Not before Katie puts her clothes back on

Chloe clapped her hands once, bright and decisive.

“All right, everyone out. Give the girl some privacy to get dressed. Kitchen. Now. I’ll make us all some cocktails while she sorts herself out.”

A few people laughed. Others started moving immediately. Mark and another of Brian’s friends stepped in close on either side of you.

“Come on, Dylan,” Mark said, already steering you toward the hallway. “She doesn’t need an audience while she puts her clothes back on.”

“I should stay with her,” you protested, trying to plant your feet. “She’s my wife—”

They ignored you. Hands on your shoulders and back kept you moving. The rest of the group funneled out of the living room in a loose crowd, leaving Brian and Katie behind. You twisted once, looking back, but someone blocked your view and pushed you firmly into the kitchen.

The bright light and sudden crowding felt deliberate. Chloe moved straight to the counter and began pulling out bottles, glasses, ice, and mixers with the same unhurried precision as before. Brian’s friends spread out, casually but effectively forming a loose circle that kept you near the centre of the kitchen, well away from the doorway.

You tried to step toward the hall.

One of them shifted to block you. “Give her a minute, man. Privacy.” Pushing Leo back to the kitchen island.

“She asked for her clothes,” you said, voice rising. “I should be the one helping her.”

Chloe didn’t look up from the shaker. “She’s fine. Brian’s still in there. He can hand her needs. You stay here and have a drink.”

You tried again to push past. Two of Brian’s friends closed ranks, not rough but solid, hemming you in. The circle tightened just enough that every path back to the living room was blocked.

Chloe raised her voice, calling toward the open doorway as she measured a pour.

“Katie? You need your husband in there to help you dress, or are you good?”

There was a short pause. Then Brian’s voice carried back, calm and clear.

“She’s good. I’m helping her. We don’t need anyone else.”

A moment later Katie’s voice rose—high, broken, and unmistakably edged with pleasure.

“No—! Brian’s helping me out. I don’t need Dylan’s help right now. Just… give me five or ten more minutes to dress—Dear god”

The last word dissolved into a sharp, involuntary cry that echoed down the hallway.

Chloe’s mouth curved in a small smile as she continued making the cocktails, slow and methodical. The others stayed in their loose circle around you, drinks already starting to appear on the counter, no one offering to step aside.

You stood trapped in the middle of the kitchen, forced to listen as another longer, wetter sound drifted from the living room, followed by Katie’s voice again—breathless, strained, and still insisting she needed more time.