Page 8

7

Oliver

A sleepover with Lane was just what I needed to decompress from the Terror Twins–that should be trademarked–so I was ecstatic as I stood outside his apartment door. I may have been a little too heavy on the doorbell, but in my defense, Lane had been taking too long to open the door.

“ Jesus , fuck, Ollie! You’re lucky my neighbors didn’t just come out and shoot you,” Lane sniped, taking the grocery bags I’d been carrying to his kitchen counter.

I rolled my eyes, mimicking him, “ You’re lucky the neighbors didn’t shoot you, meh, meh, meh. They probably wouldn’t aim low enough to hit me.” Lane snorted in amusement.

The night was spent curled up together on his couch, laughing at stupid dating profiles, drinking much more wine than necessary, and falling asleep to an octopus documentary.

Lane was more than generous with his touch; if we were together, it was highly likely he was touching me. At the beginning of our friendship, it confused me. I nervously jerked away on more than one occasion; now I soaked it up whenever I could, like a plant reaching for sunlight.

It was interesting when I thought about it. Lane was used to being touched a lot, but not used to it feeling good; whereas I would consider myself touch-starved, but nervous about actually being touched. To be clear, Lane and I didn’t touch each other like that . I think what made us so comfortable with one another was that we knew it wouldn’t ever be sexual, so there were no worries about cuddling turning into more.

Lane was single, but dying to be in a relationship. I would’ve been lying if I said I wanted him to be in one, but just thinking that made me feel like a bad friend. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to be happy–that’s all I’ve ever wanted for him. The truth of the matter was that I was terrified of losing him.

I knew Lane, and I knew that he’d devote himself to his future partner. But where would that leave me?

Alone.

The thought of someone else getting his softness, his loyalty, and his laughter was hard to swallow.

It wasn’t fair of me. I wasn’t offering him anything. I wasn’t in love with him, not in the way he needed someone to be. But I loved him. God, I loved him. And that love lived in the smallest things: holding his hand in crowded places, brushing his hair back when he was tired, listening to the same stories again and again just to see the light in his eyes when he told them.

I think that’s why the idea of him finding someone scared me. Not just because he wouldn’t need me anymore, but because I wasn’t sure I’d know how to get close to anyone else. Lane was my safe place. My constant. And if someone came along and swept him up, gave him all the things I never could, what would I be?

The best friend. The past tense.

The person he used to need.

* * *

I woke up in the middle of the night to the feeling of eyes on me. As my vision adjusted, two big blue orbs came into view. The anxiety quickly faded, and I smiled sleepily at Lane’s cat, Chloe, as she blinked down at me from the top of the back of the couch.

The room was still tinted in blue from the paused documentary, the screen frozen on a tentacle mid-reach. Lane was fast asleep beside me, mouth slightly open, cheek smushed into my shoulder.

I didn’t move, even if I sort of needed to pee.

There was something so precious and valuable about moments like this, where nothing was expected of me and I didn’t have to be bratty, clever, fun, or on .

Just here.

And with Lane, being here had always been enough. That was the dangerous part.

Because the longer I sat there, the more I realized how rare that feeling was. How little of it I had outside of him. And how, one day, someone else would be waking up to him like this. Someone else would get to laugh at his snark and cuddle him and hold his hand in public like it wasn’t a miracle.

And I would just be a chapter—a story he told someone new with a soft smile and a fond shake of his head.

I wanted to believe I’d be happy for him, that I’d clap and cheer and mean every word if he finally found the one . But being there in the half-dark, strangely-wise cat eyes peering down at me, I couldn’t lie to myself.

I wasn’t sure I’d survive the ending.

* * *

“Your cousin goes missing as you’re being stalked?” I narrowed my eyes. “Isn’t that suspicious?”

Lane had been awoken by a frantic phone call from his mother; his cousin had gone missing. The cousin that I knew he had a history with. However, I wasn’t entirely sure what that history consisted of.

He nonchalantly shrugged as he poured out two bowls of cereal for our breakfast. He commented, “I mean, not really. He lives like twelve hours from here. I highly doubt my stalker traveled all that way to burn his trailer. Maybe he upset an ex or something? Or maybe he killed himself and burnt his stuff before doing it.”

“Sounds like you’re super worried for your cousin’s well-being,” I retorted, somewhat surprised at his demeanor.

“Super concerned,” he droned, sounding bored with the topic. “Do you need to get to the shop soon?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I’ll just eat this and go. I have someone coming by before lunch to drop off a china cabinet.”

“Ah, yes, very exciting stuff.” Lane rolled his eyes.

“Yes, it is very exciting.”

“Well, I have therapy today and I think that beats a china cabinet,” he smirked.

“About that… Don’t you think your therapist acted weird when we saw him at the cafe? He was looking at you weirdly.”

He also had brothers who reminded me of the twins from The Shining–not concerning at all.

He raised his brows, speaking in a defensive tone, “What do you mean? I mean his brothers were pretty fucking weird, but Dr. Cohen acted how he normally acts with me.”

“Lane… Have any of your prior therapists acted like him?”

“Well, no, but–”

“There’s no but , Lane…” I reasoned, “I just feel like he acts off . Like, for one, he totally isn’t supposed to be randomly telling people he’s your therapist. And two, he was looking at you like he was interested in you–and not as a client.” I carefully watched my friend’s expressions. I was hoping it wasn’t the case, but he looked pleased to hear that I thought his therapist was flirting with him.

