summary: you try so hard to be easy, but max loves you best in the moments you need him most.
word count: 2.7k words
a/n: happy max bump day to those who celebrate!!! this was a request, i hope you enjoy! something cute and short for max bump day! thank you for reading! i love youu!!
⸻
The restaurant glows with low golden light and polished glass. You smooth your dress for the third time before you and Max even reach the doorway.
His hand settles at your lower back. "You okay?"
You force a smile. "Yeah."
His eyes linger for one extra second, then he guides you inside.
Don't be weird tonight. Don't be clingy or awkward or too much.
Max moves through the room with that steady ease he carries everywhere. People naturally gravitate toward him and because you're with him, their attention turns to you too.
Aaron approaches first with that easy captain like warmth. Samantha is kind enough to loosen your shoulders. Gerrit arrives mid-story, Amy gives you a soft, knowing smile and for a while it's okay. More than okay.
Then Carlos shows up loud as always, clapping Max on the shoulder. "He brought someone smart enough to make him interesting."
You laugh and Max glances down at you with a small smile.
⸻
But dinner stretches on. Max gets pulled into conversations at the other end of the table, and you're left with Samantha, who's kind but keeps trying to draw you into a story about an event you didn't attend.
You smile. You nod. You do all the right things.
But you can feel yourself slipping.
It starts small, your fingers tap against your glass, you catch yourself and make them stop. They start again almost immediately against your thigh, a rhythm you can't control, like your body knows something your brain won't admit that you don't belong in this room.
Across the room, Max is laughing at something someone said. He looks completely at ease, the way he always does in public. Like this is easy for him, like he's not counting the minutes or wondering if people are tired of him or—
Then he glances over at you.
Just once. But it's enough to make you look away, suddenly aware of how small you're trying to make yourself, how hard you're gripping the edge of the table.
He shouldn't have to do that. Shouldn't have to check on you like you're something that might break.
A few minutes later, he's back at your side.
"You doing okay?" His voice is quiet.
You hate how badly you want to say no. You hate that he can tell.
Instead, you nod. "Yeah. I'm fine."
His gaze drops to your hand but he doesn't call you on it. He just sees it, sees you.
Then someone calls his name.
He hesitates. You can see it, that split second where he's deciding between staying and going.
Don't make him stay. Don't be the reason he has to leave.
You summon another smile and tilt your head toward the group. "Go."
He doesn't move right away.
"Go," you say again, lighter this time, like you're not slowly unraveling. "I'm fine."
He studies you for a second, then brushes his thumb against your back before stepping away.
And immediately, even with him still in the same room, you miss him so badly it physically hurts.
⸻
This is exactly what you don't want to be. Someone he has to manage. Someone who makes him annoyed, even if he won't say it. How long before he gets tired of having to check on you? Of leaving conversations early? Of pretending it doesn't bother him?
Because it has to bother him, you're bothering him. That's what this is.
You stare down at the table and blink hard.
You're deeply embarrassed. Not just by your own skin, your own brain but by the fact that Max is over there being perfectly fine, perfectly normal, and you're sitting here unraveling. He's so easy with this and you can't even manage one dinner.
⸻
A few minutes later, he's back.
Not checking on you this time. Just naturally drifting back to your side like he can't help it, settling into the chair beside you with a hand on your knee. He's still listening to whoever's talking across the table, still present but his attention is partly yours now. The small comfort of him being close enough to touch.
You realize then that you can't ask him to leave out loud. Not with Carlos watching, not with Samantha two seats over. Not with the whole table potentially hearing you admit that you can't do this.
That's when you notice his phone on the table, tucked beside your water glass.
It's stupid. It's so stupid.
But you glance over at him. He's distracted, nodding at something Aaron said. Carefully, quietly, you pick up his phone, unlock it and open the notes app.
Your thumb hovers for a second.
Then you type:
please please can we leave
You stare at it, your heart pounding. It feels like admitting something out loud even though no one can hear.
You swallow and add:
i'm trying so hard not to be weird
You almost delete that line. Instead, you add one more:
also can we get food on the way home
You slide it back toward him on the table, your hands shaking slightly.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then Max glances down. His eyes find the phone, find the screen. You watch his face as he reads first line, second, third. His expression doesn't change but his hand tightens slightly on your knee.
He reads it again.
Then he leans closer, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
"Yeah?"
It's not a question about whether you're sure. It's a question about whether you really want to go, and if you do, does it matter why.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He nods back, picks up his phone, and stands.
"Come on," he says quietly.
That's it, no announcement, no explanation, no performance of normalcy.
He just reaches down and offers you his hand.
That's it no confusion, teasing, or questions. Just a simple, immediate offer.
Your throat tightens.
"I'm sorry," you say. "I know we just got here, and I know this matters—"
"Hey." His voice gets even gentler. "You don't have to do that."
"I don't want to make you leave because I'm being weird."
"You're not being weird."
You let out a small breath. "Max."
"You wanna go," he says again, calm and certain. "So we're going."
You shake your head, embarrassed. "I feel stupid."
His expression changes just enough for you to see something firmer underneath. Not frustration with you. With the fact that you're determined to blame yourself.
"You don't need to sit here miserable so nobody thinks you're inconvenient." He shifts closer. "Least of all me."
His hand cups the side of your jaw, thumb brushing under your cheekbone.
"You didn't ruin anything," he says quietly. "Okay?"
You blink quickly and nod.
He stands, keeps one hand at your back, and handles everything so smoothly.
He leans toward Aaron and says something low and brief. Aaron gives Max a simple nod. Samantha gives you a kind smile. Gerrit lifts a hand. Amy mouths, "Goodnight."
Carlos notices immediately because of course he does. He looks at your face for half a second and seems to think better of his comment. "See you tomorrow."
Max nods. "Yeah."
That's all. Just Max's hand steady at your lower back as he guides you out.
⸻
Outside, the sidewalk is quiet. Not silent there are still cars, footsteps, the city at night but compared to the restaurant, it feels like stepping underwater.
You inhale deeply for the first time all night.
Max's hand slides from your back into yours. Neither of you says anything.
The car is even quieter, dim dashboard lights. The familiar smell of his cologne and leather and the mint gum in the console. No eyes on you, no expectations.
Max gets in, starts the engine, then looks over at you instead of pulling away.
"Better?" he asks.
You nod. "A little."
He waits. That's the thing about him, he waits in a way that never feels like pressure.
You let out a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."
His hand lands on your knee. "No."
You give a tired laugh. "You don't even know what I was going to say."
"I do." His thumb strokes once over your knee. "And no."
You finally glance up.
He looks exactly like he always does calm, steady but it hits differently now.
"I just..." You look back down. "I don't know why I get like that. Everyone was nice. I just kept thinking I should be better at it."
"At what?"
"Being there with you. Not making things harder."
His jaw shifts slightly.
"You weren't making anything harder."
"It feels like I was." The words come faster. "I don't want to be someone you have to manage in every room. I don't want you leaving things early because I can't just be normal."
He goes very still.
Then he leans back and looks at you with the kind of focus that makes it impossible to hide.
"Is that what you think I'm doing?" he asks. "Managing you?"
You wish you could pull the words back.
"No. Not exactly. I just mean—"
"I know what you mean."
There's no anger in his voice.
He lifts your joined hands and presses his mouth to your knuckles, then lets them fall between you.
"I pay attention to you because I love you," he says. "Not because there's something wrong with you that I'm trying to fix."
Your throat closes.
"You think I don't feel like that too?" He says it quietly, like he's telling you a secret. "Stuck in rooms. Watching people laugh at things and not knowing what to say. Wanting to leave."
You look up at him.
"I just know how to hide it better," he continues. "But I'm not out there being easy. I'm counting minutes the same way you are. The only difference is—" He brushes his thumb under your cheekbone. "I'd rather do the hard parts with you than the easy parts with anyone else."
Your face burns but not with shame. With the overwhelming ache of being misunderstood in a way that suddenly makes sense.
He studies you for a second, then his expression softens.
"Also," he says, "the note was very cute."
A startled laugh escapes you.
You cover your face. "Oh my god."
"There's the laugh."
"Please don't."
"The 'please please' was persuasive."
You groan softly, and he just laughs.
"I'm serious, I'm deleting myself from existence."
"No, you're not." He catches your wrist and lowers your hand gently. "You're coming with me to get food."
That makes you laugh again, weaker but real.
And just like that, the worst part of the night is over.
⸻
The drive-thru is lit too bright, but you're tucked back in your seat, shoes kicked off, one knee bent toward the console, Max's hand on your thigh. The restaurant feels like another lifetime.
He orders without making you do the talking not because he thinks you can't. Just because he knows you're still coming back to yourself.
By the time you're parked with a warm paper bag between you, the whole world has shrunk into something manageable.
Wrappers. French fries. Max reaching over to hand you sauce without asking.
"This is better," you admit quietly.
He glances over. "Yeah?"
You nod. "Much."
You eat in comfortable silence. You steal one of his fries even though you have your own, and he lets you. When you reach for another, he holds the carton just out of reach.
You narrow your eyes. "Really?"
His mouth twitches. "Thought you said you wanted your own."
You stare at him until he laughs and hands them over anyway.
There it is, that easy normalness you'd thought you lost.
After a while, you say, "Thank you."
He looks at you like there should be nothing to thank him for.
Still, he says, "Always."
The word lands soft and heavy.
You swallow. "I mean it."
"I know." He reaches over and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. "You never have to stay somewhere that makes you feel like you're crawling out of your skin just because you think I expect you to."
You lean into his hand before you can stop yourself.
He smiles, small and fond. "And for the record, I like taking you home. I'd rather be here with you in my car than stuck in that dining room for another two hours."
You snort. "You're lying."
"I'm maybe exaggerating a little," he admits. "But not by much."
You laugh, shaking your head.
Then you look out the windshield at the city lights blurring softly and say the thing still sitting under everything.
"I really was trying not to be weird."
His expression softens immediately.
"I know."
He knows. He knew all night, probably from the second you walked in. He knew when your fingers started tapping. When your smile got tighter. When you kept saying you were fine in that carefully casual voice. And he didn't make you feel dramatic for it. He never does.
Max reaches for the drink in your cupholder, takes a sip, then says, "Next time, you don't even have to write it down."
You smile a little. "No?"
He shakes his head. "You can text me from across the table. Kick me under the chair. Give me a look. Whatever you want."
