Natalie's fingers moved with practiced ease, the deck whispering as she slid cards face-down across the worn carpet. One to Jessica, who caught hers with a theatrical flick of her wrist. One to Ella, who let hers land without reaching for them. One to Jasmine, who was already grinning. One to Inde, who picked hers up immediately, her thumb finding the edge and tracing it once, twice, a slow back-and-forth that Riley found himself watching instead of his own hand.

Natalie slid his card to him last. Her eyes met his for half a second longer than necessary, carrying something he couldn't read—a warning, maybe, or a dare. He picked it up. A seven of hearts. He placed it face-down in front of him, his fingers rough against the cheap paper stock.

The second card came the same way: face-down, sliding across the carpet fibers with a soft shush. He picked it up without looking at it, pressed it against the seven, and only then let his thumb lift the corner.

Deuce of spades.

A seven and a deuce off-suit. The kind of hand that made poker players sigh and fold early, conserving their chips for something better. He kept his face neutral—he'd learned that much, at least, from three rounds of strip poker—but his thumb pressed harder against the edge of the cards, a small betrayal of disappointment he hoped no one noticed.

The pile of clothes by the wall was a silent witness. A small mountain of fabric—his own T-shirt and jeans, someone's jacket, a sweater he didn't recognize—stacked and folded in a rough heap that seemed to glow in the warm light of his apartment. The refrigerator hummed from the kitchenette, a low, steady note that had been there the whole night, background enough that he'd stopped hearing it until now.

Across from him, Jasmine picked up her cards without looking at them, her grin widening as she found something she liked. She was down to her bra and underwear—a deep red set that matched the energy she carried, bold and unapologetic. Her hand hovered over the stack of chips in the center of the carpet, and she pushed a handful forward with a casual flick of her wrist.

"Raise," she said, her voice carrying the kind of confidence that came naturally to her. "Let's make this interesting. Winner takes the last piece anyone still has."

Jessica's hand stilled on her thigh, her fingers pausing mid-trace against her own skin. She was wearing only her bra and underwear now—black lace, elegant, the kind of thing that made Riley's throat go tight when he caught himself looking. She didn't look at her cards. She looked at Jasmine, then at the stack of chips, then at Riley.

Ella's arms tightened across her chest. She was in her bra and underwear too—a simple sports bra and boyshorts, practical, the kind of thing she probably wore under her volleyball uniform. Her ice-blue eyes were fixed on the cards in front of her, and her jaw worked once, a small adjustment that might have been discomfort or might have been calculation.

Natalie, still fully dressed in her bra and underwear from the last round, shuffled the remainder of the deck absently, the cards whispering against each other in the quiet. She watched Jasmine with the kind of patience that came from years of babysitting—waiting for the storm to pass before deciding how to clean up.

Riley looked down at his seven and deuce again. The four of spades stared back at him, then the seven of hearts. He felt the weight of the room around him—five women, half-dressed, watching, waiting. The refrigerator hummed. The pile of clothes sat by the wall. And Inde's knee pressed against his under the table.

It was deliberate. He knew it was deliberate. There was nothing accidental about the way her leg found his, the warm pressure of her skin against his through the thin fabric of her underwear. She hadn't looked at him. Her dark eyes were fixed on her own cards, her thumb still tracing the edge of them, back and forth, back and forth, a slow rhythm that seemed to match the beating of his heart.

He didn't pull away.

He couldn't have if he'd wanted to. The warmth of her leg against his was grounding, a reminder that she was there, that she was still here, that she hadn't walked away after what had happened with Jessica. She was still here, in his apartment, in her underwear, with her knee pressed against his under a table made of cheap folding legs and a piece of plywood they'd covered with a blanket.

Jasmine raised an eyebrow at the silence. "No one's going to call my bluff?" She fanned her cards out slightly, just enough to catch the light, then folded them back together. "Come on. I'm giving you an opportunity here. Winner takes all. Last piece standing."

"You're not standing," Ella said quietly, her voice barely above a murmur. "You're sitting."

Jasmine's grin didn't waver. "Last piece sitting, then. You know what I mean."

Natalie set down the deck and picked up her own cards, her expression unreadable. She examined them for a long moment, then set them face-down in front of her and reached for a chip. "Call."

The chip clinked against the pile. The sound was small, insignificant, but it broke the tension that had been building since Jasmine's raise. Jessica reached for her own chips, her hand hovering over them, her dark eyes flicking between her cards and Riley's face.

