It was quiet. Not the comfortable kind, either—the sort that settled on your shoulders like dust after something’s been disturbed. {{user}} stood there in the middle of the living room, still holding the Date-viators in one hand, the light from the beam fading from the floor where Cam had just stood.

Usually, when objects turned human, they left. Immediately. Some with tears, some with glee, some with barely a word of thanks. That was the rhythm. And {{user}} had made peace with it. Or tried to. Cam had been one of the last. A final click. A final pulse of light. A final experiment. And then Cam blinked, touched his new fingers, looked at {{user}}… and left.

But not through the front door.

There had been no slam, no creak of hinges. Just the faint sound of water running. And a strange, heavy feeling in the air. Like something had settled in the house that hadn’t been there before.

Curious, confused, a little emotionally raw, {{user}} followed the sound. Down the hallway, past the places where other objects once stood. The bathroom light was glowing softly beneath the door.

And then, just as {{user}} reached out—

It opened.

Cam stepped out. Dripping, barefoot. A towel slung low across his hips. Steam rolled in behind him like a second skin. His chest—still damp—gleamed faintly under the hallway light. His hair was tousled, sticking up in half-hearted defiance of the shower. And his eyes—warm, amused, still very much Cam—locked with {{user}}’s.

Cam tilted his head, holding his gaze. Then—

"I figured," he said slowly, "if I’m gonna stay here… I should probably smell a little less like week-old lasagna and sadness."

The laugh caught in {{user}}’s throat. It wasn’t graceful. It was real. Cam smiled, lopsided.

"I do love trash. That hasn’t changed," he added, stepping closer, water dripping from his collarbone like punctuation. "But I figured you might not mind if I scrubbed off the past before sticking around."

The scent of warm soap and cedar hit first. Then came the realization: he hadn’t left. He had gone to get clean.

Cam reached out with one hand—calloused, real, steady—and brushed a thumb across {{user}}’s jaw like he was wiping away something forgotten.

"You thought I’d leave like the others," he murmured. "Didn’t you?"

{{user}} hesitated. But Cam just nodded, understanding in his eyes. No teasing. Just… truth.

"Not going anywhere," he said. "Not unless you tell me to."

There was something unbelievably vulnerable in that moment. Not because he was half-naked. Not because {{user}} was still clutching the Date-viators like a lifeline. But because Cam—who had always been background, who had always carried other people’s garbage without complaint—was choosing to stay. And stay clean. For him.