Marcus…

Claire emerged from the shower with her skin glowing and hair damp, clinging to the sides of her face and neck. Steam followed her as she moved through the hallway, a towel cinched tight around her chest. She moved with that post-shower calm, like nothing existed except the warmth of her skin and the softness of the carpet under her feet.

John was on the couch, pretending to watch a documentary, laptop open but volume low. He looked up when she passed by, caught the subtle bounce of her hips beneath the towel, and **** himself to look away.

She disappeared into the bedroom without a word.

A few minutes later, she returned.

John glanced again—and something inside him shifted.

She was wearing a hoodie. But not just any hoodie.

Marcus’s hoodie.

It was unmistakable. Dark gray, oversized, a faded university logo stretched across the chest. Marcus wore it all the time when he trained, when he went on runs. John had seen it hung over the back of the kitchen chair earlier that week.

Now it was on her.

Claire didn’t mention it. She walked casually to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, then came to the couch and sat beside him like everything was normal.

She curled her legs under her body, pulling the hoodie sleeves over her hands, like it was something she did every night.

John could smell it from here.

That faint scent of cologne Marcus always wore—sharp, masculine, a little spicy—mixed now with Claire’s own clean skin. The contrast made his throat tighten.

She reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over her lap.

“Cold?” he asked, trying to sound neutral.

Claire gave a soft shrug. “A little.”

He didn’t say anything about the hoodie.

She didn’t offer an explanation.

---

They watched a movie—something dumb, with too many explosions. John barely registered it. His eyes kept drifting to her bare thigh where the blanket had slipped. Her skin glowed in the TV light.

At one point, Claire shifted. The hoodie pulled up slightly, revealing a strip of her lower back and the waistband of her underwear. She didn’t fix it.

John swallowed hard.

---

Later that night, in bed, Claire curled up next to him in nothing but the hoodie and a pair of panties. She pressed her cold toes against his leg. He flinched, then laughed, then tried to forget the way the scent of Marcus was still faintly there on her.

She fell asleep quickly.

John lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. His mind buzzed with the same looping thoughts:

Why that hoodie?

Why now?

Was it a message?

Or just comfort?

He turned his head slightly. She looked peaceful. Her cheek against the pillow, lips slightly parted. Her hand resting near her stomach under the blanket.

At some point in the night, she stirred.

She rolled toward him, then muttered something under her breath.

John leaned in, catching only fragments.

And then he heard it.

“…Marcus…”

Clear.

Soft.

Barely above a whisper.

But unmistakable.

His entire body went still.

Claire didn’t wake. Her breathing settled again, slow and even.

John stared at her, heart pounding, a sick twist of jealousy and arousal crawling through his chest.

His cock hardened slowly under the sheets.

He lay there, frozen, unsure what hurt more—the name… or how much it turned him on.

---

He got out of bed before sunrise.

Made coffee in silence.

Stared out the window while the city was still asleep, his thoughts spinning.

Claire appeared sometime later, barefoot, rubbing her eyes, still sleepy.

Still in Marcus’s hoodie.

John watched her cross the kitchen like she belonged to someone else.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just grabbed a mug, poured herself a drink, then leaned on the counter and yawned.

“Morning,” she murmured.

“Morning,” he said back.

She sipped, then glanced over at him. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

She studied him a little too long.

Then: “Did I talk in my sleep?”

John hesitated. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head. “What’d I say?”

He met her eyes. “You said his name.”

A pause.

Claire didn’t look away.

“Did I?” she said finally, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

John nodded. “Yeah.”

Another sip. Another pause.

Then she walked toward him, slow, deliberate. Her bare legs moved beneath the hem of the hoodie, the fabric swaying just enough to hint at how little she had on underneath.

She stopped a few inches away. Rose on her toes. Kissed his cheek.

“Maybe I was dreaming,” she whispered.

Then turned and walked back down the hall.

John watched her go, a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue, none of which he dared ask.

---

That afternoon, John caught a moment between Claire and Marcus in the kitchen.

He wasn’t spying—he just walked in earlier than expected.

Claire stood by the sink. Marcus leaned beside her, tall, relaxed, powerful.

They were laughing about something. Marcus’s hand was on the counter, inches from hers. She didn’t pull away.

Claire’s head tilted back slightly when she laughed. Her ponytail bounced. She looked up at him with wide eyes, cheeks pink.

It looked like something out of a movie.

Marcus glanced at John. A simple nod.

Claire looked too—but not startled. Just aware.

She smiled.

“Hey babe,” she said. “We’re talking about that trashy show I like. He hates it.”

Marcus smirked. “It’s unwatchable.”

“Blasphemy,” Claire replied, grinning.

John stood there for a beat too long.

Then excused himself and went to the bathroom.

He closed the door. Sat on the edge of the tub.

His cock was half-hard again. Just from seeing them like that. Just from the knowledge that they were close. Closer than they’d ever admit in words.

---

That night, Claire wore the hoodie again.

John didn’t mention it.

She curled into him under the covers, lips brushing his collarbone, her hand sliding under the blanket to find him already hard.

She whispered, “You think about him when you touch yourself, don’t you?”

John didn’t answer.

She stroked him once, slow and firm.

“Good,” she whispered.

And turned off the light.