First impressions shape everything. A single glance, a well-placed smile--those are the threads we build entire feelings on. But what if someone plays you like a fiddle, and you never hear the tune? Are you stuck... or are they just better at pulling the strings? How do you know the difference--before it's too late?
--Markus
Markus followed Monica up the stairs, one hand keeping the flimsy gown closed as his side. Someone in a werewolf mask whistled as they passed, but Monica just threw a middle finger over her shoulder without looking back.
She was all hips and attitude as she walked -- her white nurse dress short enough to ride up with every step, red heels clicking on the wood. The outfit was ridiculous. Sexy in a cheap, chaotic way. But she wore it like she owned the damn night.
Markus smiled, amused, a little buzzed. "So... are you actually certified to perform surgery?"
She looked back at him, eyes gleaming. "No, but I'm certified to ruin your life if you keep talking."
He laughed. "You're glowing tonight, by the way."
Monica smirked. "It's the vodka and attention."
The door at the end of the hallway was already open a crack. She nudged it with her foot and stepped inside, tugging him in by the front of his gown.
The bedroom was unfamiliar -- likely belonged to whoever was hosting. It smelled faintly like cologne, weed, and dryer sheets. The bed was made, barely, A lava lamp flickered orange on the nightstand.
Markus looked around. "Is this someone's room?"
Monica shrugged, pushing the door shut behind them. "I don't care. We're not breaking anything."
"You sure about that?" he said, but she was already kissing him before he could finish.
It started soft -- the kind of kiss that says I missed you even if they'd only been apart for twenty minutes. Then it deepened, fast. Her hands pushed his gown off one shoulder, her mouth tasting like vodka cranberry and cherry lip gloss. The plastic stethoscope around her neck bounced against his chest.
When she pulled back, she stayed close, her forehead resting against his. "You're warm," she murmured.
He smiled. "You're aggressive."
"Shut up."
Her fingers slid down to his waist. "You're always so calm. You make it too easy."
Markus gave a soft chuckle, but his breath was catching a little now. "Too easy for what?" She backed up, just enough to let him look -- her body framed by the dim orange glow, the skirt of her costume short enough that it didn't take effort to see where her lace stockings ended. She bent slightly to adjust the strap of her shoe, and the angle was deliberate. She glanced up as she did it -- caught his eyes right where she wanted them.
Markus blinked, and looked away quickly. "Was that... intentional?"
Monica walked up and ran her hands up under his gown again. "Of course. I know you, Markus. You get flustered, you look away, and then you feel guilty."
"I mean, you just bent over like you were--"
"I was, baby," she said with a grin, fingers now tracing the skin just below his ribs. "You're allowed to look. You're my boyfriend. Unless you forgot."
He didn't reply -- just met her eyes for a moment, a small, sheepish grin tugging at his lips.
She stepped in close again, guiding one of his hands to the curve of her hip -- then higher, until he could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric.
His breath hitched, but he didn't pull back.
"I don't usually do this at parties," he murmured.
"You don't usually drink three shots of tequila either," she whispered back, brushing her lips along his jaw. "But here we are."
He hesitated -- just enough for her to notice. Then he pressed his forehead against hers again.
"You sure?"
She pulled back slightly. Her voice dropped -- quiet, but too quick.
"Yeah. I want this."
But her eyes didn't hold for long. They shifted -- down, then back, as if searching for something safer.
When she kissed him again, it was slower -- deliberate. Not tender. Like she was proving a point neither of them had voiced yet.
She kissed him again -- slower this time, more deliberate. Her hand slipped back beneath the gown, sliding over his chest, fingers curling lightly against his skin.
The music downstairs thumped faintly through the walls. Someone shouted "chug" from the kitchen.
But in the room, there was only the soft sound of breathing, the occasional laugh between kisses, and the rustle of sheets as two people tried to find each other in a night built for pretending.
And Markus -- full of trust and heat and something sweeter than either -- never thought, for a second, to question it.
