A Monster-Sized Question

Travis Rivers did not hear the knock so much as feel it, a dull vibration through the floorboards that shook his mug on the coffee table. “Do not be the landlord,” he muttered. The door opened anyway. “Definitely not the landlord,” his sister said, marching in like she owned the lease. “He doesn’t have the hips for those jeans.” “Hi, Dani,” Travis said. “Ever tried texting before breaking and entering?” She kicked the door shut with her heel and tossed her bag onto the armchair he never let anyone sit in. Today, apparently, it was a coat rack. Her hair was scraped up into a messy knot, a pencil jammed through it, eyeliner slightly smudged from the day. She looked like every school counselor the district had ever feared and every teenager’s unexpected salvation. “Texting is for people who want you to say no,” she said. “I came here for a yes.” “You’re going to be disappointed.” “Unlikely.” She clapped her hands once, sharp. “Stand up.” “No.” “Travis.” He stayed on the couch, laptop open, a half-finished spreadsheet glaring at him like it was personally offended by his life choices. The apartment was exactly how he liked it: quiet, ordered, small enough that silence felt intentional rather than empty. “Is this about Mom?” he asked. “Because if she’s mad I didn’t answer her call last night, tell her I was—” “This is not about Mom. This is about you being emotionally constipated.” “That’s a strong opener.” “Good, then you’re awake.” She crossed her arms and stared him down. “I set you up on a date.” His brain did that thing it sometimes did where all the noise turned into one sustained tone. Somewhere distant, a car passed, someone on the street laughed, his heater clicked off. Inside him, everything went still. “A what now?” he asked. “A date,” she repeated. “Blind, because if I let you research anyone ahead of time you’ll talk yourself into a panic spiral and block them before they even know you exist.” “I do not block people.” “You blocked that guy from the bookstore because he recommended the wrong translation of Dante.” “He was objectively wrong.” “And cute.” “Objectively wrong,” Travis said again. She rolled her eyes, then fished her phone out of her back pocket and started tapping. “Anyway. Too late. It’s done. His name is Reginold Smith.” Travis stared at her. “Come again?” “Reginold,” she said, oblivious to the horror blooming across his face. “With an o. That’s how it’s spelled in his email.” Travis leaned back slowly, like the couch might save him. The name settled into the room like cigar smoke. “Reginold,” he repeated. “Yes.” “Smith.” “Yes.” “Oh my God.” The syllables arranged themselves into a man that did not yet exist and somehow already terrified him. He could see him clearly. A Victorian banker who had never once laughed without checking if it was appropriate, a man whose posture required its own spine, who said things like I prefer formality while removing cufflinks engraved with his initials. Thin lips. Judgmental eyebrows. A handshake like being weighed for burial. Travis’s mind, traitorous, supplied the rest. The way those cufflinks would glint as Reginold rolled up his sleeves, because the room was too warm, because even monsters had pulse points. The thin lips parting to sip whiskey, the lower one damp after, and the thought of Travis’s thumb dragging across it to wipe away the stray drop. The pocket watch chain, taut against the fabric of his vest, leading down to—no. The vests weren’t just layers. They were barriers. Travis imagined undoing them, button by button, each one a surrender, and the skin beneath, pale and smooth except for the faintest trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband. Reginold’s voice, when he finally spoke, would be the kind that vibrated in Travis’s sternum, low and precise, like the strike of a match. You’re trembling. Not an observation. A diagnosis. And Travis would be, because the man’s presence was a fever, and the worst part was how badly he wanted to catch it. “I can’t,” Travis said, but his body, stupid and honest, had already decided otherwise. “Yes, you can,” Dani replied. “You are going.” “I’m not built for a man named Reginold.” “He goes by Reggie in his actual life, calm down.” “That does not help.” “It helps a lot.” She dropped onto the coffee table in front of him, boots thudding against the wood, and leaned in until he had no choice but to look at her. Her eyes were softer than her tone had any right to be. “You are lonely, Travis,” she said. “And I am really tired of watching you pretend you’re not.” He opened his mouth to argue, but the words lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Lonely sounded dramatic, and he