"A look?"
He demonstrates a comically miserable expression for half a second.
You laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink.
"Okay, not that look," he says, laughing too. "But something close."
You wipe under one eye, grinning. "You're so annoying."
"Mm." He reaches over and squeezes your knee. "And yet."
"And yet," you echo.
⸻
By the time he drives you home, the night has softened around the edges.
Inside everything is quieter, shoes by the door, lights kept low. The familiar ease of his place wrapping around you. He takes the nearly empty food bag, tosses it out, then comes back to find you standing in the kitchen, worn out now that you're fully safe.
His face changes immediately.
He opens his arms without a word.
You go into them just as quietly.
His hand slides up your back, then down again in one long, grounding pass. Your cheek presses to his chest. You can hear his heartbeat.
"I'm sorry," you mumble into his shirt one last time.
He leans his cheek against the top of your head. "No."
You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sigh. "You really hate that apology."
"I hate that you think you owe it."
His hand settles at the back of your neck, thumb brushing there lightly.
"You asking me to take you home will never be something I hold against you," he says quietly.
Your throat tightens.
"Ever?"
He tips your face up to look at you. "Ever. I'm serious."
You nod. "I know."
He studies you for another second, then presses a kiss to your forehead first, then another to your lips.
When he pulls back, he says, "Comfy clothes?"
You smile faintly. "Please please."
His grin is immediate. "There she is."
You groan and shove lightly at his chest, and he just laughs, catches your hand, and kisses your knuckles before leading you toward the bedroom.
⸻
Later, when you're changed and curled up together in bed, Max picks up his phone from the nightstand.
"What are you doing?" you ask sleepily.
He doesn't answer right away.
Instead he types something, sets the phone down, and turns the screen toward you.
The note is still there.
please please can we leave
i'm trying so hard not to be weird
also can we get food on the way home
And under all of it, in his handwriting, he's added one last line.
always.
You stare at it until your vision blurs a little.
Then you look at him.
Max just reaches over, brushes his fingers along your jaw, and kisses you once more like there's nowhere else he would rather be.
There never was.
⸻
taglist (lmk if you want to be added!!): @diorjtrk @wildlaufey3 @graceeehhhh @hotwheels1108 @you-got-me-star-lost-16 @thelunarbar @hockeygirlyyyy @quinnintheabyss @peachmango-kombucha @boybandbaby @divinedelusional @hockey-racing-fubol @melsgf @anonymousie @refinedanimal @spooky-newt @selv1sh @twistedprincess-92 @earthlings0000
thinking about riding aaron judge for the first time
you'd be chilling on the couch after taking shower together. golden light of the setting sun, iluminating the penthouse. Aaron was wearing fluffy white bathrobe and his curls were still damp after shower. you were sitting on the opposite side, legs stretched across the couch, ankles and feet resting on Aaron's thighs. he was texting his brother while you read your book. well, book you were reading a while ago, because now you looked more at him, than at words on the pages. he saw it with the corner of his eye, but didn't even smirk to himself, so you didn't notice. he just put one hand on your calve, massaging your soft skin. but when you finally gave up pretending to read, he turned his head towards you.
he gazed at you and you held back eye contact. he smiled at the little spark of mischief in your eyes.
"you're up to something" he muttered, smile still plastered on your face.
"me? where you'd get the idea?" you answered, taking your feet of his lap.
"just sensing it. quiet before storm" he murmured, scooting closer to you.
"you're so hot, you know that?" you said in the softest voice. Aaron chuckled as something stirred in his chest.
"says who?" he answered, looking down at you, heart eyes, laced with lust. he expected you to blush and lean into him, hiding your face in his neck, but not this time.
you kept looking at him and then leaned in, closing the distance between you two, capturing his lips. he immediately opened his mouth, small moan escaping yours as he kissed back just right, just the way you liked it. slowly, building the passion and tempo. you smiled into the kiss and bit his lower lip, surprising him. he wrapped one arm around your waist, grabbing you closer to him. his hand roamed your body. one stayed on your hip as the other settled on your breast, squeezing and playing with your nipple. you pulled back for air and hopped on his lap, straddling him now.
you undid the bathrobe belt, sliding it of his shoulders, and put your hands on his chest, steadying yourself. you own silky bathrobe still around your body, and Aaron pressed open mouth kisses on your cleavage, his hands squeezing skin on your hips.
"Aaron" you said weakly, trying not to moan already.
"hmm?" he hummed not moving away, from your chest, but looked up when you didn't answer. "what is it, baby?"
"i-i actually was thinking about something" you said, playing with his curls now.
"yeah? what was it?" he encouraged you, rubbing circles on your lower back with his thumbs.
"it's nothing, crazy, but it's new for me, you know..."
he brought his lips to your neck, kissing your sweet spot, just the right amount of pressure and he licks the spot after.
his eyes gazing softly at you, but they're wide and darker than usual, and it gave you courage to finally speak your mind.
"wanna... wanna be on top today" you let out, biting your lip.
Aaron's eyes lit up and grew even darker. he let out a quiet groan and a grin appeared on his face.
"wanna take me for a spin, huh?"
you smiled back at him, leaning in for a kiss. it started sweetly, but became sloppy, hands roaming and he's fully hard within seconds. you both lost your bathrobes in the process, Aaron naked as he didn't bother to put boxers on after shower. you feel him grinding on you, and thrill of excitement ran down your spine and you shivered. Aaron looked in awe at your body above him.
"hey" he spoke softly, cupping your cheek. affection slipping in the heat between you. "we'll go at your pace, as we always do. don't worry about a thing" he kisses your temple, and you close your eyes for a moment. "it's gonna feel so good, trust me"
"i always do"
Aaron smiles at you, taken aback with the way you open yourself to him. he kisses you again, as you go into another make out session. thoughts about you run through his mind.
you've been dating for over 6 months and so much has changed between you two. he remembered how shy you were at the beginning. like you were scared you weren't good enough for him. like your lack of experience was something bad. yet you didn't know that at the beginning he got know idea you were a virgin. that only one guy made you come on his fingers, none of your boyfriends could do that by going down on you. he was amazed how a girl this pretty, smart and gorgeous never had anyone making her feel like a goddess. and when he found out his heart swelled with pride that he was going to be the one, treating you like that.
for all this time you've been dating you did a lot, you were glowing beside him. so was he. he swore to god he never had any girl making him feel like that. and now you wanted to be on top. you didn't necessarily asked for control, but he was sure one day you're going to. the thought of that making his head spin, and he groaned loudly into your mouth. just when you positioned yourself, slowly taking his tip in. that first stretch always making the heat spread in your belly.
you let out a small moan and Aaron toyed with your nipples to distract you.
"yeah, baby, just like that, slowly. go how you want" he assured you. you nodded, your chest going up and down. he glued his mouth to your neck, kissing and nibbling and you take him further inch by inch. your moans turn into whimpers, caused both by his length and his lips on your neck. he's not quiet either, although he tries. he doesn't wanna pressure you, but God you're so good to him. he bites you when you're fully in and you gasp.
"sorry, princess. you're just... fuck you're gorgeous" he looked at you again, clashing your lips together. meanwhile the slight pain began to disappear and you can fully enjoy him being inside you. you feel it as you moan into the kiss. it's different. way deeper in this position. and you love it so bad. you clinged to him, taking a while to adjust, to feel him.
"Aaron I don't know if i" you sighed and he knows right away. you're not sure if you want him to take control or to try yourself.
"move on me baby, you can do it" Aaron whispered. he didn't want to thrust right up, worried that it may be too much for you in this position. he can only wonder how it is for you, but by your pace he knows the stretch is different, that he reaches places no one has ever touched.
you wrapped your arms around his neck and moved your hips up. and then you did it, you sank back down. and pleasure rushed through your veins and mouth opened in a loud gasp.
Aaron smirked and wondered if he didn't just get harder.
"yeah? feels good, princess?"
you noded, moving again, tad faster. you stayed down for a while and circlef your hips, finding a different angle. you clamped down on him already and he let out a string of curses. it spurred you on and you go up again. and then down. you finally found your rhythm and you didn't even notice but soon you were bouncing on his cock just like you would've already done it thousands of times.
he was all you saw, heard and feelt, he filled you in a way you never thought someone could. you felt like you were having your insides rearranged, but you craved it you couldn't get enough.
his name on your mouth constantly. you're eyes closed as you were chasing your orgasm, and Aaron didn't even bother to tell you to keep em open. instead he soaked up the moment, mesmerized by your beauty, your body, the sounds you were making. and the way your pussy was taking him in. how your hips moved and tits bounced. he wanted to last, but he felt he wasn't going to make it much longer.
"sweetheart" he rasped, growl escaped his lips when you opened your eyes, glassy and filled with fire at the same time. "i need to move with you, need to make you come, baby, I can't hold out much longer"
"fuck yes, please do. just wanna make you feel good, daddy" you moaned and that was it for him. he thrusted his hips up, moving in perfect sync with you.
your head was spinning, coil in your belly tightening, your nails scratching his back. you were so loud, your brain fuzzy, filled only with Aaron. his hands went to your ass, grabbing it so hard and pulling it down on him. you screamed his name and stars appeared in front of your eyes. he let go right after you, groaning into your neck as you both rode out your orgasms.
you lied on his chest, completely spent. listening to his heart that was racing as fast as yours. he stared into the ceiling, breathing heavily.
"princess, you okay?" he asked.
you were quiet for a while, face burried in his neck eyes closed and for a moment he thought you fell asleep.
"baby?" he shook you softly, as he got a little worried.
you opened your eyes, he felt your eyelashes on his collabone. you looked up at him with glossy eyes and still didn't say anything. he opened his mouth, scared that he hurt you, but you were faster.
"Aaron, why?" you panted quietly and his eyes went wide again "why we haven't done this earlier?" you grin at him and he laughs, and you can't help but join him.
"god you're such a tease, i swear" he said, shaking his head "come here" he lifted your chin up, catching your lips in a kiss.
"to answer your question" he murmured when you pulled back. "i don't know why, but i guess we just have to make up for it, what do you think?"
a/n: oop its kinda long. hope you don't mind, dolls♡ ik my next fic was supposed to be about G, but Aaron took over my mind today. please lmk your thoughts, bc im not so sure ab this fic. love u
You didn’t think you’d ever see Aaron’s calm personality crack. You didn’t think it would happen at a Halloween event at that. But could you blame him? You always looked great, but it only amplified with the costume you were wearing.
