The lock on my apartment door is already turning when I reach for my keys.
I freeze on the landing, every survival instinct screaming warnings while my hand hovers uselessly over the deadbolt. The door swings inward to reveal Blaine leaning against my kitchen counter, his silhouette backlit by my single lamp.
"Your security is pathetic," he says, holding up a small leather case. "I could teach a twelve-year-old to pick that lock in under thirty seconds. We need to discuss upgrades before someone with less charming intentions decides to visit."
"How long have you been here?" My voice comes out steadier than my heartbeat suggests. "And please tell me you didn't rifle through my things, because I have approximately nothing worth stealing and the embarrassment of you discovering that would finish me."
"About an hour, and I touched nothing except your truly tragic collection of instant noodles." He pushes off the counter and moves toward me. "I wanted to see where you live, Ethan. I wanted to understand the space you retreat to when you're running from us."
"I'm not running from you." The protest sounds hollow even to my own ears. "I needed time to process everything that's happened, and processing requires solitude, which is difficult to achieve when three attractive men keep appearing in my personal space without warning."
"You're deflecting with flattery, which means you're more rattled than you want to admit." Blaine stops close enough that I smell his cologne. "The photograph scared you. Not just the threat of exposure, but the reminder that wanting us comes with consequences you can't control. Am I wrong?"
"You're not wrong." The admission costs me something I can't name. "I've spent my entire life managing consequences by making myself invisible, by wanting nothing that could be taken away. And now I want three things that feel impossible to keep, and someone out there is building a case to destroy me for wanting them."
"Come here." His voice drops to something softer than I've ever heard from him. "I didn't break into your apartment for a strategy session. I came because Cole told me about the way you looked when you left—like someone preparing to run so far we'd never find you again."
"What is the option, then? Pretending I'm not terrified?" I don't move toward him, but I don't step back either. "Every time I close my eyes, I see that image—my face captured in the exact moment I thought I was finally safe—and I can't make the fear stop."
"Then stop trying to make it stop." He closes the distance and pulls me against his chest, his arms wrapping around my shoulders with a gentleness that cracks something open inside me. "You don't have to be brave right now. You just have to let me hold you until the fear runs out of places to hide."
I break against him.
The tears come without warning—ugly, gasping sobs that shake my entire body while Blaine holds me upright. His hand moves through my hair in slow, repetitive strokes.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let it out. I've got you, and I'm not going anywhere until you're ready for me to leave."
"I don't want you to leave." The confession scrapes out between sobs. "I keep telling myself that distance is safer, but every time I'm alone, all I can think about is how much better everything feels when one of you is touching me."
"Then stop being alone." He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his thumb brushing tears from my cheekbone. "You have a bed in this apartment, I assume? Take me there. Not for sex—I can see you're too raw for that—but because I'm not leaving you alone tonight."
The bed is too small for two people, but somehow that makes it better.
Blaine curls around me from behind, his chest warm against my back, his arm draped across my waist with a weight that feels like safety. We don't speak for long minutes—just breathing together in the darkness.
"Why did you really come here tonight?" I ask finally, my voice hoarse. "Cole could have called. Asher could have sent a car."
"Because they would have given you space to run, and I'm not as generous as they are." His lips brush the back of my neck. "I saw the way you looked at us—like you were already mourning something you'd decided to give up. And I needed you to understand that giving up isn't something we'll accept. You belong to us now, Ethan."
"That sounds possessive and slightly terrifying."
"It's supposed to." I feel his smile against my skin. "But it's also the truest thing I've ever said to anyone. You've gotten under my skin in ways I didn't think were possible anymore, and I'm not interested in being reasonable about it."
The words settle into my bloodstream like warmth. I press back against him, and something clenched tight in my chest finally loosens.
"Stay," I whisper. "Not because you won't accept me giving up, but because I don't want to wake up alone tomorrow."
"I'm not going anywhere."
We sleep tangled together, and somehow the intimacy of being held through the night feels more significant than every orgasm they've given me combined.
Morning arrives with gray light and a knock at my door that jerks me from sleep. Blaine is already moving, rolling out of bed with silent efficiency.
"Fire escape," I hiss, gesturing toward the window. "If that's who I think it is, you cannot be here when I open that door."
He pauses long enough to press a kiss against my temple before sliding through the window, and I'm still smoothing my hair when the knock comes again.
"Open up, babe, I have coffee and I'm freezing my ass off out here."
Jules.
I take a breath and open the door. He sweeps in with two cups from the café around the corner, dark eyes already scanning my apartment with the precision of a detective.
"You look like you actually slept for once, which is suspicious given that you've had permanent circles under your eyes since your dad got sick." He sets the coffee on my counter. "Also, your couch cushions are completely wrong, there are two cups in your drying rack when you only own one mug, and you're wearing that particular expression that suggests either religious conversion or multiple orgasms. Want to tell me what I'm looking at?"
"Jules, it's barely seven in the morning. Can we postpone the interrogation until I've had caffeine?"
"You're glowing, babe." His smile sharpens with knowing satisfaction. "Someone's been fucking you right. And given that you've been a repressed disaster for the entire time I've known you, I'm going to need details about who finally managed to crack through all those walls."
"Nobody is fucking me." The lie tastes like copper on my tongue. "I just finally got some decent sleep, and you're reading into perfectly innocent apartment disarray."
"Uh-huh." Jules picks up his coffee and takes a long sip, his eyes never leaving my face. "The second cup appeared by magic, the couch rumpled itself, and you woke up looking like someone spent all night worshiping you. I believe every word of that completely."
He doesn't push.
But his knowing look follows me as I reach for my own coffee, and something in the quality of his silence says my secret is already unraveling at the seams.