had always considered himself more… settled. Contained. He had his books, his quiet, his routines. He had noise-canceling headphones and grocery delivery and a calendar that no one else touched. That counted, didn’t it? His silence must have said more than he meant, because her gaze gentled. “You don’t have to marry him,” she added. “You don’t even have to like him. You just have to show up and let yourself be seen for one evening.” “I hate when you’re good at this,” he muttered. “I know. It’s why I’m so committed to the bit.” She patted his knee and stood, grabbing her bag again as if the mission were already complete. “You’re meeting him at six. That nice bookstore café you like. And if you text me some dramatic excuse in the next two hours, I will show up there instead and embarrass you in public.” “You would not.” “You know that I would.” At the door, she paused and glanced back at him, hand on the knob. “Try,” she said quietly. “Just… try.” The softness in her voice landed deeper than anything else. It slid under his defenses and sat there, heavy and annoying and true. She was gone a second later, leaving the apartment feeling somehow larger and smaller at the same time. Travis stared at the ceiling. “Reginold,” he said to it. “Christ.” The ceiling did not offer counsel. After a long minute, he closed his laptop with trembling fingers and pushed himself off the couch. “Fine,” he told the room. “We’re doing this.” He went to get ready. He stood in front of his bedroom mirror like it had personally wronged him. “Casual but not like I gave up on life,” he told his reflection. Jeans. Dark, clean, a little more fitted than his usual. A soft navy shirt that made his eyes look less exhausted than he felt. He tugged at the hem, smoothed the collar, judged his own hair for being aggressively average. His nerves crackled under his skin like exposed wire. Canceling would be easy. One text. One polite excuse. A strategic lie about migraines or plumbing failures or sudden death. His brain helpfully supplied three variations. He closed his eyes. That was when the betrayal began. The name—Reginold—rose like a trigger, and the caricature he’d been mocking all afternoon shifted into something far more dangerous. The banker vanished. In his place stood a man stripped of pretense: sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms, throat exposed where the top button had come undone, heat radiating from him like he carried a private furnace under his shirt. The hallway appeared around them, narrow enough that Travis could feel the imagined warmth gathering in the little pocket of space between their bodies. The man stepped in. Slow. Certain. One hand planted beside Travis’s head, fingers spread like he owned the wall. The other settled around Travis’s wrist, a loose hold, just firm enough that his pulse jumped under the thumb resting there. Not restraint. Recognition. The voice came next, roughened at the edges, the kind that lived low in a man’s chest. “Look at you.” Not a command. Not quite permission either. More like someone uncovering a truth he’d been hiding from himself. The sound slid down Travis’s spine with humiliating precision. His breath tightened. His balance tipped forward as if gravity had abruptly chosen sides. Every inch of him felt tuned to the nearness of that imagined heat. His fingers curled, searching for something to hold onto that wasn’t there. A flood of want hit him hard enough that he had to steady himself against the dresser, pulse hammering beneath skin that now felt too sensitive. No. The refusal echoed sharply in his mind, but the fantasy clung to him. The man leaned closer. Travis felt the ghost of breath at his jaw, warm enough to make his stomach twist. He ripped himself out of the image like yanking free from a too-tight shirt. For one awful second, it lingered anyway—just the sense of how that voice would sound in the dark, drawing a single word out slowly enough to undo him. No, he told himself again. Absolutely not. He braced both hands on the sink, breathing once, then again, forcing everything back into its usual locked cabinet. Desire was a hazard. A live wire. Something he had learned to step around rather than solve. “Asexual adjacent,” he told his reflection under his breath, making a face at the phrase. “Which is code for ‘I want things I don’t trust myself with.’” He buttoned his cuffs, each small click of plastic against thread a discipline. “It’s just coffee,” he said. “And a man named Reginold who almost definitely does not own you in a hallway.” The thought sent another flicker of warmth through him, sharp and humiliating. He grabbed his coat and keys with more force than necessary, as if motion could drown it. By the time he locked the apartment door behind him, his body was tense, his mind buzzing, every step down the stairs a negotiation between fear and something he refused to name. Outside, the air was cool and gray, the late afternoon light already folding toward evening. