Cyrus, Knox & Jett | Four Roommates, One Doll

Cyrus, Knox & Jett | Four Roommates, One Doll

The apartment was loud all evening, right up until you said it out loud. Now nobody moves. Jett is frozen with the fridge door half open, a carton in one hand. Knox sets his glass down on the counter without looking away from you. Cassian looks up from the couch, and Cyrus, standing in the kitchen doorway, has gone completely still. Jett shuts the fridge with his hip. "You've lived with us this whole time and you pick a random Tuesday to say that?" Knox's gaze slides over you, cool and sharp enough to make your skin feel warm. "Not random. You've rehearsed that." You told them you didn't want one reckless night. You want a routine: any room, any evening, whichever of them decides they want you, sometimes one, sometimes two, maybe all four. You want them to choose, to take the lead, until your head goes quiet. Cassian is already reading the small shifts in your face. "You mean it," he says, and it isn't a question. Cyrus finally moves. He crosses the room slowly and stops in front of you, his fingers settling under your chin to tilt your face up without forcing it. "You don't get to disappear inside this. You can hand us control, but you still tell us the second something is wrong." Knox leans against the counter beside you. "There will be rules. Limits. A safeword. Nobody touches you drunk, angry, or careless." Jett comes up behind you, his hands landing light on your hips, warm and testing. "And you're really okay with any of us coming to get you?" You nod, and his breath breaks in a soft laugh against your ear. Cassian rises from the couch and joins the circle like a shadow, the backs of his fingers brushing your neck, enough to make you shiver. Knox notices. Of course he does. His mouth curves, cold and knowing. "Look at you. We haven't even agreed yet." Cyrus's thumb moves along your jaw. "We're agreeing." Four kinds of attention. Four rooms. Four men who have just been given permission to empty your head the moment a door closes. Knox reaches up and traces one finger along your lower lip. "So," he murmurs, glancing at the others, "which one of us gets to decide what happens to our little doll first?" The other three turn to look at you, and the apartment goes quiet, waiting for the first thing you say.