My back against the mattress, the blindfold tight across my eyes. The fabric is rough, some old bandana of his probably, and it presses against my eyelids hard enough that I can see the pressure—faint blooms of color that shift when I blink. I can't. Stop blinking. The room is so quiet I can hear my own pulse, a steady drum that feels too loud, like it's broadcasting everything I'm trying not to feel.

There's a creak. The floorboard by the door. I know that sound—I've heard it a hundred times walking into this room, but never from this angle, never with my eyes covered. It's different, hearing a room instead of seeing it. The air is thick with stale sheets and his cologne, something cheap and sharp that clings to the back of my throat.

I hear him move. The soft shift of fabric, denim against denim. He's not talking, and that's the rule. That's the whole game. I suggested it, or he did—I can't remember anymore who said it first, probably him, probably with that low conspiratorial murmur he uses when he's about to do something he shouldn't. The rules were simple. Lie down. Blindfold. Don't move, don't talk, don't make a sound. He won't either, except when it's a pause. The only way to stop is to take the blindfold off myself.

I should have asked more questions. I should have asked what he was going to do.

The mattress dips. Not a lot, just enough—his weight settling on the edge beside my hip. I can feel the warmth of him through the sheet, a radiator of body heat that makes the hair on my arm stand up. He's close. Closer than I expected. I hold my breath without meaning to, and then I force myself to breathe again, slow and shallow, because the rules say I can't react. I can't show him I'm nervous. That's the game within the game.

I hear him exhale. A long, slow breath, like he's settling in. Like he's got all night.

Then—his fingers brush my wrist.

Light. Barely there. A question, a test. My whole body goes tight, every muscle locking at once, and I have to remind myself: don't move. Don't flinch. That's the point. My skin prickles where he touched, a trail of goosebumps spreading up my forearm like a warning.

He doesn't pull away. Instead, his fingers settle on my wrist, not gripping, just resting. I can feel his calluses—guitar calluses, rough against the soft skin over my pulse. He's got to feel it hammering. There's no way he doesn't. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, in the spot where his thumb rests. He has to know what he's doing to me.

I don't move. I don't say anything. The silence stretches, and I realize this is the real game—not what he does, but how long I can lie here and take it without knowing what comes next.

His thumb traces a slow circle on the inside of my wrist. The pressure is light, almost absent, but it sends a jolt up my arm that settles somewhere in my chest. I've known Ethan for years. We've crashed on this bed after too many beers, argued about music, played video games until three in the morning. I've seen him angry, bored, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. I've never seen him like this—quiet in a way that feels deliberate. Measured.

I wonder if this is what he's like when no one's watching. The thought makes my stomach tighten.

His fingers slide up my arm, slow, like he's memorizing the shape of it. The heat of his palm through my sleeve is almost too much. I feel the fabric of my t-shirt bunch slightly under his hand, and I realize he's not just touching me—he's exploring. Testing the boundaries of the game. Seeing how still I can stay.

The lamp in the corner casts a low yellow glow. I can see it through the edges of the blindfold, a faint warmth at the bottom of my vision. It's the only light in the room, and it makes everything feel smaller, more contained. Like the world outside this bedroom doesn't exist anymore. Like there's just me, and him, and the silence.

His hand reaches my elbow. He pauses there, his fingers curling slightly around the joint, and I feel him shift closer. The mattress dips more. The warmth of his body radiates against my side, and I catch a stronger wave of his cologne—something woodsy and cheap that I've smelled on him a thousand times, but never like this. Never with nothing else to focus on.

I realize I'm holding my breath again. I let it out slow, trying to make it silent, trying to keep my chest from rising too much. The rules don't say I can't breathe. They say I can't make a sound. But I'm so aware of every inhale, every exhale, terrified that one of them will come out wrong and he'll pause the game, and I'll have to lie here in the silence waiting for him to start again.

His fingers resume their path, sliding up past my elbow, tracing the inside of my bicep. The touch is light, almost clinical, but there's something underneath it that makes my skin prickle. I think about the way he looked at me when he suggested this game. That calm, steady gaze, those pale blue eyes that take in everything and give nothing back. I should have known then.

I should have known he was planning something.

