Confident Female Roommates Lovingly Peg Their Shy Male Roommate

The apartment still smelled like garlic and the lemon soap Bianca always used on the counters. Barrett stood in the kitchen doorway with a dish towel twisted in his hands, twenty-three and painfully aware of it, trying not to watch the way Yolanda’s bare feet crossed at the ankle where she sat on the counter. She was twenty-six, strong through the shoulders from years of hauling inventory at the boutique she managed, and she had been looking at him like that for weeks, as if she already knew the shape of the want he kept swallowing.

Bianca came in from the hall, twenty-four, hair still pinned from the design studio, a smear of cobalt ink drying on her wrist. She hooked her chin over Yolanda’s shoulder and smiled at Barrett the way she had been smiling since the night they left the hall closet door open on purpose.

“You missed a spot,” Bianca said, nodding at a plate he had already washed twice.

“I didn’t.” His voice came out thinner than he wanted. He had lived with them, and with Kofi, for four months, and he still couldn’t look at either woman when they stood too close.

Kofi drifted in from the living room, twenty-five, tall, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled, the coffee-roastery smell of him faded under soap. He leaned in the doorway and watched without speaking. He had been part of the flirting too, quieter about it: a hand on Barrett’s shoulder that lingered, a joke that landed soft and stayed. Barrett felt all three of them in the small kitchen and kept his eyes on the sink.

Yolanda swung her legs. “You’ve been jumpy since Tuesday.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have,” Bianca said, gentle. “Ever since you saw the box.”

The box lived on the top shelf of the hall closet. Barrett had found it because Yolanda asked him to grab extra towels and did not warn him what else was up there. Leather, silicone, a neat row of harnesses in black and a deep wine color, bottles of lube lined like a still life. He had shut the door so fast the towels fell. They had not let him pretend he hadn’t looked. For two weeks they had teased him about it at breakfast, on the couch, in the hallway when he tried to slip past. Never mean. Always with that warm, unbearable attention. They told him his ears went pink. They told him it was all right to be curious. They told him they liked how careful he was.

“We keep saying it,” Yolanda said, hopping down, close enough that he could smell her perfume under the lemon soap. “We want to take care of you. Not scare you. You get that, right?”

Barrett’s hands stilled. “I get that you like watching me get nervous.”

“We like you,” Bianca said. She reached past him for a glass and let her arm brush his. “The nervousness is just honest. It’s sweet. We’ve been flirting with both of you for weeks, and you still act like if you breathe wrong we’ll vanish.”

Kofi made a low sound that might have been a laugh. “Speak for him. I breathe fine.”

“You breathe fine and then you stare,” Yolanda said, glancing back. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed you too.”

Barrett dried his hands on a towel that suddenly felt too small. He thought of Wednesday’s breakfast, when Bianca had said, casual as toast, that the black harness would look good against his skin if he ever got curious. He thought of Thursday, when Yolanda caught him staring at the closet door and only said, soft, that they wanted to take care of him. He thought of the way his cock had stirred and how he had hated that they could probably tell. The tension in the kitchen was sweet and unmistakable, the kind that had been building through shared dinners and late movies and the way Bianca would rest her foot against his under the table and pretend she hadn’t.

“I’m just doing the dishes,” he said.

“Then finish them,” Bianca said, smiling, “and come sit with us. No tricks. Just us.”

He carried the last glasses into the living room because standing in the kitchen felt worse. The oversized sectional took up the center of the room, a deep gray thing Yolanda had insisted on when they signed the lease, big enough for all four of them and their bad posture. Bianca curled into one corner. Yolanda had changed into a soft tank and shorts that made Barrett’s eyes want a place to land that wasn’t her thighs. Kofi sat on the far cushion, long legs stretched, watching Barrett the way he had been watching him since move-in, fond and unhurried.

“There he is,” Yolanda said. “Our brave dishwasher.”

“I live here.”

“You live here and you go pink every time we say the word strap,” Bianca said. She patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit. We’ve been obvious on purpose. With you. With Kofi, when he lets us. We like you shy. We like that you get careful instead of cruel. And we want you. That’s the whole speech. We’ve made it in pieces for weeks. I’m just saying it in one place.”

He sat. The sectional dipped. Bianca’s knee touched his. Yolanda leaned forward, elbows on her thighs, lamplight catching the gold at her throat.

