He surfaced in pieces. First the heat—a flush that had nothing to do with the room, spreading from his chest to his throat, his thighs, the hollow of his stomach. Then the weight of the sheets, twisted and damp, wound around his legs like something that had held him down. The red silk had gone cold against his skin, but his skin was still burning, still alive, still remembering.

His mouth was open. He tasted himself—salt, and something else, something he couldn't name. His lips were swollen. His bitten lip stung when he touched it with the tip of his tongue, and the sting was the first thing that felt real.

The room was dark. Lamplight pooled on the nightstand, on the ceiling, on the wall. The fridge hummed down the hall, a flat, constant sound that filled the silence like water filling a basin. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, and tried to remember.

There was no face. Only the wanting. Only the ghost of a mouth on his, a hand on his hip, a voice low in his ear saying something he couldn't quite hear anymore. He'd woken like this before—aching, empty, his body telling him a story his mind had already lost. But never like this. Never with the cage.

He felt it now, a dull pressure against the meat of his inner thigh, the metal cool and unyielding where his skin had grown warm. David had locked it on him. David had held the key. And he had handed it back, hadn't he? He had chosen. He had stood in that dark bedroom in the black latex dress and the dark wig, and he had chosen.

The wanting surged again, hot and sharp, and he pressed his thighs together against it. The cage held him, a small, hard fact. He was locked. He belonged to someone. The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it settled in his chest like a stone dropping into still water, and the ripples were warm.

He turned his head. The phone lay facedown on the nightstand, its screen glowing white against the dark wood. He stared at it for a long moment, his heart thudding against his ribs, and then he reached for it.

The screen lit up under his thumb. A message thread, already open. David's name at the top, the last message from the night before—*"Goodnight, Willow."* His thumb hovered over the keyboard, and the cursor blinked at him, patient, waiting.

His hands were shaking. He could see them, the fine tremor in his fingers, the delicate bones that David had touched and called beautiful. He typed a single word, then deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. His breath came shallow, his chest tight, the wanting in him a live thing coiling around his spine.

He thought about Claire. Asleep in Chicago, her green eyes closed, her brown hair spread across a pillow in a room he'd never seen. She dreamed of a wedding. She dreamed of a future. She had no idea that her fiancé lay in his own bed, burning, locked in a cage, reaching for another man's name.

The cursor kept blinking.

He closed his eyes, and the wanting surged again, and he thought of David's voice—low, hypnotic, velvet over gravel. *You feel real only as Willow.* He'd said that at the Blue Note, his hand on Warren's knee, his gray eyes holding him like a net. And Warren had kissed him. He had straddled his lap in a hotel bar and kissed him, and the world had not ended, and he had felt more alive than he had in twenty-five years.

He opened his eyes. The cursor was still there, waiting for him to decide.

He typed the words before he could stop himself: *I dreamed about you.*

His thumb hovered over the send button. The letters glowed white in the dark, assembled, dangerous. He could delete them. He could put the phone down, roll over, go back to sleep, pretend this had never happened. He could call Claire in the morning and hear her voice and remember who he was supposed to be.

His thumb pressed down.

The message slid into the thread with a soft electronic chime, and the screen showed the words he'd written, now sent, now out of his hands. The thread went quiet. No reply. Just the cursor blinking at the bottom of the screen, waiting for the next thing he would say.

He held his breath. The room was silent except for the fridge, the hum of the lamp, the sound of his own heart in his ears. The sheets were still twisted around his legs. The cage was still locked. The wanting was still there, patient, endless, a thread pulled taut between his chest and a man who had not yet answered.

He lay still, the phone warm in his hand, and waited.

The silence stretched. One minute. Two. The cursor blinked. The thread stayed empty, David's name at the top, his own words beneath it, small and bright and already part of the story.

He thought about the black latex dress, hanging in David's closet. He thought about the wig, the heels, the pearls cool against his earlobes. He thought about the cage, and the key, and the way David had looked at him in the low gold light of the penthouse, like he was the only person in the world worth his attention.

He thought about Claire, and the wedding that would never happen, and the lie he had told her about exams, about the city, about everything. He thought about the thread pulling taut, and the way it felt like a death sentence, and the way he kept pulling it anyway.

The phone vibrated in his hand.

He looked down. The screen was bright, the message thread open, and at the bottom, beneath his own words, a reply had appeared.

He didn't read it. Not yet. He lay there in the dark, the red silk cold against his burning skin, the cage a dull pressure against his thigh, the wanting a live thing in his chest, and he let the moment hold him—the edge of something, the beginning of a fall, the thread pulled taut and singing.

His thumb moved. The screen brightened. And the world tilted, just slightly, toward the man who held his key.

The screen bloomed white against his face, the words swimming before his eyes. He blinked, once, twice, until they settled into letters, into a sentence, into meaning. *"Good morning, Willow. Come to me."*

His breath caught. The phone trembled in his hand, or maybe that was his hand trembling, the fine bones of his wrist visible in the glow. He read it again. *Come to me.* Not a question. Not a request. A statement, as certain as the sunrise he could not see through his drawn curtains. David's voice in his ear, the way it had sounded in the dark of the penthouse bedroom, low and velvet and sure.

He should say no. He should type something careful, something measured, something that would put distance between the man who held his key and the boy who lay twisted in red silk, still tasting himself on his own lips. He should mention Claire. He should mention the wedding, the lie, the future he had promised her in a church he had never seen.

His thumbs moved instead.

*When?*

The reply came before the screen had time to dim. *Now.*

He sat up. The sheets fell away from his chest, cool air rushing over skin that was still flushed, still hot, still remembering the ghost of a touch he could not name. The cage pressed against his thigh, a dull, familiar weight, and he felt the want surge again, sharp and bright, coiling low in his belly.

He looked at the phone. *I have class.*

*Skip it.*

He should argue. He should type out a paragraph about responsibility, about his degree, about the life he was supposed to be building. He should close the thread and roll over and press his face into the pillow and forget the way his heart was hammering against his ribs.

His thumbs moved. *Okay.*

The screen glowed. No reply came. Just the cursor blinking at the bottom of the thread, patient, waiting, the way it had waited for him all night.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet finding the cold floor, and stood. The room tilted, just slightly, and he steadied himself against the nightstand, his fingers brushing the lamp, the phone, the edge of the drawer where he kept the things he never showed anyone.

He did not open the drawer. He did not think about the emerald catsuit folded inside, or the burgundy dress David had sent, or the heels that stood in the back of his closet like a secret waiting to be worn.

He crossed to the closet instead, and pulled the door open.