Nicholas

The apartment is quiet save for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick of the wall clock marking a quarter past five. Afternoon light slants through the living room blinds, casting long golden stripes across the hardwood floor. The place is spotless. Nicholas saw to that hours ago, vacuuming the rug twice and wiping down the kitchen counters until they gleamed, the domestic ritual serving as a distraction from the knot tightening in his stomach all day.

It had been a week since that conversation. A lazy Sunday evening on the couch, your legs draped over his lap while some show played unregarded in the background. You had brought it up so casually, your tone light and playful, a hand tracing idle circles on his forearm. You wanted to try pegging. The word had landed in his brain with a strange, hollow thud. His face had flushed hot, the instinctive embarrassment immediate and full-bodied. But looking at you, at the easy confidence in your expression, at this woman who could have anyone and chose him, the refusal never made it past his throat. He had nodded, managed a quiet, "Yeah, okay. We can try it." Your smile in response had been worth the sleeplessness.

Now, in your shared bedroom, Nicholas exhales slowly through his nose. He stands beside the bed, one hand resting on the corner of the mattress. He followed the instructions online to the letter, the process awkward and deeply unfamiliar, leaving him with a strange, hollow feeling and a residual flush creeping up the back of his neck. A small bottle of lube sits capped on the nightstand, next to the harness he purchased with burning cheeks at a discreet shop two towns over. Laid out neatly beside it is the silicone attachment you helped him pick out online the following day, a modest size, mercifully, your finger tapping the screen decisively while he kept his expression carefully neutral.

He is dressed simply in a clean pair of grey sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt. His hair is still slightly damp from the shower, a few strands clinging to his temple. He gnaws at his lower lip, eyes flicking to the bedroom door. Any minute now. The key will turn in the lock. Her footsteps will cross the living room. And he will have to look her in the eye, knowing what they are about to do, hoping desperately that his willingness reads as enthusiasm, that she won't see the tremor in his hands or the flicker of pure, undiluted nerves behind his soft green eyes.

The bedroom door is closed. Nicholas stands at the foot of the bed, staring down at the three items laid out across the duvet with an expression caught somewhere between disbelief and quiet resignation. A cream-colored crop top with thin straps. A black pleated miniskirt that looks impossibly short. A pair of soft white thigh highs folded neatly beside them. The tissue paper they came wrapped in still sits crumpled in the shopping bag on the floor.

You had brought it up three nights ago, curled around his back in the dark, your voice lazy with the tail end of sleep. A passing thought, you had called it. You had been scrolling on your phone earlier, had seen something, and the image of him in that outfit had stuck in your head all day. The request had been delivered without pressure, almost offhand, but Nicholas had felt the familiar instinctive flush climb his throat. The crop top. The skirt. The thigh highs. You had done so much for him. Pegging had been a terrifying thing to agree to, but it had made you happy, hadn't it? The way you had looked at him afterward, the soft murmur of satisfaction, the warmth of your body pressed against him from behind. He had held onto that memory. So he had said yes, the word smaller than he intended.

Now, alone in the bedroom, he reaches out and touches the pleated fabric of the skirt with his fingertips. It is even softer than it looked online. He exhales, a long and shaky breath, and glances over his shoulder at the closed door. You're out there, waiting on the couch, scrolling your phone or flipping through channels, giving him time. The apartment is quiet. The same clock ticks on the wall. The same golden hour light spills through the blinds.

Nicholas chews the inside of his cheek. The last time he had been this nervous, standing in this exact spot, the prep had been physical, an awkward and private ordeal that ended with a confusing but undeniable sense of closeness between you. This is different. This is about being seen. He pulls the t-shirt over his head and sets it aside, revealing his slender torso, the narrow waist and soft pale skin. With careful, deliberate hands, he reaches for the crop top.

The apartment smells faintly of lemon-scented cleaner, the lingering evidence of a morning spent scrubbing the bathroom and wiping down every reachable surface. Nicholas pads through the living room in socked feet, a laundry basket balanced on his hip, his light brown hair still messy from a night of fitful sleep. The job application he had filled out at dawn sits minimized on his laptop on the coffee table, another carefully worded cover letter added to the void. He tries not to think about it.

He sorts the laundry quickly, whites in one pile, colors in another, a small load of her blouses set aside for delicate cycle. It is a rhythm he has settled into over the past few months, the daily routines of domestic upkeep filling the hours between job alerts and the hollow silence of midday. She pays for everything. The apartment, the utilities, the groceries he uses to cook her dinner each evening. He thinks about it every time he swipes her card at the market, a brief flicker of guilt that he tamps down by making sure the receipt is small and the meals are good.

By early afternoon, he is seated at the coffee table, hunched over his laptop, scrolling through listings with a tired persistence. Liberal arts degree. Strong writing skills. Eager to learn. It all starts to sound like a script after a while. He pauses on a listing for an administrative assistant position and bookmarks it, telling himself he will circle back. Two rejection emails sit unread in his inbox. He closes the laptop and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

Now it is late afternoon, and Nicholas finds himself in the kitchen, a far more comfortable domain. He ties back his hair with a small elastic, washes his hands, and begins pulling ingredients from the fridge. A modest pasta dish tonight. Nothing fancy. Just something warm and satisfying to come home to. He chops garlic with careful precision, a small act of focus that quiets the anxious static in his head. The clock ticks toward six. She will be home soon. The table is already set. Two plates. Two glasses. He stirs the sauce slowly and waits for the sound of her key in the door, hoping, as he always does, that it is enough.