Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Cameron
The flat had settled into the kind of silence that felt as if it was listening.
I lay on the sofa bed, staring at the dark ceiling, one arm under my head. The glow from the streetlight outside threw faint bars of gold across the curtains, and every few minutes, a car passed, its headlights glancing off the walls like moving ghosts.
I’d turned my phone off an hour ago. I’d tried counting backwards from a hundred. None of it helped.
Sleep wouldn’t come.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Theo.
The way he’d looked when he came home from rehearsal, hair damp from the rain, shoulders hunched as if whatever he carried on them was too heavy.
His voice had been low and rough around the edges.
He’d seemed pleased with the rehearsal. That faint, tired smile had even held a touch of pride.
I’d wanted to touch that pride, to hold it, to somehow be part of it.
Instead, all that came out of my mouth had been something inane about coffee and sketching, and then Theo had retreated to his bedroom, closing the door with the same soft, deliberate care he did everything.
Now the flat was too quiet.
Turning onto my side, I tugged the blanket up to my chest. The pillow held a scent I recognised. Theo’s. Clean, warm, and far too easy to notice once I’d realised it was there. I tried to ignore it, tried to think about anything else.
What came to mind was Theo’s hand brushing mine when he passed me the mug that morning. The memory kept replaying in my head, followed by the look in his eyes when he said goodnight—warmth held carefully in check. Even my name had sounded different in his mouth, quieter somehow.
My eyes squeezed shut, as if that would stop it.
It didn’t. If anything, everything sharpened—the ache in my chest, the pulse in my throat, the want I’d been pushing down for years under good intentions and bad timing.
It had been easier when Theo was far away. When the crush had been theoretical, nothing but a memory, a what-if.
Now Theo was ten, maybe twenty feet away, separated by a thin wall and a lifetime of boundaries.
And I couldn’t stop wanting him.
The darkness pressing in around me suddenly felt oppressive, and I reached for the lamp in the corner. Warm light flooded the room, and I froze, listening for any sign that I’d disturbed Theo.
Nothing.
I exhaled slowly, lying back down and pressing my face into the pillow. My body felt too awake, too aware of itself. Every breath felt loud. Every heartbeat felt like a confession.
From down the hall, there was still no sound. Theo was asleep.
That made it worse, and somehow easier at the same time.
I told myself to stop thinking, to just breathe.
But the silence, the closeness, the way Theo’s scent clung to the air, all of it pulled at me, making me reckless in a way I didn’t recognise.
I shifted, restless, my eyes still closed. The room seemed to lean in, the air thick with something unnamed.
And in that fragile, lonely moment, I let go of every bit of control I’d been clinging to.
I let myself imagine what I shouldn’t.
Just feel.
I threw off the sheet and blanket, then slid my hand into my boxers, not my usual sleepwear but this wasn’t my usual place to sleep.
I freed my dick, pushing my boxers down, then removed them altogether.
The little bag where I kept my toiletries was on the floor beside the sofa: I’d deliberately not left it in the bathroom, for fear of making the space seem cluttered, making Theo uncomfortable.
I reached into it for the small bottle of lube I kept there, snicked it open, and squeezed a few drops onto my fingertips.
I smeared the viscous liquid over the head of my cock, then keeping the touch light, I slid the foreskin up and down, using only a couple of fingers.
With the other, I cupped and stroked my balls, squeezing them, eyes tight shut.
You can’t make a sound. He’ll hear you.
That perverse voice at the back of my head chuckled.
Let him.
I spread my legs wide and gave a gentle push up with my hips, sliding my shaft through the funnel of my hand. After adding more lube, I quickened the pace, my breathing growing shallower, harsher as I tightened my grip, giving it a twist now and then.
My head was full of Theo.
I shivered. How would it feel if it was Theo’s hand wrapped around my cock? Theo’s fingers brushing over my nipples? Theo’s palm cupping my sac, weighing it…
And then the breath caught in my throat.
What if Theo was inside me?
Jesus fucking Christ.
I raised one leg into the air and reached down to rub a fingertip over my hole.
The skin there was warm and puckered, and I cursed myself for leaving my dildo packed in one of the boxes with the rest of my stuff.
I tapped against it, shudders rippling through me at the very idea of Theo’s tongue there, something I’d often thought about but never experienced.
And now I could think of nothing else.
I slicked up a finger, then brushed it over my hole, stifling a whimper.
It’s not my finger—it’s Theo’s.
I pushed the tip of my middle finger inside, biting back the moan that threatened to trip off my tongue. Deeper. Deeper, until it was as deep as it could go, and my dick was like stone in my hand.
Fuck me, Theo. Fill me. Stretch me. Let me feel you.
The words lit a fuse, and suddenly I was on fire.
I rocked up off the sofa, my hands synchronised, working together.
When I got too close, I backed off, slowing the pace, not wanting the exquisite friction to end.