The blue plaid dress had your perfect legs on display. White socks stopping mid thigh and the red bow in your hair. He knew you’d be the center of attention at the packed bar.
You were always the center of attention regardless of where you two were. Yet, he hadn’t anticipated for how many eyes would be on you. From the second you two walked in, heads turned to your direction. Aaron grabbed your hand and had you walk infront of him.
He made sure to order your drink and to keep you tucked at his side. He thought it was obvious you were his, even with an arm around your waist, the eyes lingered all over you.
He wasn’t a fan of PDA, he didn’t have to do too much to show anyone you were his. But after a long night of seeing people eye you up and down, looking at you like you were their next meal, he had to kiss you. His tongue explored your mouth, putting on a show for the little audience you created.
The rest of the night was a blur for him. He can’t remember what time he dragged you out of the bar. All he knows you were whining about wanting to stay out a little more. He knew if he stayed there he would grow mad. He needed to hear you say his name, cry out for him— prove you’re all his.
All he knows is he’s got you where he needed you, in his bed. His sheets under your soft skin, his hands over your warm skin and his name falling from your lips. He’s got your costume on the floor, you’re only left in the socks and bra.
He’s been in between your legs for what seemed like forever. Sucking and lapping up all the juices. You’ve already came 2 times, his breathe against your folds making your legs shake.
“All mine right baby?” he asks, fingers spreading your fold to get a better look at you. You moan out as his thumb rubs your clit. “Say it” he repeats, and your hips move to relieve some of the pressure.
“All yours Aaron, fuck” you whisper out. He’s not satisfied with that, he tells you to say it louder. Which you do. He pushes your knees to your chest, then undoes his belt. The metal clanking fills your ears. The overstimulation has tears threatening to spill from purse bliss.
He massages the fat tip onto your puffy pussy, causing your hips to jolt. He slaps your clit with it before sliding in. The stretch still hurts even after being fingered. But it’s a stretch that you’ve learned to love.
You grip the back of your knees tighter as he goes deeper. “Fuck, too big—“ you whine out, back arching off the bed. Your eyes squinting at the feeling of being so full, a tear slides down. His thumb immediately wipes it away and he connects your lips.
He pushes all the way and stays still. You clench around him, tears spilling over your lashes. When Aaron pulls back the scene only motivates him more. He’s pulling back, then sliding back all the way in. Each thrust has the air knocked out of your lungs.
In any other circumstance Aaron would hate to see you cry. But seeing you sprawled out on your back, glossy eyes filled with tears— it only turns him on even more. How could you look so good with tears spilling from your eyes?
He knows he shouldn’t feel jealous, it’s not your fault the men at the bar were looking at you.
Aaron’s hand pushes your hands off of your legs, and spreads them. “She’s fucking soaked, who’s got you this wet baby?” he teases picking up the pace.
“You— only you. Shit feels really good” you cry out. It’s a sight he’ll never forget. You’re clenching around him, he knows you’re close. But he’s still filled with jealousy, even if he’s fucking you, and the only one who ever will.
He pushes his hips and has them flat against yours. You’re filled to the brim and he grabs your hair and pulls it. The tension exposes your neck and he starts leaving hickeys. The marks fill up and down your neck. He’s not even moving yet you’re clamping down on him.
His fingers find your clit as he starts to thrust in and out. You’re completely fucked out, the only response your body gives him is through tears. “Fuck— my pretty girl, it’s okay, let go. Shit you’re so tight” he coo’s you through.
His eyes stay focused on yours, it’s almost too much to look at. You look like you’re out of the perfect porno, except you’re too good for that and you’re for his eyes only.
When he pushes his hand on your stomach it causes you to cum for the 3rd time that night. Aaron pulls out quickly and thrusts through your fold— something he’s never done.
It feels foreign, but it feels delicious. It’s a sticky mess that stimulates your clit. He’s cursing under his breath as he drags the tip to your hole, going in and then out.
He’s done edging himself, and slides completely inside again. The feeling of your wet warm walls sending a shiver up his spine. He’s fucked you through orgasms but nothings felt like this. Your pussy clings to him, pulling him back everytime he moves.
All he does is stare where you two meet, and where his dick disappears. A sheer white coat covers his length. Your tear stained cheeks make his stomach tense. You clamp down at the view of him having his head thrown back. His mind wanders to you pregnant— no one would question if you were his.
His mind is filled with images of you swollen, full of him. Aaron can’t help but grind into you harshly, he grabs the thigh high socks as leverage as he hits your g spot.
His chain with your initial is slapping against his chest as he chases his own orgasm. You’re overstimulated more than you’ve ever been. Eyes shut close and mouth open as he cums. You feel the hot liquid fill you, a feeling you’ll never get tired of.
“Wasn’t too rough right?” he asks, rubbing your legs— still inside you. You’re growing tired, but still want to talk to him. You shake your head no. “Only time I want to see you crying is like this baby” he say whispers before kissing your chest.
“Let’s see if I have any tears left” you tease, and you feel him growing hard again.
a/n: Finally wrote Cam.. also I wanna write more yankees players send requests?
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand and drags you out of that fuzzy half-asleep place.
Cam💙: you awake?
Cam💙: sorry that's such a dumb question to text at 3 AM
Cam💙: i can't sleep. can i come over? i just really want to see you
You're typing back before you're even fully awake.
yes please you okay?
Cam💙: i will be. I just need you. 10 minutes?
You don't bother changing, you're already in his hoodie, the navy one he "forgot" at your place two weeks ago and never got back. Still smells like him.
The knock is so quiet you almost miss it. When you open the door he's standing there looking wrecked, Yankees beanie crooked, in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, eyes tired but they go soft the second they land on you.
"Hi," he says, quiet, like he doesn't want to be loud at this hour.
"Hi."
His eyes catch on the hoodie and something in his face just melts.
"You're wearing my hoodie."
"Yeah." You step back to let him in, a little shy about it. "Is that okay?"
"Okay?" He's already crossing the room toward you. "You have no idea what that does to me."
He tugs at the too-long sleeves, then pulls you in, and you wrap your arms around him and feel him exhale into your hair like he's been holding his breath all night.
"Missed you," he mumbles.
"You saw me yesterday."
"I know. Still missed you."
You pull back enough to look at him. He looks exhausted. "What's going on in your head?"
"Too much." He tries for a smile and it doesn't quite land. "Couldn't shut my brain off. Kept thinking about everything and nothing." He pauses, thumb still moving over your arm without him seeming to notice. "I just needed to be near you. You make it quiet."
"Come on," you say, taking his hand. "Bed."
His fingers lace through yours right away, like he needs the anchor.
Your room is dark and warm, the sheets still holding your body heat. He kicks off his shoes and looks at you with this open, tired look that makes you want to pull him under the blankets and not let anything else touch him tonight.
"Which side do you want?"
"Whichever one's closer to you."
You climb in first. He follows, and for a second you're just facing each other in the dark.
"Thanks for letting me show up like this," he says. "I just needed you."
"You can always show up."
His eyes go a little glassy and he pulls you in, no space left between you. You tuck your head under his chin, and his arms come around you, one at your waist, one hand cupping the back of your head.
"This okay?" he asks, even though you're already settled against him.
"Perfect."
He kisses your hair, then again, then rests his cheek there. Your leg hooks over his, and he makes a low, satisfied sound you feel more than hear.
"You're warm," he murmurs. “Wearing my hoodie." Another kiss. "I'm not getting this back, am I."
"Nope."
He laughs, low and tired. "Good. Keep it."
You tip your head up and he's already looking down at you.
"What were you thinking about? That kept you up?"
"Honestly?" His hand drags slow circles on your back. "You. How I don't know what I did to end up with someone who lets me show up at 3 AM because I can't sleep. Who wears my clothes. Who makes me feel like I'm home."
"Cam." You reach up, hand on his jaw.
He leans into it, eyes closing. "Yeah?"
"You are home. With me. Whenever you need."
He kisses you, soft, unhurried, like he means it more than he can say.
"Stay," you whisper against his mouth.
"Wasn't planning on leaving."
You settle back into him, and his hand slides under the hoodie to rest against your bare back. He sighs like something in him finally lets go.
"Your heartbeat's my favorite sound," he mumbles, already halfway to sleep.
"That's the cheesiest thing you've ever said."
"Don't care. It’s true."
You smile against his chest and listen to his breathing slow. His hand goes still on your back as sleep takes him. You stay up a little longer, feeling his heartbeat, his arm heavy around you, the whole weight of him settling into you.
You kiss his chest, right over his heart.
"Sweet dreams."
He mumbles something you can't make out and pulls you closer anyway.
You close your eyes and let go too.
—
Late morning, no alarm, you wake up still tangled together, his face in your neck, your hand fisted in his shirt, his leg thrown over both of yours.
He stirs, says your name into your skin, and holds on tighter.
"Five more minutes."
"However long you want."
He smiles against you, and you both drift off again, exactly where you're supposed to be.
a/n: bc the age gap btw me and him is 14 years 🤭 but in this i’ll make it eight years so it ain’t too crazy. also inspired by this tiktok of him (also ntm on volpe we love him!!)
⟢ giancarlo — or big g — was given unc status by his teammates years ago. he was the big, often quiet giant who did two things: gave advice and hit home runs. he never talked about his personal life both out of respect for his own privacy and his typical quiet nature.
⟢ so when his teammates first learned about you and your relationship with him, everyone threw you both a side eye. of all the women his age that he could’ve pulled, he decided to go young. wayyyy younger than people expected.
⟢ you were almost the complete opposite of him; you were bold with your words, audacious in the way you conveyed yourself, and unlike giancarlo, would actually argue with anyone who made comments on your age gap. not that he minded the comments people made, but he was used to maintaining his nonchalant attitude to the rest of the world. he actually found your need to defend the relationship quite adorable.
⟢ the two of you were dating for a little over five months, so when you — who was on instagram more than whales came up for air — made the relationship public, he braced himself for the “isn’t she too young for him?” comments.
⟢ but when he saw how happy it made you to kiss after a game or hold hands in public, he couldn’t deny your joy. if anything, he yearned for it more and more and was thrilled to be with you beyond the four walls of his apartment.