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked, heart thudding hard enough that he could feel it in his throat. The bookstore café sat on the corner like a secret someone had forgotten to hide properly. Warm light spilled from its windows, amber and inviting, turning the steam of coffee cups into tiny ghosts. Shelves lined the walls in pleasing, overstuffed rows, and the air smelled like paper, espresso, and rain-damp wool. Travis paused outside, watching people through the glass. A woman in a green sweater laughed at something her companion said. A man in a suit read with his phone face-down beside him, jaw tense. Two teenagers shared a muffin and pretended not to look at each other’s mouths. He checked the time on his phone. Two minutes to six. He could still run. Instead, he opened the door. The bell chimed, soft and familiar. Inside, the noise was low and kind. Cups clinked. Pages turned. Someone adjusted the music, the volume dropping just enough to make conversation feel possible. His eyes scanned the room automatically, searching for the specter he’d conjured: tall, severe, possibly in a waistcoat. He saw him at the back first only because the man looked up exactly as he entered, as if tuned to the door. Reggie, Travis thought, and then, helplessly, Thank God. He was… normal. Ordinary in the way that made Travis’s shoulders drop a fraction. Late thirties, maybe a little older. Dark curls that refused full obedience, beard trimmed but not obsessively sharp. An average build, but there was a quiet strength in the way he sat, forearms resting on the table, fingers curled around his mug. His glasses had slid down his nose slightly, and he pushed them up with his thumb as he smiled. The smile did something small and unsteady to Travis’s chest. No vest. No pocket watch. No air of aristocratic judgment. Just a man in a soft gray sweater and worn jeans, looking hopeful and a little nervous. Reggie lifted a hand in an awkward half-wave. Travis exhaled a breath he had not realized he’d been holding and walked toward him. “Travis?” the man asked as he approached. “Yes,” Travis said. “You must be the legally-binding Reginold.” They spoke at the same time, stumbled over each other, both chuckled, then both tried to offer a hand. They aborted, then committed, ending up in a handshake that was a fraction too long and more real than either expected. Reggie’s hand was warm. His grip was firm without trying to prove anything. “Sorry,” Reggie said, laugh soft. “Social skills are a work in progress.” “Same,” Travis replied. “I think mine are permanently in beta.” They released each other’s hands like they had conspired and been caught. “Nobody calls me Reginold,” Reggie added quickly. “Ever. Please. I beg you. I only see it on legal paperwork and in my nightmares.” The line landed with surgical precision. Relief surged through Travis so fast it almost made him dizzy. “Oh, thank God,” he said before he could filter it. “I was imagining you as some sort of Victorian loan shark.” Reggie’s eyes widened, then crinkled. “Well, now I’m curious. Was I dashing at least?” “Horrifying,” Travis said. “Very well-dressed, though. High-end cufflinks. The kind of man who says ‘I prefer formality’ while plotting your demise.” Reggie laughed for real that time, the sound coming from somewhere low in his chest. A few heads turned, smiling without joining. “Reggie is fine,” he said. “Or Reg, if you’re feeling efficient.” “Travis,” Travis replied. “Or Trav, if you’re my sister and immune to my preferences.” They both smiled. For a moment, the air between them felt less like unknown territory and more like a room they might both be allowed to occupy. As they sat, the chair creaked under Travis in protest of his tension. The table between them was small, scarred by years of elbows and teacups. A candle flickered in a jar that had once held jam. Travis adjusted his coat, tugged at his shirt, willing his breathing to behave. Right as he exhaled, his traitor brain flicked back to the earlier fantasy. The invented Reginold, all stiff collars and judgmental brows, pinning him to the wall. But then the image shifted, like a film reel splicing mid-frame, and suddenly it wasn’t the caricature anymore. It was Reggie—the man across from him—but stripped bare: broad shoulders rolling as he crowded closer, the candlelight carving shadows between his muscles, the dark trail of hair