Sizzle

It was a rare thing, having the apartment to himself for the entire evening. Craig stood in the quiet of the kitchen for a moment after reading Frank's text informing him that he was going to talk with his mother about her new boyfriend. His thumb hovered over the screen before tapping out a quick reply.

Good luck, man.

A second passed. Then, because it felt necessary:

Try not to start a war.

The reply came back almost immediately.

No promises.

Craig huffed out a quiet breath, something halfway between amusement and resignation. It wasn't going to work. It never did. People in love, new love, especially, didn't listen to reason. They didn't want logic. They wanted validation.

Still, it wasn't his fight. It was Frank's. For a brief moment, Craig had a feeling of relief that he wasn't the one going through the ringer. Not that he wanted Frank to have to struggle, especially in his relationship with his mother, but Craig had felt like he'd he'd had a target painted on him for a week. It was nice to be off the shooting range for a minute.

Silence settled into the apartment, uninterrupted. No TV in the background. No conversation drifting from the other room. Just the low hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the building shifting around him.

"Alright," he muttered, setting his phone down.

Might as well make the most of it.

The bedroom door clicked softly shut behind him. Alone in the apartment, Craig could have left it open, but the thought never occurred to him. So ingrained in closing himself off for intimate moments, shutting the door was as natural as swinging his arms while walking.

Clothes came off in a practiced rhythm. Blouse first, buttons slipping free one by one. Then the pencil skirt, unzipped and stepped out of with care. Pantyhose followed, peeled away slowly to avoid snags, the sheer fabric whispering against his skin as it slid free.

A temporary pile formed on the chair, clothes to be sorted later. The skirt could be reused the next day at work. He still hadn't researched on how to clean and care for pantyhose, so he would have to set that aside, too, to make sure he didn't ruin it by laundering it poorly.

A drawer opened. What passed for pajamas these days waited inside. Craig hesitated for half a second, then reached in. It was a choice between dressing himself for bed now, or having Eros do it while he slept. As he had the past few nights, he opted for choice.

Red lace. Short shorts. A camisole that barely weighed anything in his hands. Soft. Light. Entirely too comfortable for something that still felt like it belonged to someone else.

"Good enough," he murmured.

If this was what he had, this was what he had.

The fabric settled against his skin easily, adjusting without resistance. Not stiff like new clothing, but readily conforming to his body, as if he'd worn it dozens of times before. It felt familiar in a way that bothered him less tonight than it had the day before.

Or maybe he was just too tired to fight it.

His gaze drifted downward at his almost naked body. Only one article of clothing remained. His heels.

Of course.

His feet felt sore from being on the all day. Not from wearing the heels, as one might expect, but the normal ache from walking around. A week prior the solution would have been to sit down, put his feet up, rest. But that wouldn't work anymore. Not with how his feet now worked. Not after Eros' interference.

What Craig needed was more heels. Higher, more aggressive. A dull ache had formed in his calves, throbbing like a craving. They would only feel better if he leaned into the wish, and went as far as he could for his shoes. And so he did.

Pink. High. Higher than anything he would've willingly worn a week ago, a day ago, or even an hour ago. Now his feet slid into them without hesitation, the lift of the arch settling his posture instantly, like something clicking into place.

Relief.

That was the word his body offered. Craig rolled his eyes slightly.

"Still weird," he said under his breath.

Across the room, the dresser sat waiting. And on top of it the makeup that Eros had placed the night before. His eyes lingered there too long. It was still there. That quiet pull. Not loud. Not overwhelming. Just present. A suggestion sitting at the edge of his thoughts. A reminder that it was there. That he knew how to use it. That it would fix something he couldn't quite name.

His jaw tightened.

"No."

The word came out sharper this time. A step back. Then another.

"No. Not happening."

Because that was how this worked. One step at a time. One small concession after another until there was nothing left to push back with.

Not tonight.

Craig turned and left the room.