⟢ on games where you were sat in the audience, you’d wear the number 27 and cheer as loud as you could. somehow, despite the thousands of people present at the stadium, he’d find your eyes and wink to you. of course, this made people stare and take photos like they were gawking at a statue in a museum. but it never bothered you and him. if anything, after a game, you’d upload an instagram story of you and giancarlo together with his lips on your cheek and hands above your ass — just to spite the critics.
⟢ when you were at games, journalists would interview giancarlo post game about you instead of the game itself. but of course, ever the respectful man, he’d avoid it entirely.
“what a game, giancarlo! do you have anyone you’d accredit your success to tonight?… say, your rumored girlfriend?” one journalist asked.
“i really tried to hit beyond the outfield as much as possible, it’s all I could really do to get the win for us today.”
“and no one you’d give a shoutout to for their support from the stadium today?”
“i’d say my teammates in the dugout, aaron judge is the best captain we could’ve ever asked for and really helps me focus.”
⟢ but because you and giancarlo were polar opposites, people would instead find you after a game to ask about your relationship with him. mainly because they knew you’d talk.
“do you feel like you and giancarlo’s age gap is a little …risqué?”
“not really, if anything i think everyone just needs someone older,” you smirked, watching the journalists face fall at his failed attempt to rage bait.
⟢ giancarlo would watch the interview back at home, with you snuggled under his arm, and laugh. laugh at the audacity of reporters and your wit against them.
⟢ beyond protecting you from the critics, dating an older man like giancarlo meant he was a bit more protective than most. in public or not, he’d keep you close by as if a hawk could snatch you up if he wasn’t looking. his hand on the small of your back or latched with your own, he used his tall, athletic build to protect you like a knight with his princess.
⟢ if he played against teams that made comments about you before or during a game, he’d play better than he usually did to silence them. that or he’d talk shit right back to them. because despite his calm demeanor, the only thing that made him lose his cool was when someone thought it was okay to speak poorly about you.
⟢ and you ate it up every time. you’d kiss his cheeks in thanks after a game, watching him blush and squeeze your waist tighter. you’d squish his biceps because you loved the feeling of them, which only made him laugh. you’d lean your head on his side while his arm wrapped around your waist when you were both at an event you couldn’t escape. you’d kiss him like you’d given the whole world the privilege and honor to even look at the two of you and your love.
⟢ despite it taking months for him to post you and him on his social media, he was the most intimate and romantic man you’d ever been with — beyond what the world could see. he’d never let you walk on the side closest to the road, never let you carry a bag that wasn’t your own purse, and he’d even massage your feet after you wore heels to an event that you swore would be fine but were not.
⟢ he loved to listen to you ramble about your favorite movies and genres of music, taking every recommendation you suggested. he loved finding different ways to make you laugh, smile, and moan — whether through passionate sex or delicious food he’d cook for you. he always wanted to see you happy.
⟢ while giancarlo was obviously more mature than you, being around him helped to keep you level headed and clear minded with him and yourself. when you both fought, instead of having headache inducing arguments, he’d run his thumbs over the backs of your hands and spoke to you softly. you learned to keep your temper at a minimum, in fear of losing him over a simple misunderstanding. but even when you did crash out on him at times, he’d wait for you to finish before he calmly explained his side of the argument. with him, you’d never go to sleep angry with one another, apologize and kiss after a fight, and work to be more understanding of one another.
⟢ on the other hand, your vivacious energy encouraged giancarlo to get out of his shell more. you’d make him dress up for holidays like halloween, travel to different countries, and he learned to use social media more. but of course, if he wasn’t posting about his baseball career, he was posting about you.
⟢ whether it was a photo of you asleep on his shoulder in the car, a quick video of you two on a date where he thought you looked breathtakingly gorgeous, or a photo of you kissing him on the cheek in another country, he loved to show you off. he loved to speak your “language:” social media content. not only because he loved to see you happy but because he did love to show people how beautiful you were. and that you were his.
⟢ naturally, when you met his teammates, you became friends with a lot of them — like jazz and ben — because you were there age. and if there was any feeling of jealousy that giancarlo felt at your newfound bond with his teammates, you’d kiss away his stress and show him that he was the only man for you.
⟢ through and through, you and giancarlo had a relationship that most didn’t understand but only the two of you cared to protect. and you both loved it — and each other.
summary: cam spends the whole day watching you like he’s trying to behave, but the second the villa door closes, you realize his silence was never calm.
word count: 6.7k words
a/n: this was a request, i hope you enjoy!! cam is stressing me out rn but as promised cam smut! thank you for reading!! i love youuu!!
warnings: SMUT
⸻
The first thing you notice is how different Cam looks when baseball isn't dictating his life.
He's sprawled out on the towel next to yours, one arm thrown over his eyes to block the sun, his other hand resting on his stomach. His hair's messy from the saltwater, sticking up in the back, and there's sand dusted across his shoulder. His breathing is slow and even, like he might actually fall asleep right here on this quiet stretch of beach in Turks and Caicos. That alone feels like a small miracle.
During the season, Cam runs on a clock. Every day is mapped out down to the hour, wake up, work out, eat, stretch, throw, review film, sleep, repeat. You've watched him set alarms for naps and turn down dinner invitations because his routine doesn't bend for spontaneity.
But here, there's no schedule. No bullpen sessions or reporters or pressure. It's just the two of you with an entire week and nowhere to be.
He'd slept until ten this morning and when he finally rolled over to find you already awake, scrolling through your phone, he'd smiled and pulled you back down into the sheets. You'd ordered room service for breakfast and eaten it on the balcony in your pajamas while the ocean glittered below. He'd kissed your shoulder and said, "We should do this more often."
You'd agreed.
Now it's late afternoon, and you've been at the beach for hours. The sun is golden and gentle, the kind of light that sinks into your skin and makes you feel lazy in the best way. A few other people dot the sand, but it's quiet. Private. Peaceful.
Cam shifts beside you, and you glance over.
He's not sleeping. He's watching you.
You catch his eyes just before he looks away, and something about how quickly he does it makes you pause. He reaches for the water bottle between your towels like that's what he was doing the whole time, but you saw the way his gaze had been resting on you, steady and focused, a little too intense for a lazy beach day.
"You're staring," you say, propping yourself up on one elbow.
Cam takes a sip of water, his expression unreadable. "I'm allowed."
"At what?"
He sets the bottle down and looks at you again, and this time he doesn't look away.
"You."
It's such a simple answer, but the way he says it makes your stomach flip. There's weight behind it, something simmering under the surface that wasn't there this morning.
You laugh, trying to shake off the sudden warmth in your chest. "I've been here the whole time, Cam."
"I know."
He says it quietly, almost like he's admitting something, and then he leans back on his towel and closes his eyes. But you can tell he's not relaxed his jaw is tight, his fingers drumming once against his thigh before he stills them.
That's when you realize he's been quiet today. Not in a bad way, not distant or upset, just... quiet. The kind that means he's thinking too hard about something he's not saying.
You let it go for now and lie back down, but you're suddenly aware of him in a way you weren't before. The space between your towels feels smaller. Every time you shift or stretch or reach for your phone, you can feel his attention on you like something tangible.
⸻
An hour later, you get up to go into the water, and Cam follows without a word.
You just stand, brush the sand off your legs, and start walking toward the ocean. When you glance back, he's already on his feet.
The water is perfect warm and clear, the kind of blue that doesn't look real. You get in up to your waist, then dive under, letting the salt wash over you.
When you surface, Cam is a few feet away, watching you.
"What?" you ask, smoothing your hair back.
He shakes his head, smiling a little. "Nothing."
But it's not nothing. You can see it in the way he's looking at you, like he's trying to commit this moment to memory.
A wave rolls in, and you brace yourself, laughing as it lifts you off your feet for a second. Cam moves closer, his hands finding your waist to steady you, and suddenly the playful moment shifts into something else entirely.
You're chest deep in the water now, far enough from shore that no one's nearby. His hands stay on your waist, his thumb brushing the skin just above your swimsuit line, and the touch is so deliberate it makes your breath catch.
"You know what you're doing, right?" he says, his voice lower than before.
You tilt your head, playing innocent. "I'm swimming."
His mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. "Sure."
He's close enough now that you can see the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than it should. For a second, you think he's going to kiss you. His eyes drop to your mouth, and his grip on your waist tightens just slightly—
And then someone laughs loudly from the beach. A jet ski roars past in the distance. Cam pulls back not far, but just enough. His jaw tightens, and he lets out a slow breath through his nose, like he's forcing himself to behave.
"Come on," he says, his voice rough. "Let's go back."
⸻
Back on the sand, the tension doesn't break. If anything, it gets worse.
Cam stays calm about it, which somehow makes it more unbearable. He's not obvious, not doing anything anyone else would notice. But you notice.
His hand settles on your lower back as you walk to the towels, palm warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress. When he hands you a drink from the cooler, his thumb brushes your hip and lingers just a second too long.
When you pull the cover up over your head, his eyes follow you the way his gaze drags over your shoulders, your waist, your legs before he looks away and takes a long drink of his beer makes your pulse skip.
Later, when you bend down to grab your sunglasses from the beach bag, he goes completely still. His hand tightens around the bottle.
It's maddening.
The worst part? He's not even trying to hide it anymore. Every time you catch him looking, he holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary, like he's daring you to say something.
So you do.
You wait until you're sitting next to him under the cabana at the beach bar, the sun starting to dip lower in the sky, everything bathed in gold. He's nursing a drink, eyes on the horizon, and you finally call him out.
"You've been quiet today."
Cam glances at you, then back at his glass. "Have I?"
"Yeah."
He shrugs, but there's something deliberate about the casualness of it. "Didn't realize."
"Is something wrong?"
That makes him pause. He sets his drink down and reaches for your hand, fingers curling around yours. When he lifts your knuckles to his mouth and presses a kiss there, it's so gentle it almost makes you forget the tension from earlier.
Almost.
"Nothing's wrong," he says quietly.
You wait for him to continue.
He sighs, thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand. "I just like looking at you."
The honesty in his voice makes your chest tighten, but before you can respond, he keeps going.
"You look happy here. Relaxed. I don't get to see you like this enough."
God, that shouldn't hit you as hard as it does.
He's right, though. During the season, you're both always moving, always busy, always trying to fit your lives around his schedule. Here, there's no rush. No pressure. Just the two of you, and the ocean, and all the time in the world.
