Lea
patreon
đ¸ đ May Fluff (studio-suite)đđ¸
🕑 Added 2025-05-24 08:09:01 +0000 UTC
Another fluff post has come and gone. G is our winner for the Spicy post of the month. That will be up soon~
Word Count: 2,197
Hoping to muffle the buzzing of your phone on the nightstand, you yank the comforter over your head. It worksâkind ofâbut not enough to let you drift back to sleep.
A low groan escapes as you slide across the bed, still swaddled in blankets, blindly snaking an arm out to grab the phone. Only then does the buzzing stop.
Figures.
Missed calls. A voicemail. And, of course, a text from Cam: Iâm waiting for you at the park. You know the one.
Before you can fully process it, the screen lights up again - another call.
You answer, voice scratchy. âMr. Clarke.â
âYou better not go back to sleep,â he warns, skipping past hello. âIf you do, I swear to God, Emâs finally going to find out what happened to that ugly-ass clock she used to have on the bookshelf. And donât call me Mr. Clarke. Thatâs my dadâs name.â
You sit up, the comforter slipping off your head, making you squint against the morning light. âWhat are you even talking about?â
âOh, you know exactly what Iâm talking about. The crystal one. Weird swirly bits. You spun around, bumped into the shelf, and boom. Shattered everywhere.â
You pause, rubbing your eyelids with the heel of your palm.
âCam.â
âHuh?â
ââŚThat was you.â
Another pause. Then that laugh. Full-bodied, deep, the kind thatâd crinkle his eyes and make you forgive him for things you shouldnât.
âOh. Right. Wellâdetails.â
You switch the phone to speaker, stretching as Camâs voice fills the room.
âWell, since youâre awakeââ
âThanks to you.â
âYouâre welcome,â he says, unapologetic. âCome meet me. The parkâs not far, just a block from Emâs. Câmon, Red. You know, we never get a free weekend together.â
His tone lilts upward, playful. Youâd bet anything he was batting his lashes right now.
Shame you couldnât see it.
As you reach for clean clothes, he throws one more hook.
âI got you a surprise.â
A surprise, huh?
âCameron Clarke, are you trying to buy my time with presents?â
He hums, low and pleased, the faint clinking of the rings on his fingers echoing through the speaker.
âDepends if it works. If youâre feeling generous, bring coffee,â he adds.
âBut mostlyâŚâ his voice softens, playful, âJust bring you.â
Youâre already halfway to caving. He knew it. You knew it.
Taking a page from his book, you groan, long and dramatic.
âFine. Iâll be there soon.â
âAtta' bestie,â Cam chirps, smug. You can hear the grin. âDonât forget the coffee. Make it extra sweet. Like m-â
You tap the end button before he can finish, already knowing heâs going to sulk about it. Thatâs half the fun.
The walk to the park feels shorter than you remember. What once took an hour, at least in your memory, now takes mere minutes. Maybe because your legs are longer. Or maybe nostalgia has a way of changing your perception, shrinking things down until they fit into neat little memories. Like looking at old photos and realizing how small the world used to be, even though it felt so large.
The parkâs⌠well.
Itâs seen better days, and thatâs being generous.
The once-orange jungle gym now stood faded, beaten down by years of rain and sun. Paint chipped away in patches, weeds creeping up the legs, slowly trying to claim whatâs left.
The swing set leans to one side, only a single swing still clinging to the rusted frame. Every breath of wind made the chains groan in protest.
Even the trail leading deeper into the park is cracked and overgrown â more weeds than walkway now.
Itâs a far cry from the place you remember.
âYou know this is technically where we met,â you said, eyes fixed on the old sandpit. All specks of sand are long gone, replaced by wildflowers and weeds.
Cam tips his head. âTechnically? I remember it pretty damn clearly. You took a ball to the face.â
âThat you threw.â
âThat you didnât even cry about. Meanwhile, I was a mess.â
You smiled. Small, but there.