The kitchen felt smaller when it was quiet. Or maybe just emptier. Either way, it suited him. No need for anything complicated. No reason to pretend this was anything other than what it was: the end of a long, strange day.

Simple. That was the goal. Bread into the toaster. Two slices. Left there for a second while he reached for the pan. Butter hit the surface, melting slowly as the element warmed beneath it. Eggs cracked cleanly, one after the other, and began to sizzle.

Craig pressed the toaster down and leaned slightly against the counter, watching the eggs cook as the edges began to firm. The smell filled the space, familiar and grounding in a way nothing else had been all day.

No surprises. Just eggs. Just toast.

It shouldn't have felt like such a relief to be standing in the kitchen in that outfit, wearing those heels. But it did. After everything; after the office, the desk, the laundry room that shouldn't exist, the quiet expectations wrapped up in words like morale and presentation, this was something he understood.

Heat. Time. Done.

Craig plated the food and carried it to the table, lowering himself into the chair with a soft exhale. The cool surface pressed faintly through the thin lace, another reminder of what he was wearing. Another thing that didn't quite match the moment. But that didn't matter.

A forkful of eggs. A bite of toast.

Simple.

Good.

A quiet breath slipped out as he chewed, gaze unfocused somewhere in the middle distance. What even was his job? The question circled again, just like it had all afternoon. Cookies. Laundry. Phones.

Management?

Craig let out a short, humourless laugh. Not as far as he could tell.

"And tomorrow it's nails and a bra," he muttered.

The words sounded ridiculous out loud. Because they were ridiculous. Except they weren't. Not really. Not anymore. Not in a world where everyone else nodded along like it made perfect sense.

A fork tapped lightly against the plate. Part of him wanted to walk in tomorrow, quit on the spot, and never look back. Just be done with it. Find something normal. Something that didn't come with invisible strings attached to every decision.

And the other part? The part where this make-believe job somehow was paying him an obscene amount of money? That part knew exactly how hard it would be to ever earn that kind of money again. With his experience? His education?

Never.

Not even close.

Craig stared down at his plate for a moment.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Thought so."

Another bite. Another swallow. The food disappeared quickly after that.

Plate cleared. Glass of juice drained. Routine taking over again without him having to think too hard about it. Dishes rinsed. Set aside. Kitchen cleaned.

Done.

The bedroom welcomed him back with the same quiet stillness. His phone lit up the space, casting a soft glow as he scrolled through something half-interesting, half-familiar. A movie from the eighties queued up on Netflix, all action and explosions and a kind of simplicity that felt almost nostalgic.

Good guys. Bad guys. Clear lines. A simple way of seeing the world. Despite the drama and adventure the characters were facing, their lives seemed simpler than Craig's.

Stretching out on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath him as he settled in, he looked down at his feet. The heels stayed on for a while, tapping lightly against the frame as he shifted. They still made him feel relaxed, the extremely high heels. For a moment he wondered if the heels he was wearing to work were high enough. Maybe he could get away with a taller heel.

He shook his head, his mind betraying him. Yes, he had to look and dress a certain way, but that didn't mean he had to let it change him completely.

One shoe slipped off. Then the other. His feet didn't flatten completely, the arch still there, held in place by something deeper than muscle memory.

The blanket pulled up over him, soft and warm, cocooning him in a way that made the rest of the world feel just a little further away.

The movie played on. Craig watched it. Or tried to, at least. Fatigue crept in quietly, heavier than it should've been after a day that hadn't required lifting a single box. His eyes drifted. Blinked slower. Focus slipping.

Strange. All of it. Strange and exhausting. His phone dimmed as his grip loosened, the screen going dark somewhere in the middle of an explosion he didn't quite register.

The room settled. Craig shifted slightly under the covers, sinking into the mattress as sleep pulled at him, steady and inevitable. Tomorrow would come. It always did. It would come with its own problems, its own challenges.

And also something new. Something changed.

But for now, for a few quiet hours, there was nothing to do but rest.

And, finally, he let himself.