"Cam," you start, but he's not done.
His gaze drops just for a second to your mouth, then lower, to where the strap of your swimsuit peeks out from under the wrap. When his eyes meet yours again, there's a heat in them that wasn't there before.
"And I've been trying to be good about it," he adds, his voice rougher now.
Your pulse kicks up. "Trying?"
Cam leans closer, and the air between you feels charged, heavy with everything he's been holding back all day.
"Trying really hard."
The words land like a match struck in the dark, and suddenly you understand everything.
He hasn't been quiet because something's wrong. He's been quiet because he's been holding himself back all day wrestling with the need to touch you, forcing his hands to stay to himself in public, pushing through every moment when all he wanted was to pull you somewhere private and show you exactly what's been on his mind.
You can't stop looking at him now the tension coiled in his shoulders, his fingers tightening around his glass, the hunger in his eyes as they keep drifting back to you like he can't help himself.
"We should head back," you say softly.
His gaze sharpens, and for a moment, he doesn't move. Then he nods, drains the rest of his drink in one swallow, and stands.
He offers you his hand.
When you take it, you feel the barely restrained control in the way his fingers close around yours.
⸻
The walk back to the villa feels longer than it should.
You don't say much to each other. The silence between you is thick and heavy, charged with anticipation.
The sun has dipped low enough that the sky is painted in shades of orange and pink, but you barely notice. All you can focus on is the warmth of Cam's palm against your lower back, steady and possessive through the thin fabric of your cover up.
His touch isn't casual anymore. There's intention behind it his fingers spread wide, his thumb brushing against your spine with every step.
You try to focus on the path ahead, the ocean behind you, anything other than the way your body is hyperaware of every point of contact between you.
But it's impossible.
Cam is right there, close enough that his arm brushes yours. You can smell the salt and sunscreen on his skin. When you glance up at him, you can see the tension in his jaw.
He's not looking at you, though. His eyes are fixed straight ahead, like he's concentrating on something, and that somehow makes it worse.
Because you know exactly what he's concentrating on. You know he's counting down the seconds until you're alone.
You reach the private path that leads to your villa, and there's no one else around now just the two of you, the fading light, and the sound of your sandals on the stone walkway.
"You're still quiet," you say, trying to break the silence.
Cam's hand tightens on your back, and he finally looks at you. The intensity in his eyes makes your stomach flip.
"Not for long," he says, his voice low and rough.
The promise in those three words sends heat flooding through you, and suddenly you're walking faster, your pulse racing as the villa comes into view. Cam keeps pace with you easily, his hand never leaving your back, and when you reach the door, he pulls out the key.
His hands are steady as he unlocks it, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing has gone just slightly uneven. He pushes the door open and steps back to let you in first, ever the gentleman, but the second you cross the threshold, everything changes.
The door closes behind you with a soft click, and then Cam is there his hands on your waist, spinning you around to face him.
You barely have time to register the look in his eyes before his mouth is on yours.
This kiss is nothing like the sweet, lazy ones from this morning. It's all hunger and need, every ounce of restraint he's been holding onto all day finally snapping. It steals the breath from your lungs, his lips demanding as his tongue slides against yours with a desperation that makes your knees weak. One hand cups the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you, while the other grips your hip hard enough that you feel the pressure of each finger through the fabric.
You make a sound something between a gasp and a moan and Cam swallows it, kissing you deeper, harder, like he's trying to make up for every moment he couldn't touch you today.
The beach bag hits the floor with a dull thud, forgotten.
"Cam—" you start, but he cuts you off with another kiss, somehow even more intense than the last.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he murmurs against your mouth, his voice rough and low. His hands slide down to your thighs, and then he's lifting you, walking you backward until your back hits the wall near the entryway.
The cool surface shocks your sun warmed skin, but it only lasts a second before Cam presses against you, his body hot and solid and everywhere. You feel the hard planes of his chest, the strength in his arms as he holds you up, the way his hips pin yours to the wall.
"All day?" you manage, breathless, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"Since you walked out in that swimsuit," he says, his mouth moving to your neck, kissing and biting the sensitive skin just below your ear. "Since I watched you put sunscreen on. Since you bent over to grab your sunglasses and I had to sit there and pretend I wasn't losing my mind."
His teeth graze your pulse point, and you arch into him, a whimper escaping your throat. Your cover up has ridden up, and his hands are on your bare thighs now, his palms rough and warm as they slide higher.
"You were staring," you say, trying to sound teasing, but it comes out shaky.
"I was." He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heated. "Couldn't help it. You looked too good."
His hand moves to the tie at your waist and tugs it loose with one smooth motion. The fabric falls open, and his gaze drops, taking in the swimsuit underneath the one that's been driving him crazy all day.
"This," he says, his fingers tracing the edge of the fabric at your hip, "has been a problem."
You laugh, but it turns into a gasp when his thumb hooks under the strap and pulls it aside, his mouth following the path his fingers just traced. He kisses your collarbone, your shoulder, the swell of your boob just above the swimsuit's neckline, and every touch feels like fire.
"You okay?" you tease, breathless. "Need a cold shower?"
Cam's hands tighten on your thighs, and he lifts his head to look at you. There's something feral in his expression now, something that makes your pulse stutter.
"Showers are done," he says, his voice rough and low. "Only thing that's gonna help now is you." His thumb digs into the soft flesh of your thigh, possessive and deliberate. "And you knew exactly what you were doing out there. Every time you stretched. Every time you smiled at me like that. You wanted this."
Before you can answer, he's kissing you again, and this time there's no gentleness to it. It's all heat and need and barely controlled desire, and you meet him with the same intensity, your nails scraping against his scalp as you pull him closer.
He makes a low sound in the back of his throat and then he's moving, carrying you away from the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and you feel the flex of his muscles, the way his hands grip you like he's afraid to let go.
He only makes it a few steps before he stops, pressing you against the back of the couch instead. His mouth never leaves yours, and his hands are everywhere sliding up your sides, tangling in your hair, gripping your ass and pulling you tighter against him.
The evidence of his desire is unmistakable, pressing against you through the thin fabric of his swim trunks, and it makes you dizzy with want.
"Cam," you breathe, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.
His hair is a mess from your fingers, his lips swollen, his chest heaving as he takes you in completely wrecked, and you've barely even started.
"You're impatient," you say, trying to catch your breath.
Something flashes in his eyes amusement mixed with heat and he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear.
"I waited," he says, his voice a low rumble that you feel as much as hear. "That was me being patient."
His mouth finds your neck again, and his hands slide up to push your cover up off your shoulders. The fabric pools at your elbows before falling to the floor, leaving you in just your swimsuit.
Cam's hands map every inch of newly exposed skin your shoulders, your arms, your waist like he's been dying to touch you without barriers. His fingers trace the line of your spine, and when you arch into him, he makes that sound again, the one that tells you he's barely holding on.
"Bedroom," you manage between breaths, and he nods, though he doesn't move right away.
Instead, he kisses you again slower this time but no less intense. His tongue slides against yours while his hands cup your face, tilting your head to exactly the angle he wants. It's possessive and tender all at once, and it makes your heart stutter in your chest.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are so dark they're nearly black, and he says roughly, "Bedroom."
He sets you down but keeps one hand at your waist while the other tangles with yours, walking you backward through the villa. You barely register the open floor plan or the ocean view through the balcony doors.
All you can focus on is Cam how he's looking at you like you're the only thing that exists, how his thumb strokes your hip, how he keeps stopping every few steps to kiss you again like he can't help himself.
You bump into the doorframe, and Cam steadies you with a hand on your waist, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Careful," he murmurs, but there's heat in his eyes that says he's anything but careful right now.
"Your fault," you shoot back, and he laughs a low, rough sound that makes your toes curl.
"Yeah, it is," he agrees, backing you through the doorway.
The bedroom is bathed in the last golden light of sunset, the sheer curtains billowing slightly from the open balcony doors. You can hear the ocean, smell the salt in the air, feel the lingering warmth of the day.
But all of that fades when Cam's hands slide up your sides again, when his mouth finds yours, when he walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands framing your face.
"Tell me if you want me to slow down," he says, and despite the urgency thrumming through both of you, there's genuine concern in his voice.
You shake your head, your hands sliding up his chest to curl around the back of his neck.
"I don't want you to slow down." The words come out steadier than you expected. "I want you."
Something in his eyes shifts softens and intensifies all at once and then he's kissing you again. This time there's no more stopping, no more waiting.
⸻
Cam's hands move to the straps of your swimsuit, sliding them down your shoulders with a deliberate slowness that contradicts the urgency from moments ago. Now that you're here, now that he finally has you alone, he's savoring every second.
"You have no idea," he murmurs against your lips, his fingers tracing the line where fabric meets skin, "what you do to me."
He kisses you again, deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours as his hands work the swimsuit down your body. The fabric peels away from your skin, and when it falls to the floor, Cam pulls back to look at you.
The way he looks at you makes your breath catch. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something almost reverent in his gaze even as electricity radiates from him.
"So fucking pretty," he says, his voice rough. His hands map your body your shoulders, your boobs, your waist, your hips like he's memorizing every curve. "You were killing me out there today."
"Was I?" you ask, trying for teasing, but it comes out breathless.
"You know you were." His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you gasp. "Stretching out on that towel, coming out of the water with your hair wet and that smile on your face. Looking at me like you didn't know exactly what you were doing."
His lips trail down your throat, across your collarbone, and then lower. He kisses the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple before he takes it into his mouth. The sensation makes your knees weak, and you reach for him, fingers threading through his hair.
"Cam—" you start, but he's already guiding you down onto the bed, his body following yours.
The sheets are cool against your back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his skin as he settles between your thighs. He's still wearing his swim trunks, and you can feel how hard he is through the fabric, the pressure making you ache.
But he doesn't rush. Instead, he kisses your mouth, your jaw, your neck, working his way down your body with a focus that makes you dizzy. His teeth graze the sensitive peak of your other breast before soothing it with his tongue, and you arch into him with a moan.
"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Let me hear you."
His hands slide down your sides, tracing patterns that make you shiver. When he reaches your hips, he pauses, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin there before his forehead comes to rest against your stomach. His breath is warm on your skin.
"I kept thinking about this all day," he says, his voice lower and rougher than before. "About getting you alone."
He lifts his head, and when his eyes meet yours, there's something raw beneath the hunger something vulnerable that makes your chest tighten.