For a second, you could almost see him as he was back then. A frail little thing with wild hair and scabbed knees, standing in this same spot. His younger self flickers over him, like a ghost caught in sunlight, superimposed against the man heâs grown into. Taller now, broader in the shoulders, a piercing here or there â still the same boy. Still, that glint in those mismatched eyes.
Funny how things circle back.
Back then, he broke your nose. Or at least, it felt like he did.
Now, heâd probably break anyone who even tried to hurt you.
Heâs perched on the monkey bars, knees bent, arms lazily draped over the metal. The kicker? Heâs so tall now that his feet touch the ground.
âYou look ridiculous,â you call out.
Cam grins, all teeth. That smug, insufferable grin that screams, I knew youâd come.
âRidiculous? Excuse you. This here used to be my domain. My very throne.â
He kicks his legs just enough to scuff the ground. âRemember how you used to pick me up so I could grab on?â
âYou were tiny. I didnât have a choice.â
âYou used to lug me around like I was a backpack.â
âLike a freaking spider monkey. Cam, you demanded it.â
His cheeks flushed, pink creeping to his ears. Busted. âFor me?â he tries, zeroing in on the cup in your hand as a distraction.
You raise an eyebrow, wiggling the coffee cup as bait.
He drops from the monkey bars with a soft thud, sauntering over. Without hesitation, he swipes the cup, takes a bold swig, and immediately sputters.
âStrong,â he coughs, fanning his lips dramatically.
You smirk. âSo this is the surprise?â
âWow. No faith in me, really? Freaking rude. You think the place you met the guy of your dreams isnât a good surprise?â
Before you can argue, Cam slings an arm around your shoulders, tugging you along. His grin is pure mischief, but his hand lingers at your side, warm and steady.
He steers you toward the swing set. âFor old timeâs sake?â he asks, nudging the lone swing.
You narrow your eyes. âCam, that thing looks like itâs two seconds from blowing over.â
He gasps, âYou used to spin me around until I was sick. Poor Stellaâs earned a few more rides from us. Besides, when have I ever let you fall?â
Of course, he named the swing.
You open your mouth, but he beats you to it.
âOkay, okay â since middle school â when have I ever let you fall?â
Your lips twitch despite yourself. Your eyes flicker over every speck of rust, every questionable chain.
ââŚAlright, you can push me.â
The swing creaks in protest, but it holds. Cam steps behind you, hands curling at your waist. His thumbs brush your sides, lingering.
âYou ready?â he asks, close enough that his breath fans your cheek.
âIf this breaks midair, you will regret it.â
His laugh is low, warm against the side of your neck. âWhatever you say.â
When he pulls you back, itâs slow, deliberate, until your back brushes his chest, lining you up for a push. You catch the faint hitch of his breath, his familiar scent wrapping around you.
And then, he lets go.
As you glide forward, the wind caresses you in a soft rush. The rust, the weeds, the years that have passed forgotten. Just the two of you and the place that had been witness to the start of it all.
Each time you swing back, his hands are there. Steady. Familiar.
âSee?â he says softly. âStill in one piece.â
Whether he meant you or the swing set, you donât know. You donât ask.
He pushes you once more, letting you use your momentum to swing back and forth. He circles you, a grin on his face as he steps forward.
âWhat are you doing?â
He shakes his head before leaning in, aiming for your lips.
But timing, as always, isnât on his side.
Youâre still moving. So when his kiss lands, itâs not quite where he intended. His soft lips brush the bridge of your nose instead.
A surprised laugh escapes you. âYou have horrible aim.â
Cam pulls back with a groan, dragging his hand down his face. âI do not. I meant to do that," he says, then immediately winces. âOkay, no I didnât. Shut up.â
âMaybe you shouldâve waited until I wasnât moving."
He huffs, peeking at you through his fingers. âThatâs⌠actually not a bad idea.â
When you finally slow, he catches your hand, lacing your fingers together as he gently pulls you toward a thicket of trees. Pulling you just between them and to a patch of grass. A place only he could find.
âTada!â He bends at the waist, sweeping his arm out with entirely too much flair.