“If you want us to stop teasing, we stop,” Yolanda said. Her eyes were steady. “If you want us to keep going, we keep going. Either way you’re safe in this apartment. You hear me?”

He heard her. His pulse was loud, and the want was older than tonight. Old as the first week he watched Bianca dance badly in the kitchen and felt something unclench. Old as the night Yolanda fell asleep on his shoulder during a movie and he did not move for an hour. All of it here, among adults who paid rent and burned garlic and left their wanting out in the open. He nodded, small.

“Good,” Yolanda said. “Then finish sitting still. We’re not done looking at you.”

Kofi shifted, one arm along the back of the couch, close enough that Barrett felt the heat of him. “They’re not lying. I’ve been watching it build. It’s all right if you want it. It’s all right if you don’t.”

Barrett looked at his own hands. “I don’t know how to want something that loud.”

“Then let us be loud for you,” Bianca said, and the sweetness in it made his throat tight.

The evening stayed relaxed in the way a held breath is relaxed. They put something low on the speaker and didn’t really listen. Yolanda’s foot nudged Barrett’s ankle and stayed. Bianca told a story about a client who wanted a logo that looked like a feeling, and Yolanda laughed, and Barrett laughed a second late because he was busy noticing how Yolanda’s hand had come to rest on his knee, not squeezing, just there, asking without words.

“This okay?” she asked, because she always asked.

“Yes.”

“Still yes if I do this?” Her thumb drew a slow line along the inseam of his pants, nowhere near anything that would undo him, and still his breath hitched.

“Yes.”

Bianca turned toward him, close enough that he could see the tiny scar at her eyebrow. She was not laughing now. “We’re going to kiss you. If you want that. Say it if you don’t.”

“I want that,” Barrett said, and was shocked by how fast it came out.

Bianca kissed him first, soft, almost careful, her mouth warm and tasting faintly of the mint tea she had made after dinner. He made a sound he didn’t mean to make. Yolanda’s hand tightened once on his knee, a check, and when he didn’t pull away she leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, then his mouth, slower than Bianca, deeper, her tongue a question he answered by opening. They traded him between them. Bianca’s fingers in his hair. Yolanda’s palm sliding up his thigh and stopping, waiting, moving only when he breathed yes against her lips.

Kofi had gone quiet in a different way. Barrett opened his eyes between kisses and saw him on the far end of the sectional, pants open, hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking slow, eyes dark and fixed. He wasn’t hiding it. The sight went through Barrett like heat.

“He’s watching,” Yolanda murmured against Barrett’s jaw. “You like that he’s watching. I can feel you shake.”

“I—” Barrett’s voice broke. “Kofi, is that okay, you just—”

“I want to watch,” Kofi said, low and honest. “I want to be here. Tell me if you need me to stop or leave.”

“Don’t leave,” Barrett said, and flushed so hard he felt it in his chest.

Bianca kissed his throat. “Good. We like when you tell the truth.” Her hand covered Yolanda’s on his thigh. “We’ve been thinking about you and that closet for weeks. About laying you out and taking care of every nervous inch. About pegging you until you stop apologizing for wanting it. That’s the dirty version. The clean version is we adore you, and we will go as slow as you need.”

Yolanda nosed at his ear. “Consent check. Still with us?”

“Yes.”

“Still yes if we talk about fucking you with the straps?”

His cock throbbed, trapped and obvious. “Yes.”

“Still yes if Kofi keeps his hand on himself while we do?”

“Yes.”

“And if at any point you want a stop, you say stop, and we stop. No mood to protect. No pride. Say it back.”

“If I say stop, you stop,” Barrett whispered.

“That’s our boy,” Bianca said, fond, and the word made his eyes sting in a way that wasn’t fear.

They kissed him until his mouth was swollen and his hands had found Yolanda’s waist without asking permission from his own shyness. Kofi’s breathing had gone rough. The lamp threw everything gold. Barrett felt cornered in the gentlest sense, Bianca on one side, Yolanda kneeling up on the cushion in front of him, Kofi’s gaze a fourth pressure, and the nervousness that had lived in him for weeks finally had somewhere to go.

“Tell us what you want,” Yolanda said. “Out loud. We won’t guess the big thing.”

He shut his eyes. Opened them. Looked at Bianca’s patient face, at Yolanda’s, at Kofi stroking himself like the sight of Barrett coming apart was enough to live on.

“I want you to peg me,” he said, breathless, the admission scraping out of him sweet and huge. “Both of you. Together. I want you to take care of me like you said. I want it.”