"I was scared," he admits, the words coming out like a confession. "Scared that if I touched you the way I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to stop. That I'd lose it right there on the beach in front of everyone."
His thumb traces a slow circle on your hip.
"You have no idea what you do to me. How hard it is to keep my hands to myself when all I want is you."
The honesty in his voice, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing that matters it breaks something open in your chest.
He kisses your stomach, just below your navel, and then lower. Your breath hitches as his intentions become clear. When his mouth finds the inside of your thigh, you can't hold back the whimper that escapes.
"Cam, please—"
"I know," he says, and there's something almost smug in his tone. "I've got you."
Then his mouth is on you, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
The first touch of his tongue makes you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. He groans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body as he devours you like a man starving.
There's no hesitation, no tentative exploration. He knows exactly what you need, exactly how to make you fall apart, and he uses that knowledge without mercy. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, alternating between broad licks and focused attention on your clit that makes your thighs shake.
"Fuck," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Cam, oh my god—"
He hums in approval, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open. The salt from the ocean is still on your skin, mixing with the taste of you, and he can't get enough. His tongue circles your clit before he sucks it gently, and the sensation makes you buck against his mouth.
"Stay still," he murmurs, his voice muffled but commanding, and the authority in it makes you clench around nothing.
He slides one finger inside you, then two, curling them until stars burst behind your eyelids. His mouth and fingers work together, building pleasure in waves that threaten to pull you under.
"You're so wet," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are slick, his eyes dark as he watches you. "So perfect. I could do this all night."
"Don't stop," you beg, and he gives you that dangerous, quiet smile you've been seeing all day.
"Wasn't planning on it."
He doubles down with renewed intensity, his tongue working your clit while his fingers pump in and out. The sounds are obscene wet and desperate but you're too far gone to care. All you can focus on is the pleasure building in your core, the way his fingers hit that spot inside you that makes you see white, the way his mouth feels like heaven and sin all at once.
"Cam, I'm—" you start, but you can't finish the sentence.
"I know," he says against you. "Come for me. Let me feel it."
His words push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you with an intensity that steals your breath, your body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure roll through you. Cam doesn't stop, working you through it until you're trembling and oversensitive, until you're pulling at his hair to make him stop.
He presses one last kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body, and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his lips.
"You're so beautiful when you come," he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. "I love watching you fall apart."
You're still catching your breath, but you manage to reach between your bodies, your hand finding the waistband of his swim trunks. "Your turn."
He helps you push them down, kicking them off the rest of the way, and then he's naked above you all lean muscle and sun kissed skin. His cock is hard and heavy between you, and when you wrap your hand around him, he groans, his hips jerking forward.
"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes falling closed. "You're gonna kill me."
You stroke him slowly, your thumb brushing over the head, and he shudders. After only a few moments though, he catches your wrist and stills your hand.
"I need to be inside you," he says, his voice strained. "Right now."
He reaches for the nightstand and pulls out a condom, rolling it on with shaking hands. The fact that he's barely holding on sends your pulse racing all over again.
When he settles between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, he pauses. His eyes find yours, and despite the desperation written all over his face, there's tenderness there too.
"You okay?" he asks.
"More than okay," you tell him, hands sliding up his back. "I need you."
That's all the permission he needs. He pushes forward slowly, and the stretch of him filling you makes you both moan. Even though you're soaked from your orgasm, it takes a moment for your body to adjust.
"Jesus," he grits out, jaw clenched. "You feel so good."
He bottoms out, hips flush against yours, and stays there for a moment, letting you adjust. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin, and you can feel the tension in every muscle as he fights for control.
"Move," you whisper, and he does.
His first thrust is slow and deep, pulling a moan from both of you. He drives in harder the second time, more desperate, and then he's setting a rhythm that makes your toes curl. Each stroke hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Fuck, yes," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "Just like that."
Cam's control is slipping. You can see it in the way his movements become less measured, more frantic. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and the sounds he's making low groans and muttered curses send heat racing through you.
"You're mine," he says, his voice rough and possessive. "Say it."
"Yours," you breathe, and the word seems to break something in him.
He shifts the angle, one hand sliding under your knee to push your leg higher, and the new position tears a cry from your throat. He's deeper now, hitting places that make your vision blur, and you can feel another orgasm building already.
His eyes lock on your face, dark and hungry.
"Let me see you," he murmurs, his voice strained. "Let me watch you come on my cock."
He slows, his movements becoming deliberate and controlled. Before you can protest, he pulls out and sits back on his heels, then his hands find your waist. In one smooth motion, he's pulling you up and into his lap.
"Come here," he says, his voice rough with need.
You straddle him, your thighs bracketing his hips, and the new angle makes you both groan. When you sink down onto him fully, his head falls back.
"Fuck," he breathes, his hands gripping your hips to guide you. "That's perfect."
You brace your hands on his shoulders and start to move, rolling your hips in a rhythm that makes his fingers dig into your skin. This position puts you in control, but the way he's looking at you like he's completely undone, like you're the only thing in the world that matters makes you feel anything but.
"Look at me," he says, one hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
When your eyes meet his, the intensity there steals your breath.
"Don't look away. I want to see everything."
Being this close, this connected, watching each other fall apart it's almost too much. You can feel every breath he takes, see every flicker of pleasure that crosses his face, the way his body responds to yours.
His words and the relentless rhythm push you closer to the edge. Your hands scramble for purchase on his back, your nails leaving red lines on his skin, and he groans at the sting.
"So close," you manage to say, and he nods, reaching between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit, and the added stimulation is all it takes. Your second orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, your body clenching around him as pleasure floods every nerve. You cry out his name, your back arching, and watching you come undone sends Cam over the edge.
He buries himself deep with a low groan, his hips stuttering as he comes. You feel him pulsing inside you, see the way his face contorts with pleasure, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, your bodies slick with sweat and still tangled together. The room has gone dark now, the sunset faded to night, and the only light comes from the moon reflecting off the ocean outside.
Cam's weight is heavy on top of you, but you don't mind. You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the way his heart races against your chest, and he turns his head to press a kiss to your shoulder.
The kiss lingers there, soft and unhurried, and you feel the shift in him immediately. The urgency that had driven him since the door closed is gone, replaced by something gentler that makes your chest feel warm and full.
He lifts his head to look at you, and even in the dim moonlight, you can see the softness in his eyes. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone, and he smiles a real smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
"More than okay," you tell him, and it's the truth. You feel boneless and satisfied, your body still humming with aftershocks.
He presses another kiss to your forehead before carefully pulling out, and you immediately miss the closeness. After disposing of the condom in the bathroom, he returns and slides back under the sheets, pulling you into his arms without hesitation.
You go willingly, your head finding its place on his chest, right over his heart, while his arms wrap around you like he's trying to keep you as close as possible.
⸻
For a while, neither of you speaks.
There's only the sound of your breathing gradually evening out, the distant crash of waves against the shore, and the rustle of palm trees in the warm breeze drifting through the open balcony doors. Cam's fingers start tracing patterns on your back lazy lines that make you shiver despite the warmth. His touch is feather light, almost absent minded, like he's not even aware he's doing it.
You're aware of every point of contact between your bodies, every gentle brush of his fingertips, every rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.
"So," you say eventually, your voice soft in the darkness. "That's what all the staring was about."
You feel more than hear his laugh, a low rumble in his chest. His hand pauses on your back for just a moment before resuming its gentle exploration.
"Yeah," he admits, shameless. "That's what it was about."
You tilt your head to look up at him, propping your chin on his chest. Even in the low light, you can see the hint of a smirk on his lips.
"You were really staring," you tease. "Like, a lot. I thought maybe I had something on my face."
"You did," he says, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. "That smile you get when you're completely relaxed and happy." His thumb strokes the sensitive skin there, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. "Drives me crazy."
Your heart does a little flip at the honesty in his voice. "You could've just said something."
"We were in public," he points out, his other hand finding your hip beneath the sheets. "And I was trying to behave."
You can't help the laugh that escapes. "That was you behaving?"
He exhales slowly, and when he speaks, there's something raw underneath the humor. "That was me being a goddamn saint. Every time I looked at you, I forgot to breathe. Sitting there pretending to be casual while all I could think about was getting you alone."
"Poor baby," you say, your tone teasing even as you press a kiss to his chest. "Had to spend the day at the beach with your girlfriend."
His hand tightens on your hip, pulling you closer.
"Had to spend the day watching you in that swimsuit, all gorgeous, knowing I couldn't do anything about it until we got back here."
"You did plenty in the water," you remind him.
"That wasn't nearly enough." He shifts, rolling slightly to look at you better and brushing a strand of hair from your face. His expression is so tender it makes your breath catch. "I wanted to memorize you today, the way you looked so happy and free. I don't get to see you like that enough during the season."
Your chest aches in the best way. You reach up to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble there. "I'm always happy with you."
"I know," he says softly. "But this is different. This is you without any stress or worry. Just... you."
He leans down to kiss you, slow and sweet. "This version of you, completely relaxed—I love seeing it." He trails off for a moment, like he can't quite find the words. "I love all of you, but this..."
"I love this version of you too," you tell him. "Relaxed Cam. Off-season Cam. The one who sleeps in and walks around barefoot and doesn't check his phone every five minutes."
He smiles against your lips. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You kiss him again, just because you can.
"Though I have to say, I also love the version of you that spent all day trying not to jump me and then completely lost it the second we were alone."
His laugh is warm and genuine. "You should be proud of me for lasting as long as I did."
"Oh, I'm so proud," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "You made it a whole thirty seconds after the door closed."
"Thirty seconds of incredible restraint," he argues, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine. "I deserve a medal."
"You deserve something," you mutter, and he grins.
He shifts slightly, reaching for the water bottle on the nightstand, and when he brings it to your lips, his hand cups the back of your head with such careful tenderness it makes your throat tight. "Drink," he says softly, watching you take a few sips while his thumb strokes your temple.
After setting the bottle aside, he pulls the sheet up around your shoulders, tucking it against your skin like you're something precious. He presses a kiss to your forehead the same spot he always kisses when he's trying to tell you something he doesn't have words for and you settle back against his chest, your body molding to his.
The contentment you feel is almost overwhelming, the kind of bone deep satisfaction that comes from being exactly where you're supposed to be.
