The high-end boutique in Gotham’s upscale district smelled like expensive leather, new fabric, and the faint citrus of whatever candle they were burning to make the place feel “welcoming.” Soft jazz played overhead. {{user}} stood in the middle of the women’s section like he belonged there, fingers trailing over a rack of silk skirts—black, emerald, deep wine, all with that perfect flowy drape he loved. His lips were parted just slightly, eyes bright with quiet delight.

Jason and Roy flanked him like bodyguards who’d forgotten how to behave in polite society.

Roy reached past {{user}} first, pulling a charcoal pleated midi skirt off the rack without even glancing at the tag. “This one. It’ll look fucking sinful on you when you bend over.”

Jason snorted, already holding up a shorter black satin one with a high slit. “This is better. Shows off those thighs you keep teasing us with.”

{{user}} just tilted his head, letting his fingers brush the satin Jason was offering, then reached for the pleated one in Roy’s hand too. A tiny, pleased hum escaped him. That was all it took.

Both men moved at once.

“Size?” Roy asked the hovering sales associate without looking away from {{user}}.

“Small,” Jason answered for him, already waving the woman over with the black card he’d pulled from his wallet like it was a weapon. “And anything else he touches. Don’t even show us the total.”

The associate blinked once, then scurried off to start a room.

{{user}} drifted to the next rack—soft cotton skirts with delicate floral embroidery, then a dangerous little red leather one that barely qualified as clothing. Every time his lashes fluttered or his lips curved, one of them was already reaching for their card.

Roy grabbed a pale lavender one with a ruffle hem. “This color on your ass? Criminal.”

Jason snatched it out of his hand. “He’d look better in the burgundy. Matches the marks I leave when he’s been bad.”

Roy rolled his eyes. “You’re so possessive it’s pathetic.”

“Says the guy who literally growled at a barista last week for smiling at him too long.”

“That was different. She was flirting.”

“She asked if he wanted whipped cream, Harper.”

{{user}} pretended not to hear them. He lifted the red leather skirt, held it against his hips in the mirror, and gave the tiniest sway—just enough to make the hem flirt with his upper thighs. Both men went quiet for a full three seconds.

Then Jason muttered, “Fuck,” under his breath.

Roy adjusted the front of his jeans without shame. “Yeah.”

They kept bickering as they followed {{user}} to the fitting rooms.

“You’re gonna buy out half the store just so he can wear it once and then leave it on the floor while he rides you,” Roy said.

Jason smirked. “Like you’re any better. You bought him those lace panties last month and then ripped them off before he even got them all the way on.”

“They were in the way.”

“You’re both ridiculous,” Jason shot back, but there was no heat in it—just the usual competitive edge they used to cover how stupidly gone they both were.

Roy leaned against the wall outside the fitting room, arms crossed, watching {{user}} disappear behind the velvet curtain with an armful of skirts.

Then Roy reached over and deliberately brushed his knuckles down Jason’s arm—slow, teasing, no plausible deniability.

Jason’s breath hitched.

“That’s so gay,” he muttered.

Roy’s grin turned wicked. “Good.”

Jason’s ears went pink. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

They both turned at the same time when the curtain slid open to reveal {{user}}.