The parking lot's cracked asphalt still held the day's heat, radiating up through the soles of his cycling shoes as Eli swung his leg over the top tube and dismounted. The bike frame ticked as it cooled, metal contracting in the night air, and he stood there a moment with his hands on the bars, letting his heart rate drop. The ride over had been fast, harder than it needed to be, and the sweat was still cooling on his skin, the night breeze finally reaching the damp patches at his collar and the small of his back.

The cage was a cold pressure against his groin, a weight he'd almost managed to forget during the ride. Almost. The rhythm of the pedals had pushed it from his mind for stretches at a time, the burn in his thighs and the wind in his ears drowning out everything else. But now, standing still, he felt it again. The steel against his skin, the way it shifted slightly when he moved, the constant reminder that his body wasn't entirely his own anymore.

He swung his leg off the saddle and the cage pressed against the seam of his bib. He adjusted his stance, trying to find a way to stand that didn't make it obvious, that didn't draw attention to the hard line of steel under the lycra. There wasn't one. The bib was tight, meant to compress and streamline, and the cage was a visible ridge against his thigh, unmistakable if anyone bothered to look.

He zipped his jacket up anyway, a reflex, as if the thin layer of windbreaker could hide anything.

"You're late, Vance."

The voice cut through the buzz of the sodium lamp overhead, sharp and impatient. Eli looked up. Sam was leaning against the chain-link fence at the edge of the lot, arms crossed, watch glinting under the yellow light. He'd been there a while, judging by the way his foot was tapping against the asphalt, a rhythm that matched the flicker of the lamp.

"Traffic," Eli said, wheeling his bike toward the fence.

"Traffic." Sam's voice was flat. "At nine o'clock on a Tuesday. In this town." He pushed off the fence, walking toward Eli with the easy, unhurried stride of someone who'd been waiting and wanted you to know it. "You're twenty minutes late, Vance. I've been standing here watching cars not drive by."

"Sorry." Eli leaned his bike against the fence, the frame clinking against the chain link. "I was—" He stopped. There was no version of the truth that made sense. *I was getting milked by a machine for six hours and then I let a stranger fuck me on a locker room bench and now I'm locked in a steel cage I can't remove.* None of that was coming out of his mouth.

"You were what?" Sam asked.

"Just—" Eli shook his head, reaching for the zipper of his jacket. "Long day."

Sam's eyes tracked the movement, and Eli felt the weight of that gaze settle on his chest, then drop. He was mid-zipper when he saw it happen—Sam's eyes cutting down, catching on the bulge in his bib, the hard line of the cage pressing against the lycra. Sam's mouth opened slightly, a question forming, and Eli's fingers froze on the zipper pull.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The lamp buzzed overhead. The distant hum of the road carried on the night air, a car passing somewhere beyond the fence, its headlights sweeping across the far end of the lot before fading into the dark.

"You going to get your kit on, or are we standing here all night?" Sam asked, and his voice had changed. It was casual, too casual, the kind of casual that meant he'd seen something and was deciding what to do with it.

Eli's hand moved again, jerking the zipper up the rest of the way, the jacket closing over the cage with a rasp of nylon. "Getting it," he said, and his voice came out shorter than he meant it to, clipped, the way it got when he was nervous.

He turned to the bag at the base of the fence, unzipping it with hands that were steadier than he felt. His jersey was in there, the team kit, and he pulled it out, the fabric cool against his palms. He could feel Sam's gaze on his back, a physical weight, and he kept his movements deliberate, slow, buying himself time to think.

He didn't have time. There was no version of this that ended with Sam not asking.

He shrugged off the jacket, letting it fall to the asphalt, and pulled the jersey over his head. The fabric slid down his torso, and he felt the cage press against the lycra of his bib as he tugged the jersey into place, the hem settling at his waist. The cage was still visible—it was always visible, a ridge of steel against his thigh that no amount of fabric could hide—but the jersey covered the worst of it, the shape less obvious under the looser cut.

He zipped the jersey halfway, then reached for his helmet.

"New gear?" Sam asked.

Eli's hands stilled on the helmet strap. "What?"

"The—" Sam gestured vaguely at Eli's waist, then dropped his hand. "Nothing. Just looked like you were carrying something under the bib. Some kind of new gear?"

Eli's jaw tightened. He clipped the helmet strap, the buckle clicking into place with a sound that was too loud in the quiet. "It's nothing."

Sam's eyes lingered on the spot where the cage pressed against the lycra, and Eli felt his face heat. The night air was cool, but his skin was burning, the flush creeping up his neck, and he was grateful for the dim light of the parking lot, the way the sodium lamp cast everything in shades of yellow and shadow.

"You sure?" Sam asked. "Because it looked like—"

"I said it's nothing." Eli's voice came out harder than he intended, and Sam's eyebrows went up.

"Okay," Sam said, holding up his hands. "Okay. Just asking."

Eli took a breath. Let it out. The rush of anger was already fading, replaced by a cold, familiar dread. He couldn't afford to snap at Sam. Sam was the only one who'd been willing to ride with him at night, the only one who didn't mind the late sessions and the empty roads. If he pushed Sam away, he'd be alone out here, and alone was the last thing he needed to be.

"Sorry," he said, and the word came out softer this time. "Long day. I didn't mean to—"

"Forget it." Sam waved a hand, already moving toward his own bike, a sleek carbon frame that gleamed under the lamp. "You ready to ride, or do you need a minute?"