"I'm in," Jessica said, pushing a stack forward. Her voice was lighter than the moment deserved, almost playful, but her fingers lingered on the chips a beat too long, a tell she probably didn't know she had.

Ella picked up her cards again. Looked at them. Set them down. Her hand moved to her chips, then stopped, then moved again. She pushed them forward without a word, her jaw set in a line that Riley recognized from every volleyball game he'd ever watched her play—the look she got when she was about to do something she wasn't sure she could do.

That left Inde and Riley.

Inde's thumb stopped tracing the edge of her cards. Her knee pressed harder against his, a deliberate increase in pressure that lasted three seconds, four, then eased back to the same steady warmth. She reached for her chips without looking at him, her fingers closing around a stack, and pushed them forward.

"Call."

Her voice was low, steady, the same voice she used when she was about to prove someone wrong. Riley watched her hands—the calluses on her palms, the way her fingers moved with deliberate economy, never wasting a gesture. She set her cards down and finally looked at him, her dark eyes finding his across the small space between them.

She didn't smile. She didn't need to. The look in her eyes was enough—a challenge, maybe, or a promise, or both.

Riley looked down at his seven and deuce. The cards seemed smaller now, more insignificant, two low numbers that had no business being in a hand that was about to decide who would spend the next round of poker completely naked in front of five people.

His hand hovered over his chips. He could fold. It was the smart play—fold now, save his chips, live to fight another hand. He was already down to his boxers. One more loss and he'd be naked on his own living room floor, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the cards.

But Inde's knee was still pressed against his. And Jasmine was watching him with that grin. And Jessica's fingers were still resting on her chips, waiting. And Natalie was shuffling the remainder of the deck, the cards whispering their quiet song. And Ella was holding her breath, her arms still crossed, her eyes still fixed on the center of the table like she was watching a serve she wasn't sure she could return.

Riley picked up his cards again. Seven of hearts. Deuce of spades. He looked at them, then at Inde, then at the pile of chips in the center of the table, and he reached for his stack—the last of his chips, the ones that would decide whether he walked away with his boxers or without them.

"Call," he said, his voice rougher than he'd intended.

Jasmine's grin widened, and she set her cards face-down on the table with a flourish. "Well, well. Looks like we're doing this." She leaned back, her arms crossed behind her head, her posture the picture of casual confidence. "Show 'em, ladies."

Natalie set down the deck and picked up her cards. She laid them on the table one at a time, her movements slow and deliberate, each card a small revelation. A pair of eights. Not great, but better than nothing. She looked at them without expression, then looked at Jasmine.

Jessica followed, her cards spreading across the table with a theatrical gesture that was pure performance. A pair of jacks. A solid hand, good enough to win most rounds. She smiled, a small, self-satisfied smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Ella's cards hit the table with a soft slap. A pair of fives. She winced, a small, almost invisible tightening of her features, and looked away.

Jasmine spread her own cards with a flourish. A pair of queens. The room seemed to exhale, a collective release of breath that carried surprise, admiration, and the quiet acknowledgment that Jasmine's confidence had been earned.

Inde's cards followed. She laid them down without ceremony, her thumb the last thing to leave them, and Riley saw what she'd been holding: a pair of tens. Solid. Respectable. But not enough to beat Jasmine's queens.

The room turned to him. He could feel five sets of eyes on his face, five women waiting to see whether he'd fold or reveal whatever he'd been hiding. His seven and deuce sat in front of him, two low cards that had no business being in this hand, and he felt the weight of the night—the pile of clothes, the warmth of Inde's knee, the laughter that had carried them through three rounds of poker—settle on his shoulders.

He reached for his cards, turned them over, and laid them on the table.

Seven of hearts. Deuce of spades.

Jasmine blinked. "That's... not a pair."

"No," Riley said, his voice carrying a calm he didn't quite feel. "It's not."

A beat of silence. Then Jasmine's head fell back and she laughed, a full, genuine sound that filled the room and seemed to shake something loose in the air. "You called on a seven-deuce off-suit? With all of us still in? You're either the luckiest man alive or the most stubborn."

"Or both," Inde said quietly, and her knee pressed against his again—harder this time, a brief, insistent pressure that said something he couldn't quite name.

He looked down at the table, at his seven and deuce, at Jasmine's queens, at the pile of chips in the center that would have been enough to keep him clothed for another round. He didn't have a pair. He didn't have anything. And yet, sitting there, with Inde's leg against his and the warmth of five women around him, he felt something he hadn't expected to feel: okay.