⧫ ⧫ ⧫
Markus blinked awake to a skull-splitting headache and light stabbing through the blinds like it had a personal grudge. His body ached in weird, specific places -- neck, shoulders, knees. His mouth was dry. Everything smelled like Monica's lotion and faint traces of tequila.
Okay. Not dead. That's something.
He rolled onto his side with a grown. Pale pink sheets. No Monica. Just the soft echo of silence.
He sat up slowly, painfully, scanning the room. His costume was on the floor, torn up like it had been through a one-night battle royale. No boxers in sight. Just Monica's oversized gray hoodie tossed over a chair like a mercy offering.
He pulled it on and stood up.
Nothing underneath.
Okay. Not ideal. But we're here now.
With a hand gripping the hem for modesty, he shuffled into the hall. The smell of fresh coffee hit him immediately. The kind that made your stomach twitch and your brain whisper yes.
Maybe she's in the kitchen. Maybe with Tylenol. Please God, let her have Tylenol.
He turned the corner into the living room.
And stopped.
At the table, halfway through a sip of coffee, sat a girl he did't recognize.
Dark hair in a messy bun. Glasses halfway down her nose. Hoodie, leggings, laptop open. Very much not Monica. Very much watching him now.
Their eyes locked. Time slowed.
"Um..." she said, mug lowering. "Markus?"
He blinked. "Yeah?"
"You're... Monica's boyfriend?"
"Yeah. I think so."
Her eyes dropped. So did his.
Oh.
Oh no.
The Hoodie was not long enough.
The tip of his junk -- unmistakable -- had made its glorious appearance, peeking below the hemline like it was trying to introduce itself to the day.
Markus made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a wheeze and yanked the hoodie down, one hand flat against the front, the other darting behind for rear coverage like that mattered now.
"I--I didn't think anyone was here," he stammered.
The girl nodded, clearly trying not to panic. "I'm Rebecca. Monica's roommate."
"Oh. Okay. Yeah. Hi. Sorry."
"She left a couple hours ago," she said. "Said she had class. Or errands. Something ."
So she just left me here. Naked. Great.
"Cool. That's cool," Markus said, still covering himself like it made a difference now. "That explains... everything."
Rebecca hesitated. Then glanced up, cautiously.
"You know it's, uh... still visible, right?"
Markus forze. "What?"
She cleared her throat. "Just. The hoodie. It's not doing its job. At all."
"I'm trying," he whispered, now bending slightly at the knees like that might help. "God, I'm trying."
Rebecca looked directly at the mug in her hands. "It's just sort of... hanging."
He turned in a circle, then back, tugging the fabric frantically like it would suddenly double its length. "Why are hoodies so short when it matters?!"
She raised her eyebrows. "I don't know. Maybe they weren't designed as pants replacements."
"Clearly."
Rebecca was flushed now but holding it together impressively well. "It's not that big a deal."
"I feel like it is."
"I mean, biologically speaking, it's not--" she paused, corrected, "literally, not that big of a deal."
He groaned into his hands. "Okay. I'm gonna go hide now."
"That would be reasonable."
He turned toward the hallway in shame, hoodie clenched, every step heavy with defeat. The moment he disappeared from view, Rebecca leaned back in her chair and exhaled.
Quietly: "What the hell, Monica."
Markus shut the door behind him and slumped against it with a long, miserable exhale.
That happened. That fully happened.
He closed his eyes for a second, just breathing through the migraine and trying to forget the phrase "it's just sort of... hanging."
His hands were still clutching the hoodie like it might slip off and betray him a second time. He glanced at the bed -- not an option. The blanket was a mess, and crawling back under it felt like giving up on life.
What he needed was pants.
Any pants.
He scanned the room. There was a sizable mountain of clothes in the corner, half-suffocating a laundry basket. Tops, bras, nothing that looked like a gym towel. A pair of socks with cartoon strawberries.
Figures. No laundry done.
That explains the options.
He crouched by the dresser and opened the op drawer.
Panties.
Like... a lot of them.
Lace, cotton, black, pink -- some looked decorative, others like they'd seen better days.