On the ground rests a blanket, rumpled and faded, with a basket perched on top.
âBefore you ask, I didnât cook. I bribed Em,â Cam admits, fingers toying with the hair resting on the back of his neck.
He only lets go of your hand when he sits, flipping open the basket to reveal its contents. The sandwiches are wrapped tightly. Fruitâs packed in little cups. Even pastries are bagged and neatly lined up like props on display. Classic Camâhe can photograph a five-star meal like itâs breathing but ask him to cook and suddenly youâre violating fire codes.
Still, he arranges everything with care, each piece meticulously placed like heâs styling a shoot. And youâclearlyâare the star.
Once satisfied, he taps the ground beside him. âSit with me.â
âCam, when did you even have the time to do this?â
He peels back the butcher paper from a sandwich, offering it to you before he answers. âI made the time. Youâve been so busy â clients, work, everything. I just thought itâd be nice to come back here. I know itâs different now. Weâre different. But this place⌠Itâs still a part of us. I just wanted to enjoy it with you.â
You blink. Cameron Clarke â unexpectedly good with words. Good at pulling your heartstrings until you want to fold him into a hug and never let go.
Between bites, you talk. You reminisce. About scraped knees from a tough fall, balls thrown too hard, and that one kid Cam knocked over for being a menace. The park is different and older, but this feels⌠right. More meaningful, somehow.
By the time you finished eating, the afternoon sun had turned warm and lazy. Cam leans back, patting his stomach with a satisfied sigh. Slowly â hesitantly at first â he shifts until his head finds its way to your lap.
With a dramatic groan, he flings an arm over his face like a theater kid mid-scene. The tips of his ears are flushed pink, betraying him.
âComfy?â you ask, amused.
âMm. Best pers- pillow you can find.â
You say nothing, just watch as he peeks up at you. His usual grin softened by the quiet.
âYâknow,â he said, voice lower. âEm used to do this thing when I couldnât sleep. She would rub my nose, said itâd âreset my brainâ or something.â
âDid it work?â
âMost of the time.â His fingers trace idle circles along your side, lips pressed in a thin, uncertain line.
With a soft smile, you cup his jaw. âDo you want me to reset your brain, Cam?â
He huffs a laugh. âMight be my only chance.â
Might be the only chance I have,
-to have you this close-
he leaves unsaid.
Gently, you trace the bridge of his nose, down to the tip, your thumb brushing lightly back and forth. His eyes flutter closed, tension bleeding from his shoulders.
For a while, itâs quiet. Peaceful.
âYou donât stop, do you?â you murmured. âDragging me out here. Bringing food. Making me remember all this stuff.â
âGuilty,â he mumbled, eyes still closed.
âWell, I enjoyed it.â
That earned you the faintest smile.
âI know,â his voice is softer, barely above a whisper. âThatâs why I do it.â
The little picnic had been everything you didnât know you needed. But unsurprisingly, he did. He always knew.
And for that, youâre thankful. Thankful enough to show him.
Your fingers slow, resting at his temple as you lean down. Camâs eyes open, curiosity flickering in their depths.
âClose them.â You whisper, your mouth close enough that he feels your breath.
He obeys without hesitation. And thatâs when it hits youâhow easy itâs always been with him. How dangerous that is.
The kiss is soft, sure, like a secret you both already knew. A low hum of approval vibrates through him as his hand finds the back of your neck, holding you close. Not urgent, not desperate. Just there.
When you part, thereâs a momentâjust a breathâwhere neither of you says anything. Then, slowly, his grin unfurls. All boyish mischief and quiet triumph.
âWhatââ he starts.
You hush him with a finger. âLetâs enjoy this a little longer.â
And so, you do. For once, thereâs no rush. Just the two of you, right here, where everything once began.
And maybe, just maybe, where it begins again.
Comments
Lea
I shouldn't laugh at that because of how true it is.
A sandwich
Pretty sure it that was actually Cam in the header image, the book would be upside down (I say that with love) đ
