Looking Comfortable

The apartment door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound that echoed more loudly than it should have in the quiet hallway.

Warm lamplight spilled faintly from beneath Frank's bedroom door. A low murmur of conversation drifted through it; steady, confident, easy. Frank's voice carried the relaxed cadence of someone used to closing deals, used to being certain.

Relief slid through Craig's chest.

No greeting. No casual glance. No opportunity for anyone to look at him the way the checkout clerk had: eyebrows lifting, expression shifting, the subtle recalibration. As if a man buying men's underwear were somewhere between a political statement and sexual deviancy.

The car keys landed on the dining table with a muted clink. He didn't call out. Didn't need to. Didn't want to. His whole world seemed to be turning itself inside out, and the last thing Craig needed was to have an uncomfortable conversation with his best friend, especially since he was sure that conversation would only really make sense to one of them.

Plastic bags rustled in his grip as he moved quickly down the hall to his room. Door shut. Lock turned.

Silence.

The two bags and the gum were tossed onto his dresser. They slid slightly on the polished surface and came to rest against the mirror. Perfect. At least tomorrow would be normal. At least he would have something to wear that didn't cling in the wrong places or ride up or whisper reminders with every step.

Teeth brushed. Face washed. Shoes kicked off. Jeans peeled away. The baby blue cotton panties stayed on, there was no alternative, and the familiarity of them made him grimace.

Phone in hand, he fell into bed and into the endless scroll of glowing nonsense, thumb flicking upward, upward, upward. Anything to distract from the faint pressure of lace trim at his hips. Anything to pretend this was temporary.

Sleep took him mid-scroll.

A sharp pressure low in his abdomen dragged Craig out of sleep.

Darkness pressed against the room. The clock on his nightstand glowed a dim, accusatory blue: 2:03 a.m.

A groan slipped from his throat.

Too early. He had an early shift. He needed sleep. His body clearly had other priorities.

Blankets pushed aside, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood without turning on the lamp. The apartment was quiet, heavy with that deep-night stillness where every small sound felt amplified.

Half-asleep steps carried him toward the hallway. The floorboards were cool beneath his feet. His eyes barely open, he shuffled into the washroom and reached automatically for the switch.

Light exploded across tile.

He squinted.

Then froze.

The mirror faced him directly.

Black.

Sheer.

Delicate straps resting on his shoulders.

A nightie clung to his torso, translucent fabric revealing more than it concealed. Lace traced the neckline. The hem skimmed his upper thighs. Beneath it, the unmistakable thin line of a matching g-string curved against his hips.

For a long moment, his brain refused to process what his eyes were reporting. Sleep clung stubbornly to his thoughts. This had to be a dream. Or residual dream logic bleeding into reality.

He stepped closer to the mirror. The fabric shifted with him. Cool against his skin. Real. Hands lifted slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. Fingers brushed the strap at his shoulder. Soft. Smooth. Definitely there.

A faint outline of his penis showed through the mesh, **** in a way that made his stomach tighten.

"I'm not awake," he whispered hoarsely.

The clock in the reflection confirmed otherwise. 2:04 now.

A wave of conflicting sensations rolled through him.

Shock.

Embarrassment.

Disbelief.

Relief.

Relief because he was alone. Because Frank wasn't standing in the doorway. Because no one else was seeing this.

And irritation; bone-deep, exhausted irritation.

It was two in the morning. He should be asleep. Not standing under harsh bathroom lighting in lingerie that looked like it belonged in the back corner of an upscale boutique.

"I didn't sign up for this," he muttered, voice thick with sleep.

The memory of Eros surfaced unhelpfully: molten eyes, smug certainty, the promise of alignment. Of destiny.

"I don't even need a soulmate," Craig mumbled at his reflection. "I was fine."

Not perfectly fine. But fine enough.

His gaze dragged slowly down his body again, cataloguing the details against his will. The nightie fit. Not loosely thrown over him; it fit. Followed the lines of his torso. Settled naturally at his hips. That felt like the greater violation. These weren't some woman's clothes that had made its way onto his body. These were his clothes. His panties. His nightie. Tailored, fitted, designed for Craig Timmons.

A long breath left him.

Nature did not care about existential crises.

He turned away from the mirror and lifted the hem just enough to free his penis from his panties. Then, lifting the toilet seat, he relaxed and let his bladder drain. His brain struggled to reconcile the ordinary act with the absurdity of the outfit.

Toilet flushed.

Water ran.

Soap dispensed automatically into his palm. The scent was faintly floral. Had it always been floral? He scrubbed longer than necessary, eyes occasionally flicking up to the mirror and then away again.

This was real.

Supernatural forces might be rearranging his wardrobe, but gravity still worked. Plumbing still worked. His body still functioned on schedule.

Hands dried. Light flicked off.

The hallway felt darker after the brightness of the bathroom. And occupied.

Frank stood a few feet away, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded with sleep. One hand rubbed absently at his face. Craig stopped dead.

"Hey," Frank mumbled. "Guess we're on the same schedule."

His gaze drifted lazily downward.

Paused.

"Nice pajamas. New?"

The question landed with devastating casualness. Craig's mouth opened. Closed. Nothing coherent emerged.

Frank gave a faint nod of approval, already turning toward the bathroom. "They look comfortable."

The door shut behind him. Silence settled again in the hallway. Craig remained standing there, sheer fabric brushing against his legs, heart thudding unevenly in his chest.

Bewildered.

Wide awake now.