Page 30 of Taken Off Camera
Two simple words that carry more meaning than all the explicit messages I’ve received from paying subscribers. I curl deeper into my rumpled sheets, a warmth blooming in my chest that has nothing to do with the sunlight streaming through my half-closed blinds.
I scroll back through our conversation history,tracing the path of our digital connection. Two days of texts shouldn’t mean so much, yet each exchange carries the echo of his deep rumble that kept me company through fever dreams and whispered stories until I fell asleep.
Five minutes.
That’s how long I waited after Sebastian left my apartment two days ago before sending my first text. Not because I wanted to play it cool, but because it took me that long to find my phone.
And I had gone for being direct.
Micah
Thank you for taking care of me.
BTW, save this number under Micah, since we’re doing name reveals.
Dating advisors would have said I needed to wait two days, so I didn’t come across as desperate, but my whole career revolves around performance, and I had no interest in playing games with my self-conscious Alpha.
His response had come so fast that either he had pulled over, or he had been texting while driving.
Sebastian
My pleasure, Micah.
How are you feeling?
And somehow, that turned into forty-eight hours of near-constant communication, punctuated only by pauses for his work, and my brief live show last night.
I stretch, pointing my toes toward the end of the bed, then swing my legs over the side. My morning ritual calls. Coffee first, then texting Sebastian a photo of my mug with some silly observation about the day ahead.
In the kitchen, I scoop dark roast grounds into my French press, inhaling the earthy aroma as steam rises from the kettle. The press belonged to Saint, forgotten in my apartment years ago and claimed through the passage of time. When the kettle whistles, I pour water in circles over the grounds, watching them bloom and expand.
While it steeps, I snap a photo of the morning light catching in the glass, transforming ordinary coffee art.
Micah
Morning fuel activated. Brain still loading…
Sebastian’s reply arrives as I pour my first cup.
Sebastian
Beautiful. Much like the photographer.
A follow-up arrives seconds later of a photo of a small cup of espresso next to an energy drink.
I snort, sipping the bitter liquid while typing back.
Micah
Don’t give yourself a heart attack with that combo.
I’m the only one who gets to make your heart race.
The ease between us borders on the surreal after years of calculated exchanges with patrons. Now I send casual shots of takeout containers and midnight snacks instead of curated sexual content. Last night, I’d even staged a chocolate croissant beside my laptop, adjusting the angle before taking a photo. Any excuse to text him again.
His responses always come with thoughtful observations or questions that suggest he actually cares about the mundane details of my day. When did asking, “How was the croissant?” become more intimate than a patron requesting I perform explicit acts on camera?
Sebastian’s work schedule remains a mystery. Sometimes, he’ll disappear for hours handling what he refers to as “family business.” Each returned text brings a small thrill, each uninterrupted conversation a treasure.