He stared for a second.
Nope.
He closed that one and tried the next drawer.
A couple of tank tops, a balled-up sports bra, and -- jackpot -- two pairs of folded athletic running shorts. Short. Tight-looking. But clean.
This is the bar now. Clean and leg-covering. That's all I need.
He glanced back at the panties drawer. Then at himself.
Then sighed.
Hell with it.
Two minutes later, he stood in front of the mirror wearing a pair of snug running shorts and a pair of Monica's plain black panties underneath. He adjusted the waistband again, grimacing.
"How do women wear these?" he muttered, pulling at the seams. "They're so uncomfortable."
He looked down, then did a half-turn. The shorts fit, technically, but left very little to the imagination.
Better than nothing. Barely.
He stepped away from the mirror, still shifting awkwardly.
"Markus," he muttered to himself, "you've hit a new kind of low. Congratulations."
The worst part"
They were kinda soft.
He opened Monica's door slowly, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, shorts just barely clinging to decency. The panties still pinched, but they beat free-balling through someone else's apartment.
He tiptoed toward the door.
Almost there.
Then--
"Well, well, well."
He flinched.
Rebecca was in the kitchen still, leaning casually against the counter with a fresh mug of coffee. She took one look at him -- hoodie, short shorts, red face -- and sipped without breaking eye contact.
Markus froze.
She tilted her head, playful. "Look at you. Embracing the feminine divine this morning?"
He blinked. "Please. Just let me die in peace."
Rebecca grinned. "Oh no, no. Not when you're out here giving soft-girl summer in November."
He groaned, covering his face with one hand. "I didn't have options, okay? It was this or the hoodie and a prayer."
"Well," she said, pausing dramatically, "you're definitely serving something. I'd say 'slurry yoga instructor on her day off.'"
Markus turned toward the door. "Good. Love that for me."
"And the walk of shame fit? Chef's kiss."
He sighed. "Can we just collectively pretend none of this happened?"
Rebecca took another sip. "Not even a little."
He opened the door.
"Hey Markus?" she called after him.
He turned, halfway out.
She smiled sweetly. "Nice choice on the panties, by the way. Black's always flattering."
He just closed the door behind him without a word.
And on the other side, Rebecca chuckled to herself and went back to her coffee.
⧫ ⧫ ⧫
An hour later, Monica came home like nothing happened.
Monica unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment, tossed her keys into the bowl by the door. Her heels clicked once across the floor before she heard it--
"Dude. You missed it."
Rebecca was on the couch, legs curled under her, coffee mug in hand, grinning like someone who had just witnessed a live sitcom.
Monica blinked. "What?"
Rebecca set her hug down. "Markus. This morning. Here."
Monica forze. "He woke up?"
"Oh, he woke up," Rebecca said sitting forward. "Like a legend. Like a myth. Like the main character of the most awkward ten minutes of my entire week."
"What happened?" Monica asked, cautiously. She still had her purse on her shoulder.
Rebecca's eyes lit up. "He walked out of his room -- just your hoodie. No pants. No warning. Just... walked right out like it was his place. I got the full show"
Monica's brain stalled. "Wait, what?"
"I thought I was hallucinating! I was just sitting there, drinking coffee."
Monica dropped her purse onto the counter, face heating. "You're serious."
Rebecca nodded. "Dead serious. And he panicked and bolted back into your room. Which, by the way, has not been vacuumed in weeks."
Monica groaned. "What did he put on?"
"Oh, I'll tell you," Rebecca said holding up a finger. "A pair of your black panties. And the shortest running shorts I've ever seen. Like, Disney villain henchman short."
Monica covered her face. "I didn't think he'd wake up early. He never does."
"He did. And he tried to sneak out like it hadn't happened. But I caught him."
"Oh no."
"I said something dumb, I don't even remember. But he turned so red, I swear he looked like he was walking through a fire drill naked."
Monica just stood there, hands still on her face, half-laughing, half-mortified.
Rebecca leaned back and sipped her coffee. "Honestly? Best morning I've had in weeks."