Jasmine's laughter faded, but her grin stayed sharp. She looked around the circle—at Jessica, at Natalie, at Ella, at Inde—and something shifted in her expression, a decision forming behind her eyes. "You know what?" she said, pushing her chips aside. "This is fun and all, but I'm kind of tired of sitting here in my bra like we're at a middle school slumber party. We're all adults. We all know what we're doing here."

Her hands went behind her back. The clasp of her red bra gave a soft click, and Riley's brain went blank.

She pulled the straps down her shoulders, let the fabric fall, and tossed it onto the pile of clothes by the wall. Her breasts were full, dark nipples already peaked in the cool air of the apartment, and she sat back on her hands with the same careless confidence she'd worn all night.

"There," she said. "Now we're even."

Riley's mouth opened. Nothing came out. His throat had gone dry, the kind of dry that made swallowing feel like sandpaper, and his hands had frozen on the table, still resting on his seven and deuce like they could protect him from this moment. His face burned. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, settling in his cheeks, and he couldn't look away from Jasmine's bare chest even though every instinct told him to.

Jessica's hand moved next.

She unclasped her black lace bra with a single practiced motion, the kind of grace that came from years of changing backstage between scenes. She let it slide down her arms slowly, deliberately, her dark eyes fixed on Riley's face as she did it, watching his reaction. The bra joined Jasmine's on the pile, and Jessica sat up straighter, her shoulders back, her breasts—fuller than Jasmine's, pale in the lamplight—exposed to the room.

"I'm not losing to her," Jessica said, her voice carrying a theatrical lightness that didn't quite mask the tremor underneath.

Natalie sighed. It was a long, patient exhale, the sound of someone who had spent years managing children and had learned to pick her battles. She reached behind her back, unclasped her bra—a simple nude color, practical—and pulled it off without ceremony. Her breasts were smaller, compact, the freckles across her chest continuing down in a constellation that Riley hadn't known existed until this moment. She folded the bra neatly and placed it on top of the pile, not tossed like the others.

"I'm not going to be the only one still wearing clothes," she said, her voice flat. "That's just embarrassing for everyone."

Ella hadn't moved. Her arms were still crossed over her sports bra, her ice-blue eyes fixed on a point somewhere on the wall behind Riley's head. Her jaw was tight, the muscle working in small, controlled movements, and her breathing had gone shallow, visible in the rise and fall of her ribcage.

Jasmine tilted her head. "Ella. You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to." Ella's voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the room like a blade. She uncrossed her arms. Her hands went to the hem of her sports bra, and she pulled it up over her head in a single swift motion, not slow, not theatrical, just done. The sports bra joined the pile. Her breasts were small, athletic, her nipples tight against the cool air, and she crossed her arms again immediately, covering herself as much as she could with her elbows.

Riley's eyes had nowhere left to go. Four women, naked from the waist up, sitting on his living room floor, the pile of clothes growing by the wall. The refrigerator hummed. The lamp cast warm light across bare skin—brown, pale, freckled, golden—and he felt like he was drowning in it, the heat of the room pressing against him from all sides.

And then there was Inde.

She hadn't moved. Her hands were still resting on the table, her cards still face-down in front of her, her dark eyes fixed on Riley's face with an expression he couldn't read. Her knee was still pressed against his under the table, a steady, grounding warmth that had been there through the whole hand, through Jasmine's raise, through his call, through the reveal of his worthless seven-deuce.

She reached for the clasp of her bra—a simple black cotton, the kind of thing you wore when you weren't trying to impress anyone—and unclipped it. She didn't rush. She didn't slow down. She just removed it, the fabric sliding off her shoulders, and set it on the table in front of her instead of tossing it on the pile.

Her breasts were full, heavy, the dark areolas visible in the warm light. She didn't cover herself. She didn't cross her arms. She sat there, bare, her eyes still on his, and her knee pressed harder against his leg.

Riley's heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. His face was on fire. He could feel the heat spreading down his chest, settling in his stomach, lower, and he had to clamp down on every impulse in his body to keep from doing something stupid—reaching for her, looking away, running out of the room.

Jasmine's voice cut through the ringing in his ears. "Well? You going to keep staring, or are you going to lose with dignity?"

He blinked. "What?"