I tried to keep a lid on the noise, but now and then a low moan escaped, and I’d freeze, listening for any sign that Theo was awake.
When all I got was silence, I went back to it, fucking myself with my finger, working my shaft faster, the slick sound way too loud in the quiet flat.
Behind my eyelids, Theo leaned over me, his hair falling over his eyes, sweat glistening on his chest, the muscles on his upper arms bulging as he drove himself deeper into my body, his staccato breaths punctuating every thrust, his gaze locked on mine, lips parted.
I can feel you coming.
I tilted my head back into the pillow and shot hard, my finger locked inside my tight hole. Warmth spattered my stomach and chest, and I opened my eyes, panic racing through me.
I can’t get any of it on the sheets.
I pulled my finger free and sat up, my dick still jerking in my hand, pulsing out the final drops. I scanned the sheet below me, my breathing ragged, searching for any errant wet spots that might betray me.
It seemed whatever gods looked out for guys like me were on my side.
I sat there, my chest heaving, forcing myself to breathe evenly, one ear on Theo’s bedroom door.
No light shone through the gap at its base. No noise.
I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed.
I got up off the sofa, my legs trembling, and crept into the bathroom to perform a quick clean-up. I debated not flushing the toilet but decided I didn’t want to leave any trace of my nocturnal activity.
When I returned to the safety of the sofa, I pulled the sheet and blanket up to my neck, and took deep breaths, willing myself into a calmer state.
The quiet felt heavy, intimate, and yet alive.
The only sounds in this flat are the rhythm of two people breathing in separate rooms.
The thought made my chest ache.
Theo
I couldn’t sleep.
I’d hoped the long walk would have done the work for me, but the moment I turned off the light, my body had refused to shut down.
I could still feel the echo of the night, the weight of the rehearsal, Max’s words looping through my head.
Control isn’t safety. Sometimes it’s loneliness.
I’d tried to drown it out with order—folding clothes, straightening the bedside table, brushing my teeth twice—but it hadn’t helped. The moment I lay down, the quiet became too loud.
I rolled onto my side, my gaze fixed on the faint glow leaking through the gap under the door.
Cameron’s light.
I’d told myself I didn’t care if he stayed up drawing. But the truth was, part of me liked knowing someone else was awake in the flat. That there was another heartbeat in the silence. The thought made me uneasy, however.
It was comfort and danger, rolled into one.
I tried closing my eyes. Tried steady breathing. Then I heard it, a small, subtle sound. The shift of blankets, maybe, followed by a soft exhale. Then it came again, not loud, just the kind of sound you wouldn’t notice unless you were already attuned to it. Gentle, rhythmic, barely there.
I frowned, half-sitting up, listening.
My pulse skipped.
I told myself it was nothing. A dream starting. A restless sleeper.
But then I caught it again, that breath, that quiet, uneven rhythm, and recognition hit like heat under my skin.
Oh.
I froze, every muscle locked.
For a second, I didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. Realisation washed over me in waves of shock, awareness, and something perilously close to arousal.
Then shame flooded me.
I should stop listening.
I should make noise, clear my throat, turn on the radio, anything.
But I didn’t.
I lay there, still as stone, every nerve tuned to the faint, impossible sound coming through the wall.
It wasn’t graphic or loud, but it was so fucking real. Soft, human sounds.
Vulnerable sounds.
I’d heard desire before, in strangers, in partners, in my own body when I let the world fall away. But this?
This was worse. Better. Different.
Because I knew whose voice it was.
Because I knew exactly what it meant to me.
I shut my eyes tight.
I wanted to picture what lay beyond my door. My imagination filled in what my conscience begged me not to see.
My heart hammered so hard I could hear it. I pressed a hand against my chest, as if that might stop it.
Don’t.
I ignored the silent plea.
I listened, my own hand straying to my cock below the sheets, even though I fought the impulse.
I heard Cameron’s ragged breaths and knew what was coming. And when the rhythm broke and faded, when the toilet flushed, when silence finally fell once more and the flat went still again, I lay there in the dark, wrecked by the quiet I’d asked for.
I turned onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, my breath shallow and uneven.
I hated myself for listening.
I hated myself for understanding.
Because what I’d heard wasn’t heat or even lust. It was raw, unguarded longing, the sound of someone finally giving in to wanting what they couldn’t have.
I’d spent years pretending that kind of wanting didn’t exist. That self-control was safety.
The evidence of its existence was ten feet away, breathing soft and steady, asleep, unknowing.
And you just made a lot of assumptions.
I ran a hand over my face, my chest tight.
The silence felt too intimate now, like a secret we were both keeping.
Things can’t stay like this.
Something had shifted.
Something that wouldn’t shift back.
And as I stared into the dark, my heart pounding, one thought kept circling, quiet and helpless.
He’s not a boy anymore.
The thought that followed was softer, yet more dangerous:
And I don’t know how to pretend I don’t hear him.