After several minutes of comfortable silence, your stomach decides to make its presence known with a low, unmistakable growl.
Cam's chest shakes with laughter beneath you. "Hungry?"
"We never ordered dinner," you realize, lifting your head to meet his eyes.
"We got distracted," he says, completely unrepentant.
"You distracted me."
"You distracted me first," he counters. "Walking around all day looking like that."
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "So what now? I'm starving."
Cam reaches for his phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen. "Room service is still open for another hour. We could order something."
"In bed?"
"In bed," he confirms, already pulling up the menu.
"We're not leaving this room for the rest of the night."
You glance toward the door, where your beach bag and both swimsuits lie in a heap where they were hastily discarded. "We should probably at least pick those up."
"Later," Cam says dismissively, his attention still on the phone. "What do you want to eat?"
You list off a few things, and he adds them to the order along with his own. When he's done, he sets the phone aside and pulls you back into his arms.
"Thirty minutes," he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"What are we supposed to do for thirty minutes?" you ask innocently.
His hand slides down your back, and you can feel his smile against your hair. "I'm sure we'll think of something."
But despite his words, neither of you moves. You're both too comfortable, too content to do anything but lie there wrapped up in each other. The ocean continues its steady rhythm outside, and moonlight paints silver patterns across the sheets.
Cam's fingers find your hair, combing through it gently. You close your eyes at the sensation. This quiet intimacy might be even better than what came before the urgency has faded, leaving only tenderness and the simple pleasure of being close to someone you love.
"Hey," Cam says softly, and you open your eyes to find him watching you.
There it is. That look from the beach, from the water, from the walk back to the villa. But now you understand what it means when his eyes go dark and focused, when his gaze traces over your face like he's trying to memorize every detail. It's not just desire, though that's part of it. It's love and possession and wonder all mixed together the look of someone who can't quite believe you're real, that you're his.
"What?" you ask, even though you already know.
He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he cups your face in both hands and kisses you, slow and deep and full of everything he can't say.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his eyes are still on you, unguarded in a way that takes your breath away.
The beach had never been the dangerous part, you realize. Privacy was.
"Holy shit," he finally says, his voice muffled against your skin.
You laugh, breathless and satisfied. "Yeah."
He lifts his head to look at you, and there's something soft in his expression now, the earlier intensity replaced with tenderness. He kisses you slowly, sweetly, and the contrast to moments ago makes your chest ache.
"You're incredible," he murmurs against your lips.
"So are you."
You curl into his side, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as it gradually slows.
Outside, the ocean continues its rhythm while the warm breeze drifts through the open doors, carrying salt and night blooming flowers. Cam's fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, and you feel completely content.
"Still think I was being patient?" he asks after a while, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
You tilt your head to meet his eyes. "Barely."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest as he pulls you closer. "I'll take it."
⸻
taglist (lmk if you want to be added!!): @diorjtrk @wildlaufey3 @graceeehhhh @hotwheels1108 @you-got-me-star-lost-16 @thelunarbar @hockeygirlyyyy @quinnintheabyss @peachmango-kombucha @boybandbaby @divinedelusional @hockey-racing-fubol @melsgf @anonymousie @refinedanimal @spooky-newt @selv1sh @twistedprincess-92 @earthlings0000
summary: you were supposed to stay behind the camera until cam made it impossible to stay out of the story.
word count: 3.7k words
a/n: this was a request, i hope you enjoy!! CAM IS AN ALL STAR AHHHH, ik it was coming but i'm so excitedd and proud of him. thank you for reading, i love youuu!!
⸻
The first time Cam Schlittler really looks at you, it's because you stop filming.
Most of the Yankees social team won't, not right away. There's always another angle, another reaction clip, another awkward half second to mine for content later.
But Cam's standing under fluorescent lights outside the clubhouse, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, shoulders tight. He looks like he's being held hostage.
"So," you say, lowering the camera, "favorite postgame meal?"
He blinks. "Food."
You bite back a smile. "Very helpful."
"You asked." His look is so dry it almost counts as humor.
Ben laughs loud enough for both of you. "He's crushing it."
Cam's ears go pink.
You know the type players who light up under a lens, who get louder and bigger and more themselves. Cam folds in instead, like attention lands too heavy on him.
So you lower the camera all the way.
"We can do this another day. It's not urgent."
That makes him look at you. Not through you, not past you. At you.
"You're not posting that?"
You glance at the blank monitor. "Unless you want a riveting seven second clip of you saying 'food,' probably not."
His mouth twitches but it's the first time he looks anything close to comfortable around you.
That's how it starts.
Not with flirting or dramatic tension, just you choosing not to use the footage.
After that, Cam gets easier. Not easy he's still quiet, still private, still more likely to shrug than give a soundbite. But he stops looking like he wants to bolt every time you approach with a camera, and on content days he drifts closer before you even ask.
You notice things.
The way he relaxes when you explain what you're filming before hitting record. The way he hates being surprised on camera. The way his eyes find your face, not the lens, when he's unsure if you're serious. The way he talks more with the camera off than on.
You start saving the softer moments.
Cam leaning against the dugout rail while you swap batteries, asking in that low voice if social ever gets a day off.
Cam standing still while you clip a mic to his waistband, both of you suddenly aware of how close your hands are.
Cam lingering after a shoot wraps, watching footage over your shoulder, his shoulder brushing yours.
He never apologizes for it.
You never move away.
It becomes a rhythm.
You film, edit, travel, eat stadium food, answer messages, and spend half your life making chaos look polished in under sixty seconds.
Cam starts fitting into the edges of your days without either of you acknowledging it.
He appears with coffee one morning and sets it down beside your laptop.
"Is this yours?" you ask.
He shakes his head. "For you."
"How do you know what I order?"
He looks mildly annoyed that you asked. "You get the same thing every road trip."
Then he walks away before you can respond.
You spend the rest of the morning pretending that doesn't do something embarrassing to your heart.
By midseason, people have noticed.
Not enough to be a thing, but enough for Ben to smirk when Cam moves your bag before anyone else can take the seat beside him on the bus.
Enough for Will to say, leaning against the tunnel wall, "You know, if you keep hovering around social like that, people are gonna start talking."
Cam, holding a water bottle and pretending not to wait for you, says flatly, "People already talk."
Will grins. "Yeah, but this is more fun."
Max walks past, calm as ever. He glances between you both, takes in your camera bag and Cam standing just a little too close to it, and nods. "He's got the stare for it."
"The stare?" Cam looks genuinely offended.
"The one where you act like being perceived is a personal attack."
Ben nearly chokes laughing.
Even Cam cracks a smile.
You catch it without a camera for once, and something warm blooms low in your chest.
This should probably scare you, you think.
Instead, it feels easiest.
What scares you comes later.
⸻
It starts small.
A comment under a behind-the-scenes post: admin got favorites?
no literally why is she always posting him lmao
girl on yankees media team wants him BAD
You've dealt with fan comments before, but they multiply.
Under interviews, travel posts, candid dugout shots.
People speculate like they know you, like they know him. Like every frame is evidence of something.
You stop reading comments.
Then you start again, against your better judgment.
One night in your hotel room on a road trip, you sit on the mattress edge with your laptop open, letting harsh blue light wash over you while your group chat with the other social coordinators buzzes.
Ignore it. People are weird. Occupational hazard.
You know they mean well.
But your face burns anyway.
Because it isn't just the comments.
It's the teasing.
Ben bumping your shoulder, "Want me to leave you two alone or—"
Will walking into the media room, seeing Cam at your desk, backing out with both hands up.
Even harmless jokes feel sharp. You're already trying so hard to stay professional, and suddenly everyone is looking at you like they see right through your skin.
Cam notices before you say anything.
You're in the editing room late after a home game, stadium quiet except for cleanup crews down the hall. Your laptop is full of timeline cuts, but you've been staring at the same clip for three minutes.
Cam appears in the doorway, silent enough to make your heart skip.
"You're still here."
"So are you."
"Lift ran late," he says. "You okay?"
The question is soft enough to nearly undo you.
You laugh once. "Yeah. Just tired."
He studies your face. Cam doesn't push usually, which makes it worse when he does.
"That's not it."
You lean back in your chair. For one stupid second, because it's him, because you're tired, because the room is dim and no one's here, you let the truth show.
"It's just a lot. The comments, people joking around, feeling like if I breathe wrong someone's gonna make it weird."
His jaw shifts. "It matters if it's making this harder for you."
The word this hangs between you heavier than it should.
"Cam—" Your chest tightens.
He steps closer. "I don't like that you're dealing with that."
The air turns fragile.
He's close enough that if either of you leaned, the distance would be nothing.
You swallow. "You're the only part of it that doesn't feel hard."
He exhales, slow and shaky.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "You too."
It's not quite a confession, but it feels like one.
He braces one hand on the desk, not touching you but close enough that your skin prickles. His eyes flick to your mouth and back, and your pulse goes wild.
You think he's going to kiss you.
Then voices sound from the hallway, and the moment shatters.
Cam straightens.
You look away first.
⸻
The next few days are softer but more dangerous. He looks at you like he's thinking too much. He finds reasons to stop by. Once, during batting practice, he passes behind you and his fingertips skim your lower back just long enough to steady you.
It would be nothing to anyone else.
It feels like everything to you.
Which is why the crash hurts as much as it does.
A video goes up from a road trip harmless, just airport clips and bus arrivals and players half asleep in hoodies. Cam's in it for maybe four seconds.
By the time you see the comments, there are too many.
There's a screenshot of a coworker's tweet making a joke about certain pitchers volunteering for extra content if a certain social admin is working. It's supposed to be funny.
You're in the service hallway when Cam finds you, he looks tense in a way you haven't seen before.
"Did you see that?"
"Yeah."
His mouth hardens. "So this is just what it is now?"
You stare at him. "What?"
He gestures at the invisible mess surrounding you both. "People talking. Making it into something public before we even knew what it was."
Your stomach drops. "You think I wanted that?"
"I think maybe lines got blurred somewhere."
The words land like a slap.
For a second your brain refuses to understand them.
Then it does.
"Blurred," you repeat.
Cam's expression flickers he knows he said it wrong. But fear got there first.
"You're around players all the time," he says, digging in instead of stopping. "This is your job. Cameras, content. And now everyone thinks—"
"Wow."
He stops.
"That's what you think this is?" You laugh once, small and wrecked. "You think I'm blurring lines for content?"