Bianca’s smile was bright and a little wrecked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we prepare,” Yolanda said, and kissed him once more, firm, like a seal. “Lube. Toys. No rushing. You stay right here and let us make it good.”

They didn’t vanish into chaos. That was the thing that undid him most. Yolanda went to the closet like she was getting extra blankets and came back with the box held in both hands, unashamed. Bianca cleared the coffee table. Kofi tucked himself away enough to help move a cushion, then sat again, cock still out, obedient to the shape of the night. Barrett stayed on the sectional because they had asked him to, heart hammering, watching the contents of the box meet the lamplight for the second time in his life and the first time on purpose.

“Black for me,” Bianca said, lifting a harness, the straps supple. “Wine for Yolanda, if you like the look of it. We have a few sizes. We start small. We use a lot of lube. We check in every minute if we have to.”

“The slim one first,” Yolanda said, holding up a smooth silicone length, modest, curved for the body. “This isn’t a test. If you hate it, we stop and we cuddle and we watch something stupid. If you love it, we have more.”

Barrett nodded, throat dry. “I want to try.”

“Pants off, then,” Bianca said. “Only if you want them off.”

“I want them off.”

They undressed him like they had all the time rented in the world. Yolanda’s fingers at his button, waiting for the little nod, then the zipper, then his pants and briefs drawn down together. His cock sprang up, flushed, already wet at the tip, and he made a humiliated sound that Bianca kissed off his mouth.

“Beautiful,” she said. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

Kofi’s hand slowed on himself, a reverent drag. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Yolanda stroked Barrett once, root to tip, slick with his own precome, and then let go so he wouldn’t finish before they had begun. “On your back. Knees up when you’re ready. I’m going to touch you with my fingers first. Lube. Two fingers only if you ask. Tell me the whole way.”

He lay back, head near the arm, body open to the room. The ceiling had a hairline crack he had never noticed. Yolanda knelt between his legs. Bianca slicked her fingers from a bottle that clicked open loud in the quiet, then passed it, and Yolanda warmed the lube between her palms before she touched him. A palm on his thigh first. A kiss to the inside of his knee. Then a slick fingertip circling his hole with a patience that made his toes curl.

“Color check,” Bianca said, because they had talked about this in the teasing weeks, half joke, half promise. “Green, yellow, red. Where are you?”

“Green,” Barrett said, and meant it so hard his voice shook. “God. Green.”

Yolanda pressed in slow. One finger, the lube doing its work, the stretch a bright new fact. He gasped. She stilled.

“Talk to me.”

“It’s good. Weird. Good. Don’t stop.”

She worked him open with filthy tenderness, murmuring while she did it. There you go. Sweet boy. You take it so carefully, I can feel you trying to be good. Breathe. Another finger only when he said please, and then the stretch deepened, and Bianca was kissing his chest, his nipples, his mouth, telling him he was doing perfectly, telling him they had wanted this, telling him his nervousness was the most honest thing in the apartment. Kofi stroked himself in long pulls, precome shining, eyes never leaving the place Yolanda’s fingers disappeared.

When Barrett was open and panting and pushing back onto her hand, Yolanda withdrew, kissed his knee again, and reached for the harness.

“My turn first,” she said. “Then Bianca’s. Then whatever you still want. Still green?”

“Green. Please.”

Yolanda stepped into the wine-colored harness with the unhurried competence of someone who had worn it for her own pleasure and now wore it for his. Bianca helped buckle it, a kiss to Yolanda’s shoulder, the slim toy seated and slicked until it shone. Barrett watched the silicone and felt a bolt of fear-bright want so strong he had to grip the cushion.

“Eyes on me,” Yolanda said, kneeling back between his thighs. She lined the toy up, one hand on his hip, the other guiding. “Push out a little. Breathe. I’m going in slow, and you can stop me with a word.”

The head breached him and he cried out, not in pain exactly, in the sheer size of the sensation, the fullness crowding thought out of his skull. Yolanda sank in by inches, praising him the whole way, good, so good, look at you opening for me, we have you, until her hips met the backs of his thighs and she was buried, missionary, holding still so he could adjust. Tears pricked his eyes. She thumbed them away without making them a problem.

“How is it?”

“Full. Really full. I want you to move. Please move.”

She did, a gentle roll, then a deeper stroke, the toy dragging over the place inside him that lit his nerves white. His cock jumped against his stomach, untouched, leaking. Bianca wrapped a loose hand around him and didn’t stroke, just held, a reminder, then let go because they wanted to see if he could come from being fucked alone.