"The hand," Jasmine said, gesturing at the cards on the table. "You called. You lost. That means you owe us another piece." She leaned forward, her breasts shifting with the movement, and Riley's eyes snapped up to the ceiling, his face burning even hotter. "And since you're already down to your boxers, that piece is... well." She spread her hands. "Everything."

Riley looked down at his boxers. Gray cotton, worn soft from a hundred washes. The thin line of the waistband pressing against his stomach. He could feel the blood rushing south, could feel the beginning of a response he couldn't control, and the thought of standing up and letting it all show made his stomach drop.

"I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I don't—"

"You don't have to." Inde's voice was low, steady, the same voice she'd used when she told him he didn't have to shrink around her. She was still watching him, her dark eyes soft in the lamplight. "You can forfeit. You can concede. You can just say the word and we'll call it a draw."

Jasmine opened her mouth to protest, but Inde held up a hand, and Jasmine closed it.

Riley looked at the pile of clothes by the wall. Five bras, one sports bra, a pair of jeans, two T-shirts, a jacket, a sweater, socks, his own shirt and jeans. The evidence of the night, stacked and folded and growing. He looked at the five women around him—Jasmine, bold and bare; Jessica, theatrical and trembling; Natalie, patient and calm; Ella, tense and vulnerable; Inde, steady and watching.

They were all naked from the waist up. They had done this together, a choice that felt like something more than the game. And they were all looking at him, waiting for him to decide.

He didn't want to stand up. He didn't want to pull off his boxers in front of all of them, to be completely exposed in a way that went beyond skin. But he also didn't want to forfeit, didn't want to be the one who backed down when they had all gone this far.

His hand moved to the waistband of his boxers.

Then stopped.

Jasmine's eyes followed his hand. Jessica's breath caught. Natalie's hand stilled on the deck. Ella's arms tightened across her bare chest. Inde's knee pressed harder, a silent question.

Riley's fingers curled around the elastic. He could feel the warmth of his own skin through the fabric, the slight give of the waistband as he pulled it forward. The room seemed to hold its breath, the refrigerator hum the only sound, the lamp the only light, the pile of clothes the only witness.

He stopped.

He pulled his hand away from his waistband and raised it to his face instead, covering his eyes with his palm. The darkness behind his hand was sudden and complete, a small refuge from the intensity of the room.

"I can't," he said, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. "I can't do this. Please—please put your clothes back on."

Silence.

He could feel them looking at him. He could feel the weight of their gazes on his bare chest, on his hand covering his face, on the tension in his shoulders. The refrigerator hummed. The lamp buzzed softly. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the blinds.

Then Inde's voice, soft: "Riley. Look at me."

He didn't move. His hand stayed over his eyes, the pressure of his palm against his lids making stars bloom in the darkness behind them.

"Riley." Her voice was gentle, coaxing, the same voice she'd used on the porch when she'd told him it was okay to be scared. "Look at me. Please."

He lowered his hand slowly, blinking against the sudden light. Inde was still sitting across from him, still bare from the waist up, but she had leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, her dark eyes soft and focused on his face. She didn't look embarrassed. She didn't look impatient. She looked like she was waiting for him to catch up.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "I didn't mean—I'm not trying to—"

"Stop," Inde said. "Don't apologize."

She reached out and took his hand—the one he'd used to cover his eyes—and held it in both of hers. Her palms were callused, warm, grounding. She pressed his hand flat against the table, her thumb tracing circles on his knuckles, a slow, calming rhythm.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she said. "You're allowed to have boundaries. You're allowed to say no."

"But you all—" He gestured at the room, at the bare skin surrounding him. "You all did this for me, and I—"

"We did this because we wanted to," Inde said. "Not because we expected anything from you."

Jasmine cleared her throat. "She's right, giant. We're not doing this to collect a debt." Her voice had lost its teasing edge, replaced by something softer, something closer to the quiet concern she showed when she thought no one was watching. "If you're not comfortable, we stop. Simple as that."

Jessica nodded, her hand already reaching for the pile of bras. "I've got mine." She grabbed her black lace, pulled it over her shoulders, and fastened it with the same practiced ease she'd used to remove it. Her breasts disappeared behind the lace, and she adjusted the straps with a small, almost imperceptible sigh.

Natalie followed, retrieving her nude bra from the pile and putting it on without comment. Her hands moved with the same deliberate economy she used for everything, folding the cups into place, adjusting the straps, settling the fabric against her skin. She caught Riley's eye and gave him a small, quiet smile.

