Page 73 of Unmarked

There’s also a pile of clothes folded at the foot of the bed like a weirdly thoughtful care package from a polyamorous cult.

I investigate. Slowly.

Pajamas - soft cotton. Not mine. Female. Slightly worn.

Why does this feel weirdly intimate?

ThenI spot the lineup.

One flannel shirt. It smells like cedar, sin, and someone who could pin me to a wall without breaking a sweat.

Ash.

Next: a soft black hoodie. It smells like comfort, patience, and a thousand whispered apologies I haven’t even earned yet.

Theo’s. Obviously.

Then - of course - there’s the paint-splattered chaos that is Kai’s T-shirt. It smells like static electricity, mischief, and bad decisions made after midnight.

And then -

One black crew neck. No logos. No softness. It smells like authority. Like steel. Likeplease ruin my life, Daddy -

Andew. Ihatethat I think that.

FuckingLucian.

I sit with them for a long time. Too long. Hugging their scents like a girl who’s one bad decision away from humping a laundry basket.

Eventually, I give in and pull Lucian’s shirt on. It’s way too big. It’s way too warm.

It’s also… perfect.

Does it help? Sort of.

Does it fix the problem? Absolutely not.

The ache is still there. Louder now - almost like my ovaries are staging a coup and they’ve recruited my spine.

I try again. Fingers. Slick. Desperation.

Nada.

My body has decided it doesn’t want DIY solutions anymore. It wants professionals.

Four of them, apparently.

I sigh a little dramatically even for my own awareness and rise from the bed.

Lucian's shirt clings tighter to my body as if it’s been complicit in my downfall this whole time. My thighs are sticking together. My pulse is a drum solo in my ears.

And just like that, I’m at the door again.

Because apparently, I have zero self-preservation instincts -

And also because my entire lower half is now functioning on autopilot.

I press both palms to the cold metal and rest my forehead there like I’m about to confess something shameful to a priest.

---