His hand reaches my shoulder, and he pauses. The silence holds. I can feel the weight of his palm against my shoulder blade, the heat of it seeping through my shirt. He's not moving. He's not doing anything. He's just sitting there, his hand on my shoulder, waiting.

I don't know what he's waiting for.

I don't know what he wants.

I feel him lean closer—the air shifts, a subtle pressure change that tells me he's moving before I hear the mattress creak again. His breath ghosts across my cheek, warm and steady. He's close enough that if I turned my head, if I broke the rules just once, I could probably feel his lips against my skin.

I don't turn. I don't move. I barely breathe.

The game is truly on.

And I have no idea what he's going to do next.

His hand stays on my shoulder, unmoving. The weight of it is a brand through the thin cotton of my shirt, and I can feel the exact ridges of his calluses pressing into the curve of my shoulder blade. I try to count them. I get to four before I lose track, before my mind wanders to the thought of him standing in his doorway earlier tonight, that slow smile curling the corner of his mouth as he held up the bandana.

The lamp flickers. Just barely, a hiccup in the yellow glow I can see through the blindfold's edges. I hear the bulb hum, a faint electrical whine that seems louder in the silence than it should. The room is so still I can hear the dust settling, or maybe that's just my imagination, filling the quiet with sounds that aren't there because the ones that are—his breathing, my pulse—are too much to focus on.

His fingers flex against my shoulder. A tiny movement, barely perceptible, but I feel it through the fabric. He shifts his weight, and the mattress creaks a low, mournful sound that seems to hang in the air. The warmth of his body radiates against my side, and I catch another wave of his cologne—stronger now that he's close, that cheap woodsy scent that I've always associated with late nights and bad decisions. It's different now. It's just him, and I can't escape it.

I realize my hands are clenched. I didn't notice when it happened, but my fingers are curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave crescents. I force them to relax, one finger at a time, trying to make the movement silent. The rules don't say I can't move my hands, but I don't want to. I don't want to give him any sign that I'm struggling to stay still.

His thumb traces the edge of my collarbone. Just once, a slow pass that makes my breath catch in my throat. I swallow it down, force myself to breathe through my nose, slow and even. The touch is light, almost absent, but it leaves a trail of heat that spreads across my chest. I think about how many times I've seen him play guitar, his fingers moving over the strings with that same deliberate precision. I never thought about what those fingers would feel like on my skin.

The silence stretches. I can hear him breathing, slow and steady, like he's meditating. Like he's got all the time in the world. I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding, if it's as loud to him as it is to me. The thought makes my face feel hot, and I'm grateful for the blindfold, grateful that he can't see the flush creeping up my neck.

His hand slides from my shoulder to the center of my chest. He rests it there, his palm flat against my sternum, and I feel the pressure of it through my shirt. He's not moving. He's just holding still, like he's feeling my heartbeat. Like he's counting the beats the way I was counting his calluses. I don't know how long he stays like that—seconds, maybe, or minutes—but it feels like an eternity.

I hear the floorboard creak again. Not by the door this time, but closer, right beside the bed. He's shifted his position, moved from sitting on the edge to kneeling on the floor, or maybe he's standing now, leaning over me. I can feel the change in the air, the way his body heat moves, the subtle pressure of his presence hovering above me. He's closer now. Closer than he was before.

His hand lifts from my chest, and I feel the loss of it like a physical absence. The air where his palm was feels cool, and I have to resist the urge to arch into the space, to chase the warmth. I don't. I stay still, my breath shallow, my body rigid with the effort of not moving.

I hear him exhale. A long, slow breath that sounds almost like a sigh. And then I feel his fingers brush my jaw. Light, barely there, tracing the line of it from my ear to my chin. The touch is so soft it's almost ticklish, and I have to clench my teeth to keep from flinching. His fingers pause at my chin, resting there for a moment, and then they trail down my throat, following the curve of my neck.

I swallow. I can't help it. His fingers are right there, resting against my pulse point, and I can feel my throat move under his touch. He doesn't pull away. He just waits, his fingers still against my skin, and I wonder if he can feel the way my pulse jumps, the way my whole body is screaming at me to move, to speak, to do something.

I don't. I stay still, my hands flat on the mattress, my breath slow and even. The game is on, and I'm winning. Or maybe I'm losing. I can't tell anymore. All I know is that his fingers are on my throat, and I have no idea what he's going to do next.