below his navel leading down to nothing Travis should be thinking about in public. Travis’s breath hitched. In his mind, Reggie’s hands were still braced on either side of his head, but now there was no shirt, no vest, just the heat of his skin and the way his body would slot against Travis’s, pressing him back until he couldn’t pretend to breathe normally. The fantasy-Reggie smirked, slow and knowing, his body warm against Travis as he leaned in, lips brushing the hinge of Travis’s jaw. “Liar,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel, and the sound rippled straight through Travis’s bones. His real-life fingers twitched against the menu. The paper crinkled. Reggie’s eyes snapped to his. “You okay?” “Yes,” Travis lied, voice too tight. “Just… sat weird.” His spine protested. His dick added commentary he really didn’t need right now, and his hole flinched. His entire nervous system seemed to be taking it all down in bullet points. Reggie’s mouth quirked, like he knew. Like he could see the flicker of the fantasy still burning behind Travis’s eyes: the way his body would arch under that imagined weight, the way pressure and want tangled low and tight, impossible to hide. Travis jerked his gaze to the drink list. The words blurred. The menu wasn’t an anchor. It was kindling. They ordered coffee, because ordering anything more ambitious felt like tempting fate. When the drinks arrived, hot and fragrant, they wrapped their hands around the cups like people trying to remember what warmth felt like. “So,” Reggie said, clearing his throat. “Dani tells me you’re the responsible sibling.” “That is a slanderous lie,” Travis replied. “I am the quiet sibling. Those are different skill sets.” “Quiet and responsible are cousins.” “Tell that to my laundry basket.” Reggie smiled into his mug. “I’m an only child. I have no benchmark, but I’ve always suspected I’d be the disaster sibling.” “You seem very not-disaster,” Travis said, then blinked, realizing how that sounded. “I mean. You’re here. On time. With clean clothes. That’s advanced.” Reggie laughed softly. “You’d be surprised how much of that is smoke and mirrors.” Conversation found a rhythm quicker than either of them expected. They started with low-risk topics like work commutes, favorite sections of the bookstore, the inexplicable joy of perfectly organized spices. Dani, of course, came up again, because she was a force of nature and refused to stay offstage even when absent. “She’s convinced I’m one bad day away from adopting a dozen cats,” Travis said. “You don’t like cats?” Reggie asked. “I love cats,” Travis said. “Which is the problem. I would become a skeleton they feed on out of pity.” Reggie nodded gravely. “A noble death.” “It would smell terrible.” “You’d haunt them.” “I would absolutely haunt them.” They both grinned, the small shared absurdity building a bridge. The topics shifted, gradually, as if the floor of the conversation were gently sloping downward and they didn’t notice they were descending. Failed dates, filtered through humor. The weirdness of dating apps. The way some people treated relationships like performance reviews. “At some point I realized I wasn’t dating,” Reggie said, tracing the rim of his mug. “I was interviewing for the role of ‘acceptable boyfriend.’” “How’d that go?” Travis asked. “Poorly,” Reggie said. “Turns out I’m bad at pretending I don’t want things.” Travis felt a sharp, involuntary jolt spark low beneath his jeans, a flash of want he had no defenses for. “I’m the opposite,” he admitted, staring at the swirl of foam in his cup. “I got good at pretending I don’t want… much of anything. Expectations and I don’t really get along.” Reggie looked at him, quiet and attentive. “Other people’s expectations or your own?” he asked. Travis huffed a small, humorless breath. “Yes.” The corner of Reggie’s mouth lifted, but he didn’t deflect. “I think I spent most of my twenties pretending not to want connection,” Reggie said after a moment. “Like if I didn’t admit it, it couldn’t hurt me that I didn’t have it.” The words landed like a thumb pressed into an old bruise. Familiar, unwelcome, completely accurate. “Did it work?” Travis asked softly. “No,” Reggie said. “I just got better at lying to myself.” Travis nodded, fingers tightening around his mug. “I don’t do well with… expectations,” he said again, more precise this time. “Romantic ones. Sexual ones. The script people seem to want you to follow.” “Then we don’t have any,” Reggie said. Travis looked up, startled. Reggie’s gaze was steady, not intense, just present. “We’re two strangers having coffee,” he continued. “That’s all. No expectations. No script. We survived getting here. That’s