“I guess. It’s just his personality and treatment style. He’s very laid back to create a comfortable environment. There’s no way he’d ever be into me, though,” he murmured.

I sighed, “Okay. I mean, you do spend more time with him, and I only saw him for a couple of minutes. Just be careful, okay?”

* * *

I didn’t have to wait long until two annoyingly attractive menaces entered the shop. I had started thinking that one twin meant a good day, and two meant a bad day; that was how often they’d been lurking around. I could’ve handled it better if they just didn’t talk—but no.

“You know, pup, if you just gave in and spent a night with us, we wouldn’t have to bother you like this,” Hayes crooned, his perfect—stupid—smile making my heart flutter against my will. I ignored them, instead focusing on the work in front of me. I heard a dramatic sigh as I continued sorting through the jewelry section.

It almost gave me a heart attack when I suddenly sensed two large bodies behind me.

Hudson whispered into my ear, “What is it that you want? What would make you say yes?” My breath caught in my throat.

Hayes leaned in from behind on the other side. I shivered as his lips made the faintest connection with that ear. “What’s making you say no when your body clearly reacts to us?” I held back a whimper, realizing that they had me trapped between them and a large curio cabinet.

I took a shuddering breath, not sounding nearly as confident as I’d hoped when I responded, “I don’t do one-night stands. Especially with the two of you.”

“What does that mean, sweetheart?” Hudson asked.

“Just… you—I don’t need to explain myself to you,” I squeaked.

“You’ll give in sooner or later,” Hayes said, shifting so that I had an escape. My body jolted forward towards it, but I was met by his arm shooting out to block my exit. “Personally, I’d like it to be sooner.” His arm then lifted, freeing me. I scurried all the way back to behind the counter, gasping with relief at the physical barrier.

I tracked each of their steps as they strolled to the door to leave. Once they had left, I slid to the ground and tried to ignore a truth that I wasn’t ready to face yet.

I was aching down there.

I sat there on the embarrassingly dirty floor, heart hammering in my chest like I’d run a sprint. My hands were shaking. Not with fear—at least, not just fear. It was the feeling of being seen too deeply, too easily. Of being read like a book I hadn’t even finished writing. They always knew which buttons to push, which breaths to steal.

It was infuriating.

I wanted to scream, to throw something, to slam the door and bolt it shut behind them for good. But what scared me more was the part of me that didn’t want them to stop. That part—the one that lit up when they got close, the one that burned hotter when they pressed against me—was getting harder to ignore.

I touched my neck where their breath had ghosted over my skin. It was still warm.

They wanted me, and not in the casual, easy way people usually want someone. It was intense, obsessive, and territorial. I didn’t know what they saw in me or why I was the target of their fixation, but it felt like being circled by wolves who had already decided I was theirs.

And the worst part?

Some small, traitorous part of me was starting to wonder what it would feel like to stop running.

After I finally felt able to stand up, I turned the sign in the window to Closed and hurried out of the store, taking a moment to lock up, before racing up the stairs to my apartment.

I leaned against the door for a long moment, just breathing. Trying to sort through what had happened. What always happened. They came in, they teased, they touched, they left. And I hated it. I hated how they made me feel like prey, like a chew toy they were just being patient with.

But, I hated even more the fact that deep down, part of me liked it.

I pressed my palms against my flushed cheeks and let out a shaky, frustrated breath. The clenching ache between my legs was a humiliating echo of everything I refused to admit. It wasn’t just arousal—it was tension, pressure, electricity building under skin.

I walked to the bathroom like a man possessed and splashed cold water on my face. It didn’t help.

I looked at myself in the mirror and hated what I saw. Not because I looked afraid. But because I looked fucking horny and I was sure they’d more than noticed.

And what made it all so much worse—so horrifically, shamefully worse—was what happened later that night.

I didn’t crawl into bed thinking about them. I didn’t light a candle or put on music or do anything dramatic. Did people actually do that when masturbating, or was that only in the movies?

I just lay down on top of the covers, fully clothed in very unsexy pajamas, eyes squeezed shut, heart still badump -ing in my chest.

The second I let my mind drift, they were there .

Not the way they usually were—taunting and loud, smirking and cruel. No. This time, they were quiet. Intentional. Gentle , maybe? It was Hayes first, behind me, a hand low on my waist, breath at the nape of my neck. Whispering my name like it meant something, like he was praying. And Hudson, in front, pressing our foreheads together, looking at me like I was something holy.

Like I mattered.

My fingers tightened in the sheets. I hated myself for the way my body responded—how quickly it surged to life, how desperately it clung to the image of them pleasuring me. In the fantasy, I wasn’t trembling or trapped. I was curled into it , pulling them closer, taking everything they offered, and then asking for more.

Begging for it.

My hips rolled without permission. My breath caught, half-formed around a moan. God. I couldn’t stop. My hand slithered down, seeking my dick like it was a beacon.

I rubbed and writhed until I tumbled off the edge.

I stared up at the stained ceiling above my bed, chest heaving, skin damp, and underwear wet. Shame clamped down like a vice. I pressed both hands to my face, hot with guilt, disgusted with myself.

I hadn’t said their names. But I’d thought them.

I’d wanted them.

And no amount of denial or soap could wash that truth away now.