Almost Forgotten

Late afternoon light slanted low across the sidewalk as Craig stepped off the bus and began the short walk toward the apartment building. The air had warmed since morning, but sweat still clung stubbornly to the back of his neck from a long shift in the warehouse. Sneakers struck pavement in a steady rhythm.

Awareness travelled with him.

For the first half of the day, the panties had felt like a secret strapped directly to his nerves. Every shift of his weight. Every bend at the waist. Every time he reached up for a box on a high shelf.

Fabric that wasn't cut for him had pressed and adjusted and reminded. Softness where he wasn't used to softness. A smooth waistband hugging differently than it should. More than once, a spike of panic had shot through him at the thought of bending too far, of the material riding higher than it should beneath his jeans.

What if someone noticed? What if someone saw?

But nothing happened.

No sideways glances. No laughter. No whispered commentary trailing behind him in the aisles. If anyone sensed anything, if anyone saw anything, they kept it to themselves. Forklifts beeped. Pallets shifted. Work carried on.

And after a few hours, something unsettling had occurred: the constant alarm dulled. Muscle memory adapted. Fabric became background. Just another layer between skin and denim. The body adjusted the way it always did: quietly, efficiently, without permission.

By mid-morning, he'd almost forgotten.

Almost.

The memory returned with brutal clarity during the afternoon bathroom break. Warehouse bathrooms were loud, tiled, echoing places that smelled faintly of industrial cleaner. Craig had stepped up to a urinal, unbuttoned his jeans, and there they were. Baby pink cotton. Tiny white hearts.

Boots scuffed tile. A throat cleared. Stan from the office sidled up next to him, using the adjacent urinal.

"Long day," Stan muttered, the sound of his zipper filling the space between them.

Craig's hands had moved faster than necessary, angling his body inward, shielding instinctively.

"Yeah," he'd answered, aiming for casual, but it came out strained.

But there was no glance downward. No double take. Just the ordinary shuffle of another man finishing a break in a shared space.

Still, Craig had zipped up quickly, washed his hands longer than required, and avoided his own reflection on the way out. By the time the bus carried him home that evening, exhaustion layered over everything. He'd chosen a window seat, closed his eyes deliberately, and tried, actively tried, to fall asleep.

Nothing.

No marble floors. No charged air. No god with molten eyes and impossible symmetry. Just the rumble of tires and the faint scent of diesel.

If this was Eros, if that dream hadn't simply been stress and bruised ego, then this was a cruel joke. Things had been set in motion and he had no way of addressing what was happening.

A soulmate?

Fine. He'd take that.

He wanted someone. Wanted connection. Wanted the right person. But he did not want to wear panties. So what, his soulmate had a thing for crossdressers?

No thanks.

The apartment building came into view. Brick. Narrow balconies. Familiar comfort.

Inside, the scent of coffee lingered faintly in the air. Voices drifted from the dining table, muffled, professional. Craig stepped quietly through the door and saw Frank seated at the table, laptop open, headset on. A Zoom grid reflected faintly in the screen's glow.

Frank glanced up mid-sentence, offered a small wave.

Craig lifted his hand in return, careful not to interrupt, and slipped down the hallway toward his room.

Sweat clung to his shirt. The warehouse had been relentless that day. Shipments arriving back to back, inventory checks, loading docks busy from morning until nearly closing, Craig hadn't had a moment to rest.

The dresser drawer opened with a sound that now carried more meaning than it should. Colour greeted him again. He allowed his fingers to touch the fabric, run over the soft material, explore what was there. Pink. Red. Black. Silk. Lace. Satin. A few strappy items. One with little pompoms. He could imagine this underwear being very exciting on a woman. He felt dread thinking that it was part of his own wardrobe.

Jaw tightening, Craig selected a baby blue cotton pair. Plain. Safe. Or as safe as any of this could be. He was fully aware, though, that he was running out of tame options. Unless he was going to start washing his underwear every couple days, he was going to end up in something a lot racier in short notice.

The thought lingered unpleasantly.

Bathroom light flicked on. Shower knobs turned. Steam began to fill the small space. Under the spray of hot water, muscles loosened. Dirt and sweat washed away. For a few minutes, the world shrank to tile and heat and the steady drum of water against skin.

Maybe he was thinking about this wrongly. So what if he'd ended up owning a bunch of panties. Frank had a car, and box stores sold men's underwear in bulk. One quick conversation over dinner, a toss of some keys, and the problem would be solved. He'd done it plenty of times before. Groceries, clothes, errands. Frank was generous. He probably wouldn't even want an explanation.

Water shut off. Towel wrapped. Skin dried briskly.

The baby blue cotton slid into place with less resistance than expected. The fabric rested against him with an unsettling familiarity, like something already broken in. Muscles adjusted automatically.

A grimace crossed his face. That shouldn't feel normal.

Jeans followed. T-shirt. Layers restored. The garment buried beneath everything else, invisible once more.

Back in his bedroom, dirty clothes went into the hamper. Jeans, still wearable, draped carefully over the back of a chair to air out for work in the morning. Routine reasserted itself. The hallway light hummed softly as he stepped out. Frank had removed his headset and closed his laptop.

"Hey," Frank said. "Call finally done."

"How'd it go?"

"Client thinks he's Warren Buffett. He's not."

A faint smile tugged at Craig's mouth. "Shocking."

They lingered in the living room for a moment, discussing dinner logistics. It was Craig's turn.

"Pasta?" Frank suggested.

"Works."

Kitchen lights flicked on. Cupboards opened. Water filled a pot. The ordinary rhythm of chopping and stirring steadied Craig's nerves more effectively than logic had. Garlic hit hot oil.

Footsteps approached.

Craig turned slightly, wooden spoon in hand. Frank stood just inside the kitchen doorway, holding something between two fingers.

Black.

Lace.

Minimal.

"I was just putting my laundry away," Frank said casually. "I think I got one of your pairs of underwear mixed in with mine. Sorry, bro."

The world tilted.

The thong dangled lightly in the air between them.