enough.” The line did something strange to Travis’s ribs, like someone had quietly unlocked a latch he hadn’t realized was there. No expectations. Just this. This table, this warmth, this small bubble of mutual effort. “Okay,” Travis said. Reggie’s smile softened. “Okay,” he echoed. The candle flickered. Outside, the sky deepened from gray to blue. Inside, the world narrowed to the small space between the table and their knees, the shared silence that didn’t feel as threatening as it usually did. They talked about hobbies next, because hobbies were safe. Reggie collected old cameras and took terrible, earnest photos of clouds. Travis admitted he had an entire shelf of cookbooks and mostly cooked the same three comfort meals on rotation. “Do you follow the recipes?” Reggie asked. “At first,” Travis said. “Then I start improvising and either it’s great or it’s a crime.” “High-risk, high-reward cooking.” “It keeps me humble.” The conversation looped and curled, returning to loneliness in careful euphemisms. “I like my routines,” Travis said. “They make things… manageable.” “Routines are good,” Reggie said. “It’s just easy to forget to make room for people inside them.” The truth of that slipped into Travis’s chest and sat there, heavy and unignorable. He did not say, I don’t know how to want people without breaking something. He did not say, Wanting has always felt like a trap door. He said, “I’m working on that.” Reggie’s eyes warmed. “You’re here,” he said. “That counts as a lot of work.” When they finally left the café, the sky had emptied into evening. Streetlights glowed in pools along the sidewalk, and the air held that damp chill that promised rain later but not yet. They pushed through the door together. The bell chimed behind them, sealing the little world they’d built inside. “Do you live far?” Reggie asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Ten minutes,” Travis said. “Five, if I pretend I’m being chased.” Reggie made an amused noise. “Efficient.” They started walking. Their footsteps settled into a shared rhythm without discussion. After half a block, the sky made good on its threat. A fine mist began to fall, the kind that didn’t quite count as rain but soaked you anyway if you ignored it long enough. “Of course,” Travis said. “Weather is also a fan of dramatic tension.” Reggie pulled a compact umbrella from his bag with the air of a man revealing a magic trick. “Preparedness is sexy,” he said. “I will take your word for it,” Travis replied. Reggie popped the umbrella open. It was just big enough for two people who pretended not to notice when they drifted closer. “Here,” Reggie said, angling it so Travis was fully covered. “If you get wet, I will feel guilty,” Travis warned. “Then we’ll both be motivated to walk faster.” “Dark psychology.” “Thank you, I try.” They shared the small shelter, shoulders nearly touching. A warm stripe of awareness ran down the length of Travis’s arm where their coats brushed. The sound of the drizzle on the umbrella made a soft, private drum. Travis asked a question about Reggie’s job, something about how he ended up in IT support instead of following the photography thread. Reggie answered with a story about student loans, parental expectations, and the way stability sometimes won arguments it had no business winning. “I don’t hate it,” Reggie said. “It’s just… very grown-up. Spreadsheets and system tickets and making sure other people’s emergencies don’t burn the building down.” “Relatable,” Travis said. “I color-code spreadsheets for a living.” “Dani mentioned. She also mentioned you’re scary good at it.” “That is a slanderous but accurate assessment.” Reggie laughed, and the sound was closer this time, vibrating through the little space between them. As they walked, the distance between their bodies shortened in increments. An inch here, a shift of weight there. Their arms brushed once. Then again, lingering. Travis felt every point of contact as if under a magnifying glass. A low, simmering awareness unfurled in his stomach. Not the sharp, intrusive jolt of his earlier fantasy, but something slower, warmer. A pull instead of a shove. It terrified him. It thrilled him. He was very aware of his own breathing, of the way his chest rose and fell, of the heat under his skin where cold air should have been. He risked a glance at Reggie and found him looking straight ahead, jaw relaxed, eyes soft behind his lenses. “What are you thinking about?” Travis heard himself ask. Reggie hesitated, then answered honestly. “That this is nice.” The simplicity of it caught Travis off guard. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.” They walked the rest of the way in a silence that did not feel empty. Travis’s building was unremarkable brick, three stories of apartments with charm mostly supplied by the tenants’ window plants. The entryway light flickered in a way the landlord swore was just “quirky. ” “Home sweet rental,” Travis said, gesturing. Reggie smiled. “I like it. Feels lived in.” “Translation: the stairs are a fire hazard,” Travis quipped. “Adds character,” Reggie said, eyes warming as he took him in. They stopped near the front door, under the partial shelter of the awning. The rain had intensified to a steady fall, the sound muffling the city around them. Reggie did not move to follow him inside. He did not back away either. He stood there, weight balanced, hands back in his pockets, expression open but careful. “I had a really good time,” he said. Travis swallowed. The words landed low and deep. “Me too,” he said, and his voice came out softer than he expected. The air between them tensed almost imperceptibly. Not sharp, not electric, just… focused. Like a camera lens turning until the image went crisp. Reggie stepped half a pace closer. He moved slowly enough that Travis could have stepped back at any point. Each inch was an invitation, not an assumption. He did not step back. Rain ticked steadily on the awning above them. A car drove past, tires hissing on wet asphalt. Somewhere, someone shouted, distant and irrelevant. Here, it was just the two of them and the small space where breath turned visible in the cold. “Can I…?” Reggie began, voice low. Travis’s chest squeezed. His instinctive flinch, the one that usually sent him retreating into a joke or a quick escape, rose like a wave. He did not ride it. He nodded instead, a tiny motion that felt more like a leap than anything he’d done in months. “Yes,” he said. Reggie’s hand came up, slow and steady, fingers light against Travis’s cheek as if he were handling something fragile and important. The touch was warm, grounding. He leaned in by degrees, giving Travis all the time in the world to change his mind. Travis’s heart hammered against his ribs. The world narrowed to the space between them, the approaching warmth, the soft brush of Reggie’s breath. The kiss, when it finally landed, was brief and gentle. No push, no grab, no attempt to escalate. Just the soft press of lips, a shared inhale, the faint taste of coffee and rain. Travis’s entire body went very still, then very aware. Not in the overwhelming, spiraling way that had terrified him in the past, but in a way that felt… held. His skin prickled. His fingers curled in his pockets. Something in his chest that had been clenched for years loosened a fraction. Reggie broke the kiss first, easing back a few inches, eyes searching Travis’s face without demand. “Goodnight, Travis,” he said, a small, hopeful smile curving his mouth. It hit harder than maybe it should have, that simple goodnight. “Goodnight,” Travis replied, voice quiet and steady. He let himself look at Reggie for a heartbeat longer, memorizing the way his hair had dampened at the edges, the way his glasses had slid down again, the way his smile looked a little nervous despite everything. “Text me when you get home,” Travis added, surprising himself. Reggie’s smile brightened. “I will.” He stepped back, gave a little wave that would probably embarrass him later, and turned toward the street, umbrella blooming above him as he walked away. Travis watched until Reggie turned the corner and vanished into the rain. Inside, the apartment felt different. He closed the door behind him and stayed there, back pressed against the wood, breath coming in small, uneven pulls. The muffled patter of rain on the windows filled the quiet. His mind replayed the kiss in perfect detail. The warmth of Reggie’s mouth. The soft scrape of his beard. The gentle way he’d held Travis’s face, like an offered question. His body responded to the memory with alarming speed, heat rising under his skin, a low thrum moving through his muscles. He swallowed, throat dry. This, his thoughts whispered. This is what you keep running from. He pushed off the door and took a few steps into the living room, then stopped, fingers flexing at his sides. He remembered, unbidden, the earlier fantasy in the mirror. The imagined Reginold pinning him against the wall, voice in his ear. The unwanted jolt of arousal that had felt more like an attack than a gift. The image shifted now. It was not some invented, severe stranger pressing him into plaster anymore. It was Reggie. Reggie’s body, familiar now in outline. Reggie’s mouth at his throat, Reggie’s voice low and unhurried. The same hallway, the same wall, but the weight of it all had changed. His breath left him in a shaky exhale. The