“Not yet,” Bianca whispered. “Just feel her.”

Yolanda fucked him in long, loving strokes, the harness creaking softly, her tank shoved up so he could see the sway of her breasts. She talked to him the whole time. You’re safe. You’re so pretty like this. We’ve got you, Barrett, we’ve got you. Each thrust coaxed a broken sound out of him. Kofi groaned from the end of the couch, fist tight, watching the wine-colored straps frame Yolanda’s hips and the way Barrett’s thighs trembled around her.

When Barrett’s body had learned the rhythm, Yolanda leaned down, kissed him messy and sweet, and said, “Bianca’s going to take the strap. I want your mouth. I want to sit on your face while she fucks you. Yes or no.”

“Yes,” he said, immediate, ruined. “Yes, please, I want to taste you.”

They moved with care so he never felt dropped. Yolanda eased out, and the emptiness made him whine. Bianca was already harnessed in black, the same slim toy warmed and slicked, and she took Yolanda’s place between his legs without rush, one hand spread on his stomach.

“Hi,” she said, absurd and tender. “Still green?”

“Green. Please, Bianca.”

She pushed in smoother than the first time, his body welcoming her, and the sound he made was grateful. She set a rhythm a little firmer than Yolanda’s, still careful, hips snapping in a way that jolted pleasure up his spine. Then Yolanda swung a leg over his chest and settled above his face, shorts and panties gone, the scent of her rich and close. She didn’t drop her weight. She hovered, one hand on the back of the couch, and looked down at him.

“You sure?”

“Please,” he said, and she lowered herself onto his mouth.

She was wet, hot, tasting of salt and skin, and Barrett licked her like the task might save him. Yolanda sighed, rolling her hips in small circles, praising him, right there, just like that, sweet tongue, while Bianca thrust into him from between his spread thighs. Missionary on the big couch, the two women bracketing him in pleasure, the living room narrowed to the clutch of Yolanda’s thighs and the drag of the toy. He held Yolanda’s hips and licked until her voice went thin. Bianca’s free hand stroked his ribs. Kofi’s low curses stitched the quiet between wet sounds.

“He’s shaking,” Bianca said, delighted, fucking him steady. “God, Yolanda, he’s taking it so well. You’re doing so well, Barrett. Breathe through your nose. That’s it. That’s our good roommate. Our sweet boy.”

Yolanda laughed, breathless, grinding softer. “Don’t make him come yet. I can feel his mouth getting desperate.”

“I won’t,” Bianca said, and slowed, deep grinds instead of thrusts, letting him float. “Color?”

He couldn’t speak with Yolanda on his tongue. He tapped her thigh twice, the signal they had murmured into his ear minutes ago, two taps green, one yellow, a pinch for red, and Yolanda stroked his hair.

“Green,” she translated, fond. “He’s green and greedy.”

They kept him there until his jaw ached sweetly and his hole fluttered around Bianca’s strap every time she bottomed out. Then Yolanda climbed off, kissing his wet mouth, tasting herself on him, and Bianca eased out with a hand on his chest to ground him.

“Center of the room,” Yolanda said softly. “The rug. I want you on your hands and knees where we can all reach you. Kofi, if he wants your cock in his mouth, you ask him. No assuming.”

Kofi’s voice was hoarse. “Barrett. Can I?”

Barrett, dazed, nodded, then remembered words. “Yes. I want you in my mouth. Please.”

“And me behind you,” Bianca said. “Still me. Yolanda’s going to touch you everywhere else. We’ll help you turn over.”

They helped him onto the rug, a thick thing Yolanda had bought because the floor was cold in winter. Knees apart. Hands planted. He felt exposed and held at once, the lamp finding every tremble. Yolanda knelt beside him and kissed his shoulder, his spine, the small of his back, her palms smoothing down his sides. Bianca knelt behind, harness still on, more lube, a finger first to check he was open and eager, then the toy nudging back in.

“There you are,” she said, almost a laugh, affectionate. “You look incredible. Push back if you want it.”

He pushed back. She sank in, and the angle was different, deeper, the toy striking that bright place with every thrust. He moaned into the rug. Yolanda’s hand found his chest, pinched a nipple gently, soothed it, pinched again.

“Praise him,” she told Bianca, as if Bianca needed telling.