Ella reached for her sports bra, but her hand stopped halfway. She looked at Riley, her ice-blue eyes holding something unreadable, and then she picked up the sports bra and pulled it over her head, her movements jerky, uncoordinated. She settled it into place and crossed her arms again, her shoulders curving inward.

That left Jasmine and Inde.

Jasmine sighed, a theatrical exhale that carried more affection than frustration. "Fine. But I'm calling dibs on getting to pick the next game." She grabbed her red bra from the pile, put it on, and fastened it with a decisive snap. "And it's going to be something that doesn't involve anyone taking anything off."

Inde hadn't moved. Her hand was still holding Riley's, her thumb still tracing circles on his knuckles. She looked at him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face, and then she reached for her black cotton bra—still folded on the table where she'd left it—and put it on with the same deliberate economy she used for everything.

She didn't look away from him as she did it. The fabric settled over her breasts, the straps found her shoulders, and she was covered again, the sight of her bare skin now memory, not presence.

"Better?" she asked.

Riley let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The tension in his shoulders eased, a slow release that left him feeling hollow and grateful. "Better. Yeah. Thank you."

Inde squeezed his hand. "You don't have to thank us for respecting your boundaries."

"I know. But I'm going to anyway." He looked around the circle—at Jasmine, who was already reaching for her jeans; at Jessica, who was pulling her hair out from under her bra strap; at Natalie, who was folding the bras on the pile into a neater stack; at Ella, who was still holding her sports bra strap with one hand, her eyes fixed on the floor. "Thank you. All of you."

Jasmine waved a hand. "Don't mention it. Literally. If anyone asks, we played Uno and you won."

Jessica laughed, a small, genuine sound. "As if anyone would believe that."

"They'd believe it if you said it with enough conviction," Jasmine shot back. "You're an actress. Act."

Natalie set the folded stack of bras back on the pile and picked up the deck of cards. "I think we're done with poker for the night." She began shuffling, the cards whispering against each other, a familiar, grounding sound. "But we've still got snacks. And someone bought that terrible documentary about competitive baking."

"It's not terrible," Jessica said, her voice defensive. "It's a deep exploration of the psychology of—"

"It's terrible," Jasmine said. "And I'm going to love every second of it."

Riley watched them, the easy rhythm of their bickering washing over him like a familiar song. The pile of clothes by the wall still sat there, a reminder of what had almost happened, but the tension had broken, replaced by something lighter, something that felt like the group he'd been learning to hold onto.

Inde's hand was still holding his under the table. She hadn't let go since she'd taken it, hadn't pulled away to reach for her clothes or pick up her cards. Her thumb was still tracing circles on his knuckles, a slow, steady rhythm that felt like a promise.

He looked at her. She was watching the others, a small smile on her lips, her dark eyes soft in the lamplight. She felt his gaze and turned to meet it, her smile widening just slightly.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice low enough that only he could hear.

He thought about it. The warmth of her hand in his. The laughter of the women around him. The pile of clothes by the wall, soon to be redistributed. The seven of hearts and the deuce of spades still face-up on the table, a reminder that he'd lost the hand but somehow still felt like he'd won something.

"Yeah," he said, and for the first time that night, he meant it completely. "I think I am."

Natalie stood first, brushing off her jeans with a casual sweep of her palms. "I should head out. It's late, and I've got the Santos twins at seven tomorrow. They wake up before the sun, I swear." She stretched, her arms rising above her head, the hem of her shirt lifting just enough to show a sliver of her stomach. "Same time next week?"

Jasmine groaned, but it was theatrical, more performance than complaint. "You're leaving? The night's barely started."

"It's almost midnight," Natalie said, pulling out her phone to check the time. "That's past my bedtime."

Jessica laughed, the sound carrying a warmth that Riley hadn't heard all night. "Since when do you have a bedtime?"

"Since I started watching children who wake up at dawn." Natalie slipped her jacket from the pile and pulled it on, the fabric settling over her shoulders like a second skin. She paused at the door, her hand on the knob, and looked back at Riley. "You did good tonight. Just so you know."

He opened his mouth to respond, but she was already gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

A beat of silence. Then Jasmine grabbed her own jacket from the pile. "I should probably go too. I've got that thing tomorrow."

"What thing?" Jessica asked.