repressed heat he’d been shoving down for years rose fast, sharp, undeniable. The kiss had lit a fuse he’d been pretending did not exist. He stood there for another long moment, fighting with himself, then lost. Travis turned toward the bedroom, his movements deliberate but his pulse erratic. The nightstand drawer opened with a quiet rasp, and he stared down at the collection inside. A lineup of possibilities, each one a memory or a promise: the slender one he’d used when loneliness was a dull ache, the ridged one for nights he wanted to feel filled, the thick, veined monster he’d bought on a dare and never quite worked up the nerve to try. His fingers hovered, then settled on the middle—smooth, average, safe. It had been a while since he’d let himself need this. He grabbed the lube, the plastic bottle cool and solid in his grip, and carried both to the bed. The mirror on the wall caught his reflection as he stripped, clothes falling away until he was bare, skin flushed and sensitive to the air. He didn’t look away. Let himself be seen. The mattress dipped as he lay on his stomach, feet planted on the floor, ass lifted just off the edge of the bed. The mirror framed him, the curve of his spine, the tremor in his thighs, the way his cock already twitched, leaking onto the sheet beneath him. He poured lube onto his palm, the slick sound obscene in the quiet, and worked it over the head of the toy, watching his own fingers shake. He reached back, legs spreading wider, and ran the toy between his cheeks. The first touch made him gasp, his breath fogging the mirror. He dragged it up, then down, the pressure sending a jolt through him, his cock hardening further, a bead of precum smearing against the fabric. A moan slipped out, low and rough, as he pressed the tip against himself, teasing, waiting. His reflection stared back at him, eyes dark, lips parted. For once, he didn’t look away. Travis guided the toy against himself, the first stretch burning just enough to make his breath hitch. He bore down, and the head slipped inside, his body yielding with a shudder. “Reggie,” he gasped, the name torn from him before he could stop it. The sound of it in the empty room made his face flush, shame and need twisting together. Lonely. Pathetic. Right. Dani’s voice echoed in his head, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He sank the toy deeper, his free hand wrapping around his cock, stroking in slow, steady pulls. The intrusion ached, but it was the right kind of ache. The kind of ache that made his nipples drag against the sheets, oversensitive, every brush sending sparks down his spine. His moans grew louder, needier, the sound filling the room as he rocked into his own touch. “Fuck—fuck yes—” The words became a rhythm, a mantra, his hips lifting to meet each thrust of the toy. His hole clenched around the intrusion, the stretch bordering on too much, but he chased it, wanted it. “Harder—Reggie—” He pistoned the toy in and out, his cock leaking, his balls drawing tight. The mirror showed him everything: the flush on his chest, the way his muscles tensened, the desperate arch of his back as he fucked himself onto the toy, his hand flying over his cock. Almost there—almost— His phone lit up on the nightstand, the screen flashing with Reggie’s name. Pleasure crashed over him like a wave. His orgasm ripped through him, his hole clenching around the toy as cum spilled over his fingers, striped across his stomach and the sheets beneath him. A broken groan tore from his throat, his body shuddering as he rode it out, his reflection watching him with dark, blown eyes. For a long moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing, the weight of his release, and the quiet, insistent glow of Reggie’s name on his phone. The toy slipped free with a wet, obscene pop, thudding onto the floor beside the bed. Travis’s breath came in sharp, uneven pulls, his body still humming, his hole aching and empty. He didn’t move for a long moment, just lay there, skin slick with sweat and spend, the sheets tangled around his legs. Then his phone buzzed again. His fingers trembled as he grabbed for it, thumb smudging the screen as he unlocked it. Reggie’s message glared up at him, bold and unapologetic: “I made it home. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself on that monster you keep in the nightstand.” Travis’s mouth went slack. His chest squeezed, heat flooding his face. Not shame, not this time, but something sharper, something wild. The toy lay abandoned on the floor, glistening, and suddenly the room felt too small, the air too thick. Reggie knew. How was that even possible? Travis wasn’t sure if he was terrified or turned on.