The first week of forced cohabitation unfolds like watching two dogs circle the same fire hydrant.
Except I'm the hydrant and nobody asked my opinion about any of this.
I draft cohabitation rules with the manic energy of someone who thinks laminated documents can prevent disaster. Separate wings, scheduled kitchen access, minimal interaction unless actively dying—and even then, send a text first.
I post these on the refrigerator using my father's Princeton alumni magnets because apparently even my coping mechanisms need Ivy League credentials.
"These rules are beneath you," Preston declares Monday morning, wearing my father's Yale robe like he's conquered enemy territory.
The silk hangs wrong on his shoulders—too narrow where Father was broad, too hollow where he had substance.
"You're letting him think he matters."
"I'm trying to prevent bloodshed," I counter, mainlining coffee like it contains the secret to time travel. "Yours specifically, since you seem determined to get yourself murdered."
"Men like Jaxson only understand dominance." Preston squares his shoulders, transforming into the evolutionary mistake that is Man Explaining Male Psychology. "You have to mark your territory. Show them who's the alpha."
Alpha.
Preston is about as alpha as a Target-brand energy drink—all artificial additives and disappointing aftermath. "This isn't a nature documentary, Preston. You're not defending the pack from rival wolves."
"Every interaction between men is about establishing hierarchy." He adjusts the robe with nauseating satisfaction. "That's why I'm staying most nights. He needs to understand this is my domain now."
He says this like he's claimed this house through strategic overnight bag placement, leaving his Harvard Business Review copies in every room like expensive droppings. His Tom Ford's Tobacco Vanille now haunts the hallways, because apparently smelling like a rich man's humidor is a personality.
The truth is, Preston's performing masculinity like he's auditioning for a role he'll never get cast in. Every gesture is calculated to remind Jaxson who sleeps in my bed, who has access to my body, who won the girlfriend lottery without even buying a ticket.
It has nothing to do with me and everything to do with two men measuring appendages I have zero interest in comparing.
But the sick part? I get a twisted thrill from being their contested territory.
Not because I want Preston's protection or validation, but because somewhere in this house, Jaxson might notice. Might care.
By Thursday, Preston's peacocking reaches pornographic levels. He does pushups in the hallway wearing only boxer briefs. He takes business calls on speaker, dropping terms like "hostile takeover" and "market domination" with the subtlety of a foghorn.
He grabs me for kisses whenever footsteps echo nearby, shoving his tongue down my throat like he's checking for cavities.
"You're treating me like a participation trophy," I tell him that night when he pulls me against him near the study where Jaxson's been working.
"I'm treating you like the prize you are," he corrects, missing my point with Olympic-level precision.
"Right. Your prize." I extract myself from his grip. "Very romantic."
Friday night arrives dressed for disaster.
Preston's three wines deep at dinner—the Château Margaux from Father’s special collection. His hands develop that aggressive entitlement alcohol gives mediocre men, grabbing at me like I'm merchandise he's already purchased.
As we climb the stairs, his fingers dig into my hip with possessive force. When we reach the landing between the wings, exactly equidistant from both our doors, he shoves me against the wall.
"Here," he grunts, already attacking his belt like it owes him money. "Right here where he can hear everything."
"Preston, what the hell—"
"Shh." His hand clamps over my mouth, palm sweaty with wine and determination. "Want him to know who really owns this place."
The feminist in me wants to knee him in the balls and deliver a TED talk about toxic masculinity. But the broken part, the part that's been festering since adolescence, lights up like a slot machine hitting a jackpot.
Preston yanks my skirt up with all the finesse of someone unwrapping a gas station sandwich.
He's inside me before my body gets the memo, pushing into dryness that makes me wince. His hand stays clamped over my mouth, muffling the nothing I'm not saying while he pounds away like he's trying to hammer his point home. Literally.
I count ceiling tiles to pass the time. Fourteen rosettes in the crown molding, probably original, definitely witnessing more action than I am.
Preston's performance has all the passion of someone parallel parking—lots of adjusting, some grunting, and everyone involved just wants it to be over.
But then my bastard brain does its favorite party trick.
It swaps Preston's fumbling for Jaxson's imagined precision. Suddenly it's darker eyes watching me, stronger hands holding me, a mouth that would know exactly where I keep my demons and how to make them sing.
The fantasy floods through me without permission, my body finally responding to the fiction it prefers over this mediocre reality. Preston mistakes my sudden wetness for a job well done, increasing his pace.
"That's it, show him who makes you feel this good."
Is he fucking me or Jaxson?
Rhetorical question. My body betrays every principle I've ever held, clenching around Preston while my mind floods with images of Jaxson's hands, Jaxson's mouth, Jaxson pushing me against this same wall but meaning it.
The fantasy is so vivid I can almost taste the mint and whiskey that would be on his tongue. Feel the controlled violence in how he'd hold me—not like Preston's fumbling ownership, but like he wants to crack me open and catalog every broken piece.
The orgasm mugs me in broad daylight, unexpected and unwanted, ripping through me with the force of seven years of suppressed wanting.
My back arches, pressing my breasts against Preston's chest while my thighs shake with the intensity of coming for the wrong man while the right one is probably sleeping twenty feet away.
When my eyes fly open mid-shatter, there he is.
Jaxson.
Standing in his doorway wearing only black pajama pants that hang low enough to showcase those V-lines that should require a permit. His chest is bare, all lean muscle and controlled breathing, watching us with eyes that burn so dark they could be plotting murder or writing poetry or both simultaneously.
The eye contact while I'm still pulsing around Preston feels like being struck by lightning in the middle of an orgasm—electrifying, possibly fatal, definitely life-altering.
Jaxson's gaze drops deliberately to where Preston is still buried inside me, then travels up slowly, cataloging my rucked-up skirt, my trembling thighs, the flush spreading across my chest, before landing back on my face.
His jaw ticks once, a muscle jumping with whatever he's holding back.
"Did you enjoy the show, pervert?" Preston sneers over his shoulder, still inside me and completely oblivious to the nuclear war happening in the silence between Jaxson's gaze and mine.
Jaxson doesn't even acknowledge Preston exists.
His eyes stay locked on my face as he raises two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. Not for Preston's benefit, but aimed at me like an arrow dipped in poison and promise.
The gesture is casual, almost lazy, but his eyes tell a different story. They're molten, dangerous, and knowing. Then he disappears into his room, the door closing with a whisper that screams louder than any slam.