“Perfect,” Bianca said, thrusting, the slap of her hips soft against his ass. “So perfect. Taking me so deep. You wanted this. You asked so sweetly. We’re so proud of you.”

Kofi came around to Barrett’s front and knelt, cock in hand, flushed dark, thick, the head shiny. He didn’t push. He waited until Barrett lifted his face, mouth open, and then he slid in slow, one hand cupping Barrett’s jaw with a care that made Barrett’s eyes burn again.

“Easy,” Kofi murmured. “You set the depth. Tap my thigh if it’s too much.”

Barrett took him, the weight of Kofi on his tongue, the salt, the stretch of his lips, while Bianca fucked him from behind in steady, loving strokes. Overwhelming, exactly what he had breathlessly asked for and more than he had known how to picture. Yolanda stayed at his side, caressing his back, reaching under to cup his balls and roll them, never quite stroking his cock, keeping him on the edge. She kissed his shoulder blade. She told him he was brave. She told him he was theirs for as long as he wanted to be, and no longer.

“Look at him,” she said, voice thick. “Our shy boy, open and still asking for more with his whole body. Bianca, he’s clenching. He loves it.”

“I feel it,” Bianca gasped, hips working. “God, he loves it. Kofi, his mouth, how is he?”

“Hot,” Kofi said, strained, careful not to thrust too deep. “So hot. So willing. Barrett, you’re amazing.”

The praise landed like hands. Barrett moaned around Kofi’s cock and pushed back onto Bianca and felt the orgasm start far away, in his thighs, in his hole fluttering, in the untouched ache of his cock swinging beneath him. Yolanda noticed. Of course she noticed.

“He’s close,” she said. “Don’t touch his cock. Let him. Come on, sweetheart. Come just from being fucked. We’ve got you. Let go.”

Bianca angled her hips and thrust firm and deep, again, again, praising him in a litany, come for us, come on, good boy, sweet boy, we love seeing you, and Kofi petted his hair and didn’t choke him, and Yolanda’s hand pressed warm over his heart from the side, and Barrett broke.

He came untouched, cock jerking, stripes of come hitting the rug and his own stomach, a raw sound vibrating around Kofi’s length. His hole clenched hard around the toy and Bianca groaned, riding the pulses, fucking him through it with gentler strokes until he was shaking and oversensitive and tapping Kofi’s thigh, not red, just full, need a breath. Kofi pulled out at once. Bianca stilled, then eased out, both of them murmuring, both of them touching him so he didn’t drop.

“Color,” Yolanda said, close to his ear.

“Green,” he sobbed, laughing, wrecked. “Yellow for a second. Don’t leave. Green. Holy shit.”

“We’re here,” Bianca said, and kissed his spine. “Breathe. You were perfect. You came so beautifully.”

They got him onto his back again on the rug, a cushion under his hips, his come cooling and ignored because Yolanda was already swinging a leg over him, facing his feet. Her ass and the glistening length of her settled above his still-hard cock. He hadn’t gone soft. Shy or not, wrung out, he was still aching.

“I want to come on you,” she said, looking back over her shoulder, hair stuck to her neck. “Ride you like this. Your cock in me. Yes?”

“Yes,” he said, hoarse. “Please, Yolanda. I want to feel you.”

She sank down. The heat of her after the toy was a different heaven, wet and living, and she braced her hands on his thighs and rode him, slow at first, then deeper, her ass flexing, the view obscene and gorgeous. Barrett held her hips because she reached back and put his hands there. Bianca knelt beside them, kissing Barrett’s mouth, then leaning to mouth at Yolanda’s shoulder, one hand snaking around to rub Yolanda’s clit in tight circles.

“That’s it,” Bianca said. “Use him. He wants to be used sweetly. Look at his face, Yolanda, he’s gone for you.”

Yolanda’s rhythm broke into something needier. “Barrett, talk to me.”

“You feel so good,” he said, and found he could, now, the shyness burned off to honesty. “You’re so warm. I can feel you squeezing. I want you to come. Please come on me. I want to feel you take it.”

She did, with a sharp cry, grinding down, Bianca’s fingers relentless on her clit, her pussy pulsing around Barrett’s cock in waves that dragged a helpless aftershock twitch out of him. She rode it out, trembling, then folded forward over his legs, laughing once, breathless, tender.

“Fuck,” she said. “Come here.” She twisted enough to find his knee with a kiss, ridiculous and fond.