Eli grabbed his bike, wheeling it toward the gate. "I'm ready."

The road stretched out beyond the fence, a dark ribbon of asphalt that disappeared into the night. The sodium lamp cast its yellow pool across the first few meters, and then the dark swallowed everything else. Eli swung onto the saddle, the cage pressing against the seat, a familiar, unwelcome pressure, and he settled his feet into the pedals.

Sam pulled up beside him, his own bike humming with the quiet tension of a man who was ready to go. He glanced at Eli, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable.

"You sure you're good?" Sam asked. "You seem—"

"I'm good." Eli's voice was steady now, the clipped edge gone. He'd had a lot of practice, over the past few days, at sounding like everything was fine. "Let's ride."

Sam nodded, and they pushed off together, the click of their pedals echoing in the quiet as they rolled out of the lot and onto the empty road.

The rhythm of the ride was familiar, a comfort Eli hadn't realized he needed. The steady turn of the cranks, the hiss of tires on asphalt, the cool night air streaming past his face. He settled into it, his breathing finding its rhythm, his legs warming up as the road began to slope gently upward.

Sam was a strong rider, stronger than Eli in the sprints, but Eli had the endurance, the swimmer's lungs that let him hold a pace that would have cracked most riders. They worked well together, trading pulls, the silence between them comfortable in a way that Eli had come to appreciate. Sam didn't talk much on the rides, didn't fill the quiet with chatter the way some riders did. He just rode, and that was enough.

But tonight, the silence felt different. Eli could feel Sam's gaze on him, flicking over between glances at the road, and he knew the question was still there, hovering in the air between them. He kept his eyes on the road ahead, his hands steady on the bars, and tried not to think about the cage pressing against his groin with every rotation of the pedals.

They crested the first hill, and the road dropped away ahead of them, a long, sweeping descent that let the speed build. Eli tucked into the drops, his body low over the bars, and felt the wind pick up, whipping past his ears, drowning out everything but the rush of air and the hum of his tires.

Sam was beside him, matching his speed, and Eli saw him glance over, his mouth moving, the words torn away by the wind.

"What?" Eli shouted back.

Sam pulled closer, close enough that Eli could hear him over the rush of air. "I said—what's that you're packing?"

Eli's hands tightened on the bars. The cage pressed against his thigh, a cold, hard reminder, and he felt his face heat despite the wind. "What?"

"The thing under your bib," Sam said, his voice carrying over the wind. "I saw it back in the lot. Looked like some kind of—I don't know. New gear?"

Eli's jaw clenched. He stared at the road ahead, the dark ribbon of asphalt blurring as the speed built, and felt the question hang in the air between them, waiting for an answer he couldn't give.

"It's nothing," he said, and the words felt thin, even to him.

Sam's laugh was short, almost a bark. "Nothing. Right." He pulled ahead, his bike surging forward, and Eli watched his back, the way his shoulders moved with the rhythm of his pedaling, and felt the weight of the secret pressing down on him, heavier than the cage, heavier than the money in his jacket, heavier than anything he'd ever carried.

The descent flattened out, and they rolled into a long, gentle straightaway, the road cutting through fields that were dark and empty under the night sky. Sam slowed, dropping back to ride beside Eli, and Eli could feel his gaze, the curiosity that wasn't going to be satisfied with "nothing."

"Look," Sam said, his voice casual, the kind of casual that meant he'd been thinking about this for a while. "I'm not trying to pry. But if you've got some kind of—I don't know, new training gear, some kind of weighted thing, whatever—I could use an edge too. Season's coming up, and I'm not where I need to be."

Eli's hands tightened on the bars. "It's not—"

"I'm just saying." Sam shrugged, the movement visible in the dim light. "If there's some kind of gig, some way to make quick cash, I could use it. Rent's due, and the bike shop's been breathing down my neck about that new derailleur."

The words hit Eli like a punch to the chest. The bike shop. The invoice. The two thousand dollars in his jacket lining, money he'd earned by letting strangers strap him into a chair and drain him, by letting a man he barely knew fuck him on a locker room bench, by carrying a steel cage around his cock like a secret he couldn't put down.

He could give Sam the same answer. Could tell him about the facility, about Marcus and Dr. Lena, about the six hours in the chair and the machine and the cup filling with his body's yield. Could tell him about the cage, the key in Marcus's pocket, the engagement period that wasn't over yet.

He didn't.

"It's not a gig," Eli said, and his voice was steady, even if everything else wasn't. "It's nothing. Just—" He shook his head. "Forget it."

Sam was quiet for a moment, the only sound the hum of their tires and the steady rhythm of their breathing. Then he said, "You know, if you're in some kind of trouble—"

"I'm not."

"—you can tell me." Sam's voice was softer now, the sharp edge gone. "We've been riding together for two years. I know when something's off."

Eli's throat tightened. He stared at the road ahead, the dark ribbon of asphalt stretching into nothing, and felt the weight of Sam's words settle over him, heavier than the cage, heavier than the money, heavier than anything he'd ever carried.

"I'm fine," he said, and the lie tasted like ash in his mouth. "Just tired."

Sam didn't push it. They rode in silence for a while, the rhythm of their pedals steady, the night air cool against Eli's sweat-damp skin. The cage pressed against his groin with every rotation, a constant, aching reminder of everything he couldn't say, and he kept his eyes on the road ahead, watching the dark, and thought about the key in Marcus's pocket, and the night that was still waiting for him.