost certain Cassie isn’t following him; she was wearing heels and thinks running is below her. But the fear is still settled in me—fear of what she now knows and what she might see if she is giving chase.
I may be more comfortable with my preferences, but the idea of others thinking of me differently, of not living up to my father, still hangs heavily over my head.
But enough about that. I’m being chased by Atticus fucking Chastain!
“Cam,” he sings, breathless and hot on my trail as I jump over a fallen log.
“Go away!” I shout back, but I’m laughing too, unable to hide my excitement.
“Here now, boy,” Atticus replies, as if he’s calling his favorite hound. “Be good and stop.”
“No way!”
My voice echoes through the trees, and as I see a small creek in the distance, I run straight toward it. No way he’s ruining his nice, expensive running shoes in that muddy water, right?
I can hear Atticus’s breathing as I reach the stream, stumbling into it and spinning around to face him.
We’re both panting as he stops, just a few inches from the ankle-deep water.
“I win,” I cheer, grinning as I peer up at him.
And Atticus is… well, he’s not glaring. In fact, the smile on his face is quite soft and adoring. It makes me want to cry, to melt, to surrender.
“Do you?” he coos.
Then, he steps right into the water.
I gasp. “Your shoes!”
“I’ll buy another pair,” he says simply.
Shit. I forgot he can just do that. Of course he doesn’t care about a pair of sneakers in the grand scheme of things.
My smile slowly fades as he closes in, unable to pull my Vans from the mud with how entranced I am.
“You look frightened,” he observes softly, and as he reaches me, he extends a hand to run his fingertips over my heated cheek.
I shiver.
Mixing this Atticus—the running and the hunting—with my memories of late last night, laid up under his alter ego, is quite exotic.
“I’m not,” I whisper.
“I believe you.”
Then, he’s kissing me. It’s a gentle kiss, unlike our others, and it makes me feel small and cherished. Like he doesn’t believe I’m a waste of time or beneath him. It’s kind of cruel, really.
“W-what was that for?” I ask as he pulls away, and Atticus doesn’t answer, only leaning in and ripping my cap off to take a deep inhale with his nose pressed to my hair.
He sighs. “You always smell so good.”
“I smell like sweat,” I counter.
“And I love it,” Atticus groans.
My heart speeds up at the use of the L-word, and as he leans back up to look down at me, I know I have to be giving him a wide, startled stare.
“What?” he laughs out, the corners of his eyes crinkling beautifully.
“You’re just… different today,” I confess.
“I’ve been getting that a lot, actually,” Atticus tells me.
“What does that mean?” My tone is suddenly defensive and angry. “Who else are you chasing through these trees?”
Atticus sighs again, but this time, it seems to be in… relief?
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning down to press our foreheads together. “I’m such a fan of your jealous side.”
“I’m not jealous,” I mutter.
“Now I don’t believe you,” Atticus replies, humor lacing his tone.
We stay like this for a long moment, breathing in each other’s air as Atticus’s hands trace my sides, my hips, my throat. Each dip and ridge of my muscles is quivering under his touch, and I may or may not sway into him a few times with how intoxicating his presence is.
I have no clue what he’s done with my cap.
Something warm and sweet is overcoming me, and it makes me hopeful. It makes me emotional. Was Cassie… did Cassie say something to him to make him not hate me anymore?
Did she realize my feelings, how I had him first, and come to tell him he should forgive me?
“So,” I start, hesitant. “Is this your way of saying you forgive me?”
There is so much hope in my voice that it’s kind of pathetic. But it’s been years since he didn’t hate me, and I miss him. I miss him so much. All of my plans to ditch him, to give up, are evaporating right between us.
“Yes,” he murmurs into my skin, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I forgive you.”
“Oh, god.” I almost come on the spot. “Y-you believe me? That I wasn’t… I didn’t…”
“That you weren’t trying to hurt me?” Atticus fills in the blanks. “Yeah, I believe you. I understand now. You didn’t want her to have me, so you took the only ammunition you had and tried to turn her away, isn’t that right?”
I nod, relief flooding through me. I feel so seen, so understood, that I fear I might be dreaming.
But then I bounce back, shaking my head.
“But it’s not ammunition!” I insist, tilting my head back to see him. “All of those things I said about you are the parts I like the most. The things I crave.”
Atticus smiles, all tender and sweet. “I know, baby, I get it now.”
“You get it now,” I repeat, resting my forehead on his shoulder. “You aren’t mad at me.”
“Not anymore, no,” he confirms.
I settle into him, breathing in the spicy scent of his skin greedily. This has to be the happiest day of my life. When I showed up here today, it was because I saw Cassie’s car driving in this direction and instinctively followed. I didn’t even intend for him to see me.
I guess all that begging and pleading and swallowing my pride that I did played in my favor after all.
My palms slide up Atticus’s back, feeling the coiled muscles and his sweat soaking through his shirt. As his body expands with each breath he pulls in, I fall deeper and deeper into a trance-like peace.
I love him. I’ve loved him for so long, missed him so desperately that this genuinely feels like heaven.
“And now you’re mine,” I say—a manifestation, a request, a fact.