Kofi was still hard, kneeling close, chest heaving, having held off with visible effort. Bianca looked at him, then at Barrett, a question in it even now.

“Kofi,” she said. “I want to peg you. Beside them. If you want it. You’ve been so good, watching, waiting, letting him have your cock and not taking more than he gave.”

Kofi’s eyes went wide, then dark with yes. “I want it. I’ve wanted it. You two started teasing him and looking at me like I was next.” He glanced at Barrett. “You okay if I’m right here?”

“Stay,” Barrett said, and meant it. “I want to see you.”

They didn’t skip care. Bianca added lube, worked Kofi open with two fingers while he knelt on all fours beside Barrett’s hip, groaning into his own arm, and Yolanda, still catching her breath, reached over to stroke Kofi’s back and tell him he was gorgeous. When Bianca slid the black strap into him, Kofi cursed, low and grateful, and pushed back.

“Green?” she asked.

“Green. I can take it. Please.”

She gave it to him, fucking him beside Barrett and Yolanda on the rug in the center of the living room, the oversized sectional looming behind them like a witness. The sounds were wet and rhythmic. Barrett watched Kofi’s face go slack with pleasure, watched Bianca’s concentrated tenderness, the way she praised him too, good, Kofi, so good, take it, you’ve been patient, and felt his own spent cock twitch inside the memory of Yolanda. Yolanda kissed Barrett’s mouth, slow, while Bianca drove into Kofi until Kofi came with a choked shout, spilling onto the rug, hips stuttering. Bianca worked him through it until he tapped her wrist, and she eased out, immediate, careful, kissing the small of his back.

For a moment the only sound was breathing.

They migrated back to the oversized sectional in a tangle of limbs and the towels Yolanda had thought to grab, because of course she had. The four of them fit if they didn’t care about elbows. Bianca and Yolanda bracketed Barrett again. Kofi settled on Yolanda’s other side, a hand resting on Barrett’s ankle like an anchor. Soft kisses moved between them without urgency. Bianca to Barrett’s temple. Yolanda to his mouth. Barrett turning to find Kofi’s knuckles and kissing those too, shy again now that the roaring had passed.

“You were wonderful,” Bianca said.

“So brave,” Yolanda said, and reached for a warm cloth she had set on the table. She cleaned him gently, between his legs, over his stomach, no hurry, no flinching from the mess. Bianca’s hands followed with massage, thumbs working the tension out of his thighs, his hips, the small of his back when he rolled. “Whenever you desire,” Yolanda murmured. “More of this. All of us. You say the word and we make another night. No pressure. Just the promise.”

“Whenever you want,” Bianca echoed, kissing his shoulder. “We’ll take care of you. That’s not going to change in the morning.”

Kofi hummed agreement, sleepy, sated. “I’m here too. If you want me here.”

Barrett said, “I want that,” because it was the shape of the sentence they had made room for, and their hands were so kind, and his body was loose and humming and sore in a way he already knew he would think about in the shower. He let them arrange the blanket. He let Yolanda’s fingers comb his hair. He closed his eyes and tried to stay inside the warmth.

It didn’t hold.

The doubt arrived without drama, which made it worse. One minute he was kissed and cleaned and promised to, and the next something in his chest had gone wrong, a hairline crack like the one in the ceiling, spreading under the blanket. He had wanted it. He had said yes, and green, and please. None of that was a lie. And still, lying in the nest of them, he regretted the size of what he had handed over. The sound of his own voice asking to be pegged. The way he had come untouched on the rug where they ate snacks on Sundays. The certainty in Yolanda’s promise of more. More felt enormous. More felt like the apartment would never be a place he could walk through without his face giving him away. He pictured breakfast. He pictured the closet door. He pictured Kofi’s eyes in the kitchen and didn’t know if he could meet them.

Bianca’s hand paused on his hip, as if she felt the change in his breathing. “Hey. You with us?”

“Yeah,” he said, and the word sat wrong in his mouth. He didn’t take it back. He didn’t know how to explain that the sex had been good, that they had been loving, that he had asked, and that something was still wrong. A regret with no clean source. A doubt that he had wanted the night more than he wanted the morning it would leave behind. Yolanda kissed his hair and told him to sleep. Kofi’s foot shifted against his. The lamp stayed on.

Barrett stared at the crack in the ceiling and did not feel sure of any of them, or of himself, and the not-sure sat in the room like a fifth body no one had invited, quiet, and already too late to send away.