The room was dim, lit only by the warm glow of his desk lamp. Music played softly from his laptop, something theatrical, swelling.

And then you saw him.

Alex stood frozen in front of his mirror, mid-pose. He was wearing a tight black crop top that hugged his waist, a short pleated skirt that showed off his long legs, and thigh-high stockings that disappeared just below the hem. His makeup was flawless—winged eyeliner, a hint of shimmer on his cheekbones, gloss on his lips. Silver earrings dangled from his ears, catching the light.

He spun around, eyes wide as saucers, his face going through several shades of red. His hands flew to cover himself—but there was nothing to cover, really. He was already covered.

The coffee cup in your hand felt suddenly heavy. The steam curled up between you.