"The thing." Jasmine's voice carried a significance Riley didn't understand, but Jessica seemed to, because she nodded without pressing further. Jasmine pulled on her jacket, zipped it halfway, and crossed to where Riley was still sitting on the floor. She crouched in front of him, her dark eyes finding his, her grin softening into something genuine.

"You're not a coward, you know," she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "For stopping. For saying no. That took more guts than playing along would have."

His throat tightened. "Jasmine—"

"I mean it." She squeezed his shoulder, the pressure brief and warm. "Text me when you get to bed. I know it's your own apartment, but still. Humor me."

She stood before he could respond, grabbed her bag, and followed Natalie out the door, her high puff bouncing with each step. The door closed behind her with a softer click than Natalie's, almost careful, like she was trying not to disturb the quiet that had settled over the room.

Ella was already standing by the wall, her jacket on, her keys in her hand. She hadn't said a word since putting her sports bra back on, her ice-blue eyes fixed on the floor, her shoulders curved inward in that way they did when she was trying to disappear. She looked up when she felt Riley's gaze on her, and something flickered across her face—embarrassment, maybe, or gratitude, or both.

"I'll see you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Next game night. I'll be there."

Riley nodded. "Ella—"

"You don't have to say anything." She pulled the door open, the handle creaking under her grip. "I'm glad you stopped. I think we all needed that."

The door closed behind her, and then it was just Jessica, Inde, and Riley in the quiet of the apartment.

Jessica was still sitting on the floor, her hands resting on her thighs, her dark eyes fixed on the pile of clothes by the wall. She looked smaller somehow, without the others to fill the space around her, her theatrical energy dimmed to something more fragile. She stood slowly, brushing off her jeans even though they weren't dirty, and crossed to the door without looking at him.

"Jessica." His voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "Wait."

She stopped. Her hand was on the door handle, her back to him, the line of her shoulders tense and waiting.

He didn't know what to say. The words were there, somewhere, but they felt wrong in his mouth, too small or too big, too early or too late. He settled for the truth. "Thank you. For tonight. For—" He gestured at the room, at the bras on the pile, at the cards still scattered across the table. "For everything."

She turned her head, just enough that he could see the curve of her cheek. "You don't have to thank me for being your friend."

"I know. But I wanted to."

She held his gaze for a long moment, something unreadable passing between them, and then she opened the door. "Good night, Riley."

"Good night, Jessica."

The door clicked shut, and then it was just him and Inde.

The apartment felt larger without the others, the walls stretching outward, the silence pressing in. The refrigerator hummed its steady note. The lamp cast its warm pool of light across the carpet, illuminating the scattered cards and the pile of clothes and the two of them, still sitting on the floor, still holding hands under the table.

Inde was watching him, her dark eyes soft and patient. She didn't speak. She just waited, her thumb still tracing circles on his knuckles, the rhythm steady and grounding.

"I should probably go too," she said finally, her voice carrying a reluctance that matched the ache in his chest.

He nodded, even though he wanted to say no. "Yeah. It's late."

"It is." She didn't move. Her thumb kept tracing its slow circles. "But I don't want to."

He felt something loosen in his chest, a knot he hadn't known he was holding. "Then stay."

She shook her head, a small, almost apologetic motion. "I can't. Not tonight. I've got an early shift at the shelter, and I need to—" She stopped, her eyes searching his face. "I need to process tonight. I need to figure out what I'm feeling before I show up at your door again."

He understood. He didn't like it, but he understood. "Okay."

She squeezed his hand. "But I'll text you when I get home. And I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." He said it like a promise, and she smiled, a small, quiet thing that made his chest ache.

She stood, her hand sliding out of his, the absence immediate and cold. She grabbed her bag from beside the table, pulled on her jacket, and paused at the door, her hand on the knob. She looked back at him, her dark eyes holding something that made his breath catch.

"I'm glad you stopped tonight," she said. "I'm glad you said no. It made me feel safer than you know."

She pulled the door open and stepped through, and then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Riley alone in the quiet of his apartment.

He sat there for a long moment, the silence pressing in around him. The cards were still scattered across the table, the seven of hearts and the deuce of spades face-up where he'd left them. The pile of clothes by the wall had shrunk as people reclaimed their belongings, but a few things remained—a sweater he didn't recognize, a sock that had somehow escaped its owner, the faded edge of a bra strap peeking out from under the pile.