Atticus tenses beneath my hands, his breath stuttering briefly. And where his cheek leans against my head, and his hands cradle my hips, I can feel my last moment of happiness seep into his skin—his to steal, to devour.
A horrible premonition comes over me, and it comes in the form of every instance in which Atticus has touched me, where the noise has calmed, almost as if to remind me of what is about to be torn from my clinging fingers.
“I’m not… I can’t belong to you,” Atticus whispers into my hair, and he seems hurt by this. Like he isn’t the one pulling the trigger.
My hands tighten, clutching his shirt as desperately as I would a life raft.
“Don’t tell me that,” I reply just as softly, just as miserably. “Please, Atticus. Don’t do this.”
“Sweetheart,” he sighs, “there are things you don’t understand. Things I’ve done since you last had me that make me inaccessible.”
“But I love you,” I borderline shriek into his shoulder, feeling his hands grip me just as tightly as I’m holding him. “I surrender! Do you not love me?”
It comes out shattered, splintered, and desperate.
Say yes, say you love me, I silently beg.
“Irrelevant,” Atticus pushes out.
“Irrelevant?” I gasp. “Loving me is… irrelevant?”
I’m not sure when I started crying—I never used to cry like this. Until loving him, I was a stone pillar against a cosmic pain. And now, he’s given me a safe place to fall apart, and I can’t seem to stop.
“No,” he says firmly. “No, Cameron. That’s not what I mean.” His hand lifts and wraps around the back of my neck, holding me to him as the tears fall and I shudder pathetically. “I just meant… I shouldn’t love you now.”
As my knees give out, giving my body over to the pain of this, Atticus crumbles with me, sitting on his heels as he holds me.
Water soaks into our pants, cold and biting, but I can’t seem to register it fully. Not against this onslaught of emotion.
“I don’t understand,” I sob. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Atticus is shaking now, clutching me so tightly that I physically can’t fall apart. Not completely.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. You don’t deserve this; I wish I could give you more.”
“Give me more then. Give me all of you, just as you did before.”
“I can’t,” Atticus insists. “I just can’t.”
And he continues to stroke the hair at the base of my neck, rubbing soft circles into my skin as I cry until the sun begins to set and my body grows weak and tired. The only sound to be heard is the rushing of the water around us.
As the tears finally subside, I lift my head, looking into his eyes. And Atticus looks devastated—absolutely destroyed to see me this way. It makes this misery so much worse.
“So this is it?” I ask him, voice strained. “This is all we ever get?”
Slowly, Atticus nods, grazing his lips over my forehead once more. “Unfortunately, yes.”
On shaking legs, I stand, pulling myself free from his hold. Staring down at him sitting in the muddy water, eyes red-rimmed and brown hair astray, I recall every time he’s smiled at me. Every single moment in which I’ve had him within my grasp.
And then I let it all fall away.
“Thank you,” I say softly, “for showing me what peace feels like. Even if just briefly.”
The drive home is long and silent; I barely register the passing stop signs or street names, and as I pull up to my house, I see Mom’s car in the driveway.
I feel nothing.
“Cameron,” she calls out as I enter the front door. I don’t spare her a glance, heading straight to my room. “Cameron!”
The door slams as I close it, collapsing onto my bed.
I ignore her knocks, her screams, her desperate attempts to use me for something new. I don’t care. I can’t care. Not now. Maybe not ever again.
The whole world could crumble around me right now, and I’d barely even notice.
Atticus doesn’t want me. Not anymore. Even as he’s forgiven me, even as he’s so affectionate and kind, I’m still not enough.
I’m Port Orford trash with too much baggage and nothing to redeem myself with. Of course he wouldn’t give up whatever is so important to him, whatever it is he’d be risking by keeping me.
Forgiveness didn’t save us—I will never have Atticus Chastain.
The tears return, and they stay until I’ve fallen fast asleep.
A few hours later, I wake to the sound of my floorboards creaking, and as I roll over, I’m not surprised to see Atticus standing before my bed. The other Atticus.
But I am surprised by the return of my tears, how desperate I am for even this version of him.
With a sob, I crawl onto my knees, moving until I’m at the ledge of my bed, reaching out for him.
“Shh, corculum,” he whispers in that familiar, distorted voice. His black eyes search me, curious and intrigued. “There is pain here.”
“Yes,” I whisper, swallowing more of my own cries.
“You both hurt,” he observes.
And something inside of me shatters permanently, as I’m pretty sure both of us means Atticus, too.
I just nod, as I can’t manage much more, and he wraps his frost-bitten arms around my middle, hugging me to him.
“I’ll help,” he promises. “Nunc meus esse potes.”
I don’t care what he’s saying; I just need him to hold me.
As he lays me on my back, pressing surprisingly soft kisses to my throat, I close my eyes and imagine he’s my Atticus.
And maybe he is, because he’s the one who stayed, even if I don’t truly understand it. If I can’t be enough for Atticus in broad daylight, I’ll take this version, here in the dark.
Because I love him. Because without him, there is only pain. Especially now that he’s forgiven me, now that he’s held me so tenderly.
Especially now.