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His cheeks flush pink. I lean in closer, my lips almost brushing his ear, and he tenses. I pull back immediately, giving him space. He’s not ready for that, and I have to be careful with him.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I ask, keeping my tone casual.

“Just…this.” He gestures at his textbook. “Studying.”

“Want to do something?”

He blinks. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything.”

“Anything?” he asks, his voice dropping.

I laugh. “Not like that, Cameron. God, not everything is about sex.”

His face turns bright red, and he looks down at his textbook.

“I was thinking we could see a movie or something.”

He looks up at me, surprised. “Oh. Okay.”

“There’s a theater that plays old movies,” I continue. “One of my favorites is playing today.”

“Sure,” he says, still a little embarrassed. “That sounds good.”

The theater is small, attached to a suburban mall that’s seen better days. There’s no one in the theater when we walk in.

I lead Cameron to the back row, and we settle into the worn velvet seats. He’s acting a little bored, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression neutral. But I know better. He’s never had normal interactions with me. Every time we’ve been together, there’s been tension, violence, anger, fear, desire. He doesn’t know how to just be with me. But he will.

The lights dim, and the opening scene for Love Actually begins.

I wait until after the funeral scene before I turn to him.

I reach over and take his hand.

He stiffens for a second, then relaxes.

I slowly stroke my thumb across his knuckles, and I feel him shift in his seat.

As the movie continues, I lean over and press my lips to his neck.

He makes a little sound and tilts his head to give me better access. I kiss along the line of his jaw, my hand still holding his, and he’s breathing harder now. I pull back slightly and glance at him. His eyes are half-closed, his lips parted, and his legs are open.

I reach over and unzip his jeans.

His eyes fly open, and he looks at me, panicked.

“Lucien—”

“Shh,” I murmur. “No one’s watching.”

I slip my hand inside his jeans, inside his boxer briefs, and wrap my fingers around his length.

He’s already half-hard, and he gasps when I stroke him.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

I stroke him as he thickens in my grip, my thumb brushing over his swollen tip.