He stood, his legs stiff from sitting, and began gathering the cards. The motions were automatic, soothing—picking up the scattered cards, stacking them into a neat pile, setting them on the corner of the table. He folded the blanket they'd used as a tablecloth and set it on the couch. He picked up the stray sock and set it on the pile of abandoned clothes, a problem for tomorrow's Riley.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out, the screen bright in the dim light of the apartment. A text from Natalie.

Made it home safe. Thanks for tonight. You're a good host.

He typed back: Glad you made it. Thanks for being patient with me.

Her response came almost immediately: Always.

Another buzz. Jasmine this time.

Home safe too. Don't overthink tonight. You did the right thing. Also, I'm still calling dibs on the next game.

He smiled, a small, genuine thing. Dibs noted. Glad you're home.

A third buzz. Jessica.

I'm back at my apartment. Riley... I meant what I said earlier. I'm glad we're friends. However this works out, I don't want to lose that.

He read it twice, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He thought about the kiss on his porch, the weight of her confession, the way she'd looked at him when she said she'd loved him since sophomore year. He typed: You won't lose me. I promise.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. Then: Goodnight, Riley.

Goodnight, Jess.

He waited, the phone warm in his hand. A fourth buzz. Ella.

Home. Thanks for letting me crash your game night. I know I'm not great at... this. But I'm trying.

He typed: You don't have to be great at it. You just have to show up. And you did.

Her response was shorter: Yeah. I guess I did.

He set the phone down on the table, the screen slowly dimming, and waited.

Three minutes passed. Four. He was starting to think she'd fallen asleep when his phone buzzed again. Inde.

I'm home. The shelter's quiet tonight, which means I might actually get some sleep. Thank you for tonight. For being brave enough to stop. For trusting us. For being you.

He read it three times, each word settling into his chest like a small, warm weight. He typed back: Thank you for being there. For staying. For making me feel like I don't have to shrink.

Her response came quickly: You never have to shrink, Riley. Not with me. Not with any of us.

He smiled at the screen, the ache in his chest shifting into something softer, something that felt like hope. Goodnight, Inde.

Goodnight, Tall.

He set the phone down and looked around the apartment. The cards were stacked. The blanket was folded. The pile of clothes sat by the wall, waiting for tomorrow's sorting. The lamp cast its warm light across the carpet, illuminating the small, quiet space he'd built for himself.

He turned off the lamp and walked to his bedroom, the darkness familiar and safe. He pulled off his boxers—the last piece he'd been too scared to remove in front of them—and climbed into bed, the sheets cool against his skin.

His phone sat on the nightstand, the screen dark, holding the words of five women who had chosen to stay. He reached out and touched it, just once, his fingers resting on the cool glass, and then he pulled his hand back and closed his eyes.

The refrigerator hummed in the other room. The lamp was silent. And Riley Thompson, for the first time in a long time, fell asleep feeling like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He drifted, not quite asleep, not quite awake, the space between consciousness and dreaming soft and warm. His breathing had slowed, his muscles had loosened, but his mind was still turning, replaying moments from the night like a film reel he couldn't stop. Jasmine's grin as she tossed her bra onto the pile. Jessica's fingers lingering on her chips. Ella's arms crossing and uncrossing and crossing again. Natalie's patient smile as she shuffled the deck.

Inde's knee pressed against his under the table.

That warmth was still there, somehow, a phantom pressure against his skin, a memory of contact that felt more real than the cool sheets around him. He shifted onto his side, pulling the blanket higher, and let his eyes fall closed again.

The phone buzzed.

His eyes opened. The screen glowed in the dark, a notification lighting up the ceiling in a pale rectangle. He reached for it without thinking, his fingers finding the familiar weight of the device, and brought it close enough to read.

Jasmine: Hey. I know I already texted but I couldn't sleep and I kept thinking about something.

He blinked at the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. The clock read 1:47 AM. He typed: What something?

The three dots appeared immediately, as if she'd been waiting for him to answer. Then they disappeared. Then appeared again.

Jasmine: When you said stop tonight. The way you said it. Like you were scared we'd be mad.

He read it twice. His chest tightened, a small, familiar ache. He typed: I was scared.

Jasmine: I know. But I wanted you to know that none of us were mad. Not even a little. I wanted you to know that in case you were lying there thinking about it.

Riley: I was lying here thinking about it.

Jasmine: Yeah. I figured.

The three dots appeared again, then vanished. He waited, his thumb resting on the edge of the screen, the silence stretching into something that felt like a held breath.

