Page 2 of Wanting Cameron

He doesn’t pull away.

“Ye coming tae the pub tonight?” Thom asks, leaning against the table. “We’re meeting at half-eight.”

“Can’t,” Cameron says. “I’ve got this essay due tomorrow.”

“Aw, fuck the essay, Cam,” Thom says, and he reaches out to ruffle Cameron’s hair.

Cameron laughs nervously, batting his hand away, but Thom is persistent. He grabs Cameron’s head in a mock headlock, and Cameron struggles against him, still laughing. I watch the way their bodies move together, physical and too close. Cameron’s easy nature allows for the rough touch, but there’s a tension in his smile that I can read even from where I’m sitting.

My hands curl into fists under the table.

They’re touching him like they have a right to, as if he belongs to them, and Cameron is letting them. He’s laughing and joking and pretending like it’s nothing, like their hands on him don’t mean anything.

I want to cross the room and tear them off him.

I want to tell them to keep their fucking hands to themselves.

“Come on, Cam,” Thom says, releasing him from the headlock. “One pint and finish the essay after.”

“I really can’t,” Cameron says with an apology in his tone, like he’s genuinely sorry to disappoint them.

“Yer such a fuckin’ try-hard, Cam,” George says, hooking him on the shoulder again, another rough, careless touch that makes my hands tighten into fists.

They leave, finally, their laughter echoing through the library as they go.

Cameron watches them leave, and then he turns back to his work.

His fingers twist in his hair again.

My chair scrapes against the floor when I stand, too loud in the silence, and Cameron glances up. His eyes meet mine for a second. He must be embarrassed because he looks away too quickly, like he’s guilty of something.

He doesn’t recognize me. Or maybe he does, but he doesn’t care.

Fuck it.

I cross the room and stop at his table.

“Macbeth,” I say, nodding at the book.

He looks up again, and this time, his expression is polite but distant. “Yeah.”

“Struggling with it?”

His brow furrows. “No. Why would I be?”

I shrug, leaning against the edge of the table. “You’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes.”

The words are out before I can catch them, and a cold spike of panic hits my chest. Ten minutes? God, why did I say ten minutes? I might as well have told him I’ve been timing his breathing, like a stalker.

His eyes narrow with what looks like suspicion. “Why are you watching me?”

Shit.

“Hard not to,” I say, and I let my gaze carelessly drift over him, trying to mask my slip-up with a layer of indifference. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“Subtle about what?”

“Your anxiety,” I say. “The hair-twisting thing. It’s distracting.”