"No, that's not—"
"Because of my job."
He says nothing.
You nod slowly, throat burning. "Okay."
His whole body tenses like he wants to reach for you, but you step back.
"Don't," you say.
"I didn't mean it like that."
"But you said it like that."
You walk past him before he can respond.
⸻
After that, you become very good at your job.
Professional. Polite. Efficient.
You film him like you film everybody else, you say thanks and step aside. You don't linger, don't look longer than necessary, don't soften.
If he comes near your desk, you move.
If he stands in the doorway of the media room, you keep your eyes on your screen until he leaves.
Ben notices first.
You're packing up after a clubhouse feature when he leans on the table. "Okay. What happened?"
"Nothing."
He snorts. "Sure."
"Ben."
His humor fades. "He looks miserable."
You zip your camera bag. "That's a him problem."
He watches you. "Yeah. Probably."
Will is less subtle.
A week later he catches Cam after a game and says loudly enough for you to hear, "You could just apologize instead of standing around looking haunted."
It would be easier if anger burned clean, you think. Easier if humiliation killed the feeling.
Instead you're left with hurt and missing him and the constant ache of knowing he saw how overwhelmed you were and still made it worse.
Weeks pass.
The season keeps moving. Games, flights, deadlines, edits done from hotel lobbies at midnight. Your life doesn't stop just because your chest feels bruised.
But the absence of him changes everything.
You still look for him without meaning to.
Still feel the hole where his coffee cups and doorway silences used to be.
Sometimes you catch him looking at you from across the clubhouse, expression raw enough to make you look away.
He tries, once or twice, to say something.
After an interview, he lingers while you disconnect his mic.
"Can we talk?"
You keep your hands steady. "No."
Outside the bus on a road trip.
"You're avoiding me."
You give him a tired look. "I'm working."
His jaw tightens. "That's not what I mean."
You shoulder your bag and step around him. "Doesn't matter what you mean."
You leave him standing there.
⸻
The breaking point comes on a gray afternoon in Boston.
You're in a cramped hallway with your supervisor, talking about coverage assignments.
"I can take Ben for the player feature," you say. "Or Max, if you need that pitching piece."
Your supervisor nods. "And Cam?"
Your stomach twists.
"It might be better if someone else handles him for a while."
Silence.
Then, from behind you, the sharp sound of someone stopping short.
You turn.
Cam is standing at the end of the hall, duffel over one shoulder, face gone blank.
Your supervisor, not stupid, disappears into the room.
You and Cam stare at each other in the empty hallway.
"You're switching off me," he says.
"I'm requesting space."
His voice is rough. "Because of me."
"What do you want me to say, Cam?"
He takes a step closer. "That you don't mean it."
The hurt is almost enough to cover the exhaustion. "You don't get to ask me for that."
He looks wrecked.
"I know."
You wait.
He swallows hard. "I know."
Something in the way he says it makes your chest constrict.
He glances down the hallway, then back at you. "Please."
Just a plea.
You should walk away.
"Five minutes," you say instead.
He nods once, sharp.
You follow him to the far end of the tunnel near the service exit where it's cooler and darker, just the faint hum of the stadium around you.
Cam turns to face you. For a second he says nothing, like he's trying to figure out how to begin without hiding behind the wrong words.
Finally he exhales.
"I was scared."
You fold your arms.
He keeps going. "I saw everything getting worse for you. The comments, the jokes, people making it into something public before…" He breaks off, presses a hand to the back of his neck. "Before we even knew what it was."
Your eyes sting.
"And I told myself if I pulled away, it would make it easier on you." He laughs once, bitter. "That's not true. It was easier for me. I was freaking out."
His gaze lifts to yours and doesn't look away.
"You were already overwhelmed, and I made it worse. I took the one thing that was real and acted like it wasn't." His throat works. "That was cruel."
You swallow against the lump in your throat.
He steps closer, carefully, like you might still leave.
"I never thought your feelings weren't real." His voice nearly breaks. "Not for your job. Not for anything."
"Then why did you say it?"
His face twists. "Because it was the worst thing I could think of."
The honesty knocks the air out of you.
He shakes his head, angry at himself. "I wanted distance. I wanted it to stop feeling like if I wanted you this much, everyone else would get a piece of it too. Instead of saying that, I said the thing that would hurt enough to push you away."
Tears burn at your eyes. "It worked."
"I know." He sounds devastated. "I know."
For a second all you hear is the hum of the lights.
Then you say, quietly, "Do you have any idea what that felt like?"
He nods, but you keep going because he needs to hear it.
"You made me feel stupid. And humiliated. Like every comment and joke was right, and I was some girl who got too attached because it was convenient." Your voice shakes. "I was already drowning, Cam, and you looked at me like I was part of the problem."
His face goes pale.
"I cared about you," you say. "For real. And you made it sound like that was just my job."
"It wasn't." He says it instantly, fiercely. "It wasn't."
You look at him for a long moment.
Tears are in your eyes now, and you hate that he gets to see them, but maybe he should.
"If you want someone," you say, "you have to trust them. Not just when it's quiet and easy. All the time."
He nods immediately. "I know."
"No. You know now."
He takes that. Doesn't argue. Doesn't defend himself.
"Yes," he says. "I know now."
Your breath leaves you slowly.
He steps closer, still leaving space for you to stop him.
"When you said you wanted off my coverage," he says, voice rough, "that was the first time I believed I could actually lose you."
You close your eyes briefly.
"I thought giving you space would make things safer," he admits. "But these last few weeks have been…" He shakes his head. "Worse. Just worse."
When you look at him again, he's staring at you like the answer to something he's been getting wrong.
"I'm sorry," he says. "Not in a way that asks you to get over it. Just… I'm sorry. I was scared, and I let that make me mean, and you didn't deserve any of it."
The quiet that follows feels different.
Just waiting.
"I want a real chance. If you can still give me one."
Your heart trips over itself.
He doesn't reach for you. Doesn't try to make the choice for you. He just stands there with his shoulders tense and his expression open, and waits.
You think about the weeks of missing him. About the way he showed up in your days before either of you knew what to call it. About the coffee and doorway pauses and the almost kiss in the editing room. About the pain, yes, but also about how plainly he is standing in it now.
When you speak, your voice is barely above a whisper.
"One chance."
His whole face changes.
Not into relief exactly, but into something softer and stunned, like he didn't let himself believe you would say yes.
"One," you repeat.
He nods fast. "One."
"And if you freak out again—"
"I won't."
You raise an eyebrow.
He huffs a breath that is almost a laugh. "Okay. I might. But I won't do that to you again."
That feels more honest.
You let out a shaky breath.
Then Cam does something he hasn't done once this entire conversation.
He lifts his hand, slowly, carefully. Giving you every second to pull away.
When his fingers brush yours, you nearly break all over again.
You don't pull away.
His hand closes around yours like he's been wanting to for months.
For a minute you just stand there in the quiet tunnel, fingers tangled, no cameras, no comments, no one looking.
Then he says, almost sheepish, "Can I kiss you now, or is that too soon for the one chance?"
You laugh through your tears. "That was a terrible question."
"Yeah," he says. "I know."
You step closer anyway.
This time when he kisses you, there's nothing hesitant about it. One hand warm against your jaw, the other holding yours, mouth soft and certain and apologetic all at once. The kiss is not dramatic, just relief and honesty and finally stopping the bleeding.
When you pull back, his forehead rests briefly against yours.
"You still switching off my coverage?" he murmurs.
You give him a look. "That depends. You gonna make my job harder?"
His mouth brushes the corner of yours. "I'll try to be less hauntingly in love with you in hallways."
You stare at him.
He freezes. "I—"
But you're already smiling.
Pink rises up his neck.
From down the tunnel, a voice rings out.
"Okay," Ben calls, "I know I said I'd give you privacy, but this is taking forever."
You jolt back just enough to see him leaning around the corner with a smug grin. Max stands behind him, expression composed, while Will looks delighted.
"Oh my god," you mutter.
Will points at Cam. "Told you haunted."
Max nods. "He does look better now."
Ben squints at both of you. "Are we all emotionally stable again, or do I need apology witness duty?"
Cam, still red from the ears down, says flatly, "Go away."
Ben beams. "That's basically a yes."
You cover your face with your free hand.
But when Cam's fingers tighten around yours, hidden by the angle and shadows, you don't let go.
⸻
Later, things settle.
Not all at once.
You still work and he still pitches. The comments don't vanish, and the world doesn't stop being nosy just because you finally got honest.
But the difference is trust.
He doesn't pull away when it gets messy. You don't have to guess where you stand when the room gets loud.
At first you keep it private in the way it deserves, not hidden in a way that hurts. A hand brushing yours beneath the table in the media room. His shoulder finding yours in an empty hallway. Coffee appearing by your laptop every morning.
Ben notices and acts insufferable.
Will notices and acts worse.
Max only gives you one calm look over the rim of his cup and says, "He smiles more now."
You glance across the field where Cam is stretching near the foul line, head bent while a coach talks to him.
"Yeah," you say softly. "He does."
One night back at Yankee Stadium, you're filming a postgame clip near the dugout while players mill around. The game was good, energy is loose.
Cam passes just out of frame.
To anyone watching, it means nothing when his hand brushes lightly at the back of yours.
It lasts less than a second.
Just enough.
You don't look up right away because you're still excellent at your job.
But your mouth betrays you anyway, curving before you can stop it.
From behind you, Ben's voice drifts over.
"There it is," he says to no one and everyone.
You hear Will laugh.
Max, calm as ever, says, "Leave them alone."
And for once, the teasing doesn't cut.
Because when the camera lowers and the work is done and the stadium begins its slow exhale into night, Cam is waiting for you at the edge of the dugout with that quiet look in his eyes that no longer makes you afraid.
You go to him.
No rushing. No panic. No one pushing anyone away.
Just his hand finding yours out of frame, exactly where it belongs.
⸻
taglist (lmk if you want to be added!!): @diorjtrk @wildlaufey3 @graceeehhhh @hotwheels1108 @you-got-me-star-lost-16 @thelunarbar @hockeygirlyyyy @quinnintheabyss @peachmango-kombucha @boybandbaby @divinedelusional @hockey-racing-fubol @melsgf @anonymousie @refinedanimal @spooky-newt @selv1sh @twistedprincess-92 @earthlings0000 @strigiform-titan