Jasmine: I don't know how to do this. The sharing thing. The being-patient thing. I'm used to being the one who gets what she wants because she asks loud enough. But you're not something I can just ask for and get. You're a person. And I keep forgetting that because I'm so used to getting what I want.

He read it three times, each word settling into his chest like a stone dropped into still water. He typed: You're not forgetting. You're learning. We're all learning.

Jasmine: When did you get so wise, giant?

Riley: About thirty seconds ago.

A pause. Then three dots, then a single line: Go to sleep, Riley. I'll see you Saturday.

Riley: It already is Saturday. Ramen at seven.

Jasmine: Oh. Alright then, I’ll be the one with the appetite.

He smiled at the screen, the warmth of her words settling into the same space where Inde's phantom knee still pressed against his leg. He set the phone down, the screen dimming, and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

The refrigerator hummed. The lamp was silent. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the blinds in a brief flash of light that painted the room in shadow and then vanished.

His phone buzzed again.

He reached for it, expecting Jasmine again, but the name on the screen made his breath catch.

Inde: Can't sleep either.

He typed: Me neither.

Inde: I keep thinking about your face when you said stop. The way you looked at me. Like you were asking permission to be okay.

His throat tightened. He blinked against the burn behind his eyes, the words blurring for a moment before settling back into focus. He typed: I was asking permission. I think. To be okay with not being okay.

Inde: You don't need permission for that. Not from me. Not from anyone.

Riley: I know. But it helps when you say it.

A long pause. The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. He watched them, his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm against his ribs, the phone warm in his hand.

Inde: What are you wearing right now?

He blinked. Looked down at himself. The sheet tangled around his legs. His bare chest exposed to the cool air of the room. The last piece he'd been too scared to remove now lying on the floor where he'd dropped it.

He typed: Nothing. You?

Inde: Your Henley. The gray one I stole.

He remembered. The soft fabric, worn from a hundred washes, hanging past her thighs. The way she'd rolled up the sleeves to free her hands. The way the collar had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the strap of her bra underneath.

Riley: It looks better on you than it ever did on me.

Inde: I know.

Riley stared at the screen, the two words sitting there like a dare. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he typed back: Modest as ever.

Inde: I earned the right to be immodest. I'm wearing your shirt and you're wearing nothing. That's a power imbalance I'm going to enjoy.

He laughed, a quiet huff of air in the darkness of his bedroom. The sound surprised him—it came easy, unforced, the first real laugh he'd let out since the game had ended. He typed: I'm okay with that.

Inde: Good. Because I'm not giving it back.

Riley: The shirt or the power?

A pause. Then: Both.

He let that sit, the warmth of her words settling into his chest. He shifted onto his side, the sheet sliding across his legs, and pulled the blanket higher. The phone screen was the only light in the room, casting a pale glow across his face.

Riley: Thank you for texting. For checking in. For—everything tonight.

Inde: You need to thanking me. I'm exactly where I want to be.

Riley: Which is where?

Inde: In your shirt. In my bed. Thinking about you.

His breath caught. The words were simple, direct, carrying the same quiet certainty she brought to everything. He typed: I'm thinking about you too.

Inde: What are you thinking?

He considered the question. The truth was a tangle—the warmth of her knee under the table, the way her eyes held him when he said stop, the phantom pressure of her hand in his that he could still feel in his palm. He typed: That I don't want to stop thinking about you. That I want to fall asleep and wake up still thinking about you. That I want to figure out what that means.

The three dots appeared immediately, vanished, appeared again. Then: That's a good answer.

Riley: I had a good teacher.

Inde: You're learning fast.

He smiled at the screen, the ache in his chest shifting into something lighter, something that felt like the beginning of a thing he couldn't name yet but wanted to. He typed: Sleep now?

Inde: Yeah. I should. Early shift.

Riley: Goodnight, Inde.

Inde: Goodnight, Riley. Sweet dreams.

He set the phone down on the nightstand, the screen slowly dimming to black. The room settled into darkness, the faint outline of the window visible through the blinds, the streetlight casting a thin rectangle of orange across the ceiling.

He closed his eyes. The refrigerator hummed in the other room. Somewhere in the building, a pipe groaned, the sound carrying through the walls like a distant whale song. He let his breathing slow, let the tension drain from his shoulders, let the warmth of the night settle into his bones.

His last thought, before sleep pulled him under, was of Inde in his gray Henley, the collar slipped off one shoulder, her dark eyes soft in the lamplight of her own room. And he smiled, just once, before the darkness took him.