The first thing Alexander noticed was the tension in his neck, he was barely tucked in on the couch anymore. Had he even slept? Oliver had done that--he always did, even when they fought. Even when Alexander chose the couch over their bed.
Light crept in through the sheer curtains, warm and gold, but not quite enough to chase away the chill from the night before. He stayed still, staring at the ceiling. The cushion beneath him was too narrow for comfort, his neck ached faintly, and yet he hadn't moved once all night. He didn't want to.
His thoughts circled back, slow and thick like honey: Oliver's voice, low and careful. "What if we opened things up... just a little? Just to explore."
At the time, Alexander had only blinked at him, unable to speak. Not because he was angry. Not exactly. But because Oliver had looked at him with those stormy gray eyes, soft with hope and fear all at once, and it was the most vulnerable Alexander had seen him in months.
He hadn't said yes. He hadn't said no, either.
And then, as if summoned by the heat of the moment, Trevor had knocked on their door.
Unexpected, of course. Unexpected for him anyway. Oliver had invited him.
He had only seen the man a handful of times at their shared gym. Trevor was always a little too smooth, a little too good-looking, the kind of guy you didn't invite over if your marriage was on a ledge. Six foot three, chiseled, always smelling like something expensive and slightly dangerous. Oliver had gone to answer the door, but Alexander had been the one Trevor's eyes landed on.
He exhaled, letting the memory play out in the stillness of the room. The faint click of the door. Trevor's smirk. The way Oliver's hand lingered too long on Trevor's arm in greeting.
And then... Alexander shook his head.
His body stirred under the blanket. The warmth of it now felt too much, like the memory itself was beginning to melt into him, seep through his skin.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair.
What the hell am I doing? What the fuck did I allow to happen?
He moved slowly, the blanket sliding from his hips. The apartment was too still, as if it were waiting for him to react. But to what, exactly?
Alexander leaned back against the couch, letting his head rest against the cushion. That last part of the night--the part after the conversation, after Trevor had arrived--was foggy with emotion, not alcohol. He remembered the look on Trevor's face.
That mouth. That smirk.
And then the words, tossed out like a knife hidden in a compliment.
"Guess he didn't tell you about Cleo's."
Alexander had frowned, his chest already tightening.
Trevor had said it too casually to be casual. And Oliver had gone to Cleo's. Just two weekends ago. Alexander had been in Chicago, pacing in his hotel room between back-to-back meetings, exchanging sweet, surface-level texts with Oliver.
"Just out with Seth. Cleo's is wild tonight."
He remembered the message exactly. He'd even smiled at it.
And now? The same sentence tasted bitter in his memory. Had Oliver slept with someone that night? Was the conversation last night an attempt to rewrite something already done?
His stomach clenched. Not out of anger, not quite--but confusion. He'd known they were drifting a little. He just hadn't realized how far.
And the worst part wasn't the possibility that Oliver had been with someone.
It was the gnawing thought that he might never have known--if Trevor hadn't said anything.
Alexander rubbed his hand over his mouth, then down to his throat. His skin felt hot despite the room's cool air. Beneath the confusion, something else stirred. Jealousy? No--something stranger, darker. A part of him wanted to know exactly what happened that night.
Who had touched Oliver?
And why Oliver hadn't told him first.
The silence was fractured by a sudden voice.
"Hey, Bitchboy, get in here!" Trevor's voice carried down the hallway like it owned the place.
Alexander flinched--his heart jumping before his body followed. He sat up too fast, the blanket sliding off in a tangled heap. His feet hit the floor with a soft thud, cold against the hardwood. He still wore the same outfit from last night.
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to. The weight of Trevor's voice had already shifted the morning into something else--something heavier.
For a moment, he stood frozen just outside the hall, unsure if his body would listen. Then, quietly, he made his way toward the bedroom.
The door was slightly ajar. He hesitated, hand hovering above the knob.
Then he pushed it open.
The scene hit him like a punch wrapped in cotton.
The curtains were drawn, sunlight slipping through in soft ribbons of the warm-hued room. Oliver lay on the far side of the bed, tangled in the sheets, one bare shoulder exposed, pale and rising slowly with breath. Still mostly asleep. Peaceful. Innocent, even.
Trevor sat upright beside him, shirtless, sheets carelessly low on his hips. His body, as always, was absurd--sharp lines, tan skin, the kind of physique you could only get if you scheduled it. He didn't bother hiding the smirk as his eyes met Alexander's.
"There you are," Trevor said, stretching. His tone was all mock surprise, as if Alexander were the one trespassing. ""I gave Oliver quite a seeing to last night, Alexander, he'll be as hungry as I am when he wakes up. Go and make us some breakfast. Eggs? Coffee? Something."
Alexander didn't answer. He couldn't. Not yet.
His gaze drifted back to Oliver--his Oliver--still soft in sleep, lashes casting tiny shadows on his cheeks, lips parted just slightly.
He wondered how long ago Oliver had fallen asleep. He wondered who had held him there.
And underneath it all, hot and rising like floodwater, came the anger.
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
It coiled inside him, tight and burning. Not just at Trevor, lounging like a king. Not even at Oliver, who had let it happen--or maybe wanted it to happen.
No, the anger was at himself.
