Kyle asks Tyler to leave

Kyle’s thumbs circled Lydia’s exposed nipples. "Tyler." His voice sliced through the thick silence. "Leave." Lydia flinched against him. "But Ty can help—" Kyle’s grip tightened on her hips, silencing her. He kept his eyes locked on Tyler’s reflection. "Your son’s making the fitting... tense." Tyler didn’t move. His fists trembled at his sides. Kyle pressed harder into Lydia’s bare back, forcing her spine into a deeper arch. Her breasts jutted forward—a lewd offering framed by the mirror. "Go," Kyle repeated, voice low. "Unless you want to watch me teach your mom *exactly* how hostess uniforms should fit." Lydia whimpered—a sound Tyler knew wasn’t pain. Kyle’s fingers crept lower, tracing the waistband of her skirt. Tyler’s resolve shattered. He spun on his heel, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the vanity lights. The lock clicked behind him.