The handbook for emergency room nurses was wedged under Nico’s arm as he waited for his coffee, its pages slightly bent from being shoved into his backpack every morning. He wasn’t even halfway through the chapter on triage protocols, but the café’s burnt-umber walls and the low hum of espresso machines made it impossible to focus. Across the room, someone laughed—a bright, sudden sound that cut through the murmur of conversations. His gaze flicked up automatically, landing on a woman leaning against the counter, her dark hair slipping over one shoulder as she grinned at something the barista said.
She ordered a matcha latte with honey, and Nico found himself staring at the way her fingers tapped impatiently against her phone while she waited. He’d seen her before—or at least, he’d seen versions of her. Silicon Valley was full of Asian women in athleisure, their smartphones always buzzing with notifications, their Instagram feeds a carefully curated mix of brunch photos and hiking trails. But there was something about the way this one rolled her eyes at her own screen, muttering "Ugh, another engineer who thinks he’s funny" under her breath, that made him bite back a laugh.
When their orders came up at the same time, she grabbed her drink without looking and nearly walked straight into him. Matcha sloshed over the lid onto her fingers. "Shit," she said, shaking her hand. Then, glancing up at him: "Oh. Hi."
Nico held out a napkin. "You’re supposed to drink it, not wear it."
She took the napkin with a smirk, dabbing at her fingers before flicking the damp paper into a nearby bin with surprising precision. "You're funny," she said, though it sounded more like a challenge than a compliment. "Most guys just say 'you're welcome' and stare at my tits."
Nico snorted, adjusting the handbook under his arm. "I mean, they are right there."
"Wow. Bold." She took a sip of her matcha, eyes never leaving his face. "You're either terrible at flirting or secretly good at it. Jury's still out."
He shrugged. "I'm a nurse. We're professionally unimpressed by most things."
Her laughter was sharper this time, less guarded. "A nurse? That explains the"—she gestured vaguely at his handbook—"emergency-room literature. Should I be worried you’re planning to triage me next?"
"Only if you start bleeding into your matcha," Nico said, and she grinned, the kind of grin that made the corners of her eyes crinkle in a way he wanted to map with his fingers. "I’m Nico, by the way."
"Lena," she said, and then, as if testing the weight of it: "Lena Wu." She tilted her head, considering him. "You’re not from here, are you?"
"Is it that obvious?"
Lena’s grin widened, the kind of smile that made Nico’s stomach do something weirdly pleasant. "The fact that you didn’t immediately tell me your SAT scores or your startup’s valuation kinda gives it away," she said, tapping her nails against her cup. "Also, you’re holding that book like you actually read it. Unheard of in this zip code."
Nico laughed, shifting the handbook to his other arm. "Guilty. Moved here three months ago for the nursing program at Stanford. Still getting used to the… vibe."
"The vibe?" Lena arched an eyebrow. "Oh, you mean the collective anxiety of a thousand tech bros realizing they peaked at twenty-five?" She leaned in slightly, close enough that Nico caught the faint scent of jasmine—not perfume, but something warmer, like the steam from her matcha clinging to her skin. "Welcome to the Bay, Nico. Land of overpriced avocado toast and emotionally stunted millionaires."
He didn’t realize he was staring until she flicked his shoulder lightly. "Hey. Earth to nurse guy."
Nico blinked, realizing he’d been caught mid-thought, his coffee cooling between his hands. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Just wondering if all conversations here start with existential dread or if you’re just special."
Lena’s smirk returned, sharper this time. "Oh, I’m definitely special. But don’t worry, I won’t make you sign an NDA to prove it." She glanced at the empty chair across from him, then back at his face, as if waiting for an invitation. Nico nudged the chair out with his foot, and she slid into it with the ease of someone who’d claimed territory before.
"You know," she said, stirring her matcha with a deliberate slowness, "if you’re new here, you should probably learn the rules. Rule one: never admit you’re impressed by anything. It’s basically social suicide."
Nico snorted. "What’s rule two? Never make eye contact with a VC?"
Lena’s fingers paused mid-stir, her smirk tilting into something more dangerous. "Rule two," she said, leaning forward just enough that Nico could see the faint freckles dusting her nose, "is that every white guy in the Bay Area ends up dating an Asian girl at least once. It’s basically a rite of passage." She took a slow sip of her matcha, watching him over the rim. "Statistically speaking, you were doomed the second you handed me that napkin."
Nico laughed, but it came out slightly strangled—half amusement, half something else he couldn’t name. "So what you’re saying is, I should’ve let you wear your matcha like some kind of avant-garde accessory?"
"Exactly." Lena set her cup down with a soft clink. "But since you blew your chance to escape, you might as well lean into it." Her foot nudged his under the table, deliberate. "Ever heard of the term ‘hotwife’?"
The question hung in the air between them, weighted. Nico choked on his coffee. "Uh," he managed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not in this context, no."
Lena’s grin widened, predatory in a way that made Nico’s pulse stutter. “Oh, come on,” she said, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “You’re telling me a nurse hasn’t heard of every kink under the sun? I thought ERs were like kink Wikipedia.”
Nico exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’ve treated a guy who got a light bulb stuck somewhere I won’t mention. Doesn’t mean I know the lingo.” He took a deliberate sip of his coffee, mostly to buy time. “But sure, yeah, I’ve heard of it. Just didn’t peg you as the type to bring it up over matcha.”
Lena’s foot slid up his calf under the table. “What’s the point of living in the Bay if you can’t fuck with people’s expectations?” She tilted her head, studying him. “Unless you’re actually scandalized. In which case, wow, nurse boy, you are new here.”
He rolled his eyes, but his throat felt dry. “I’m not scandalized. Just surprised you’d joke about that with a guy you literally just met.”
Lena’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened, like she’d been waiting for him to say exactly that. "Who said I was joking?" She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms overhead in a way that made her tank top ride up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above her jeans. Nico’s gaze flicked down instinctively—then jerked back up when she laughed. "See? You do stare. I knew it."
Nico rubbed the back of his neck, heat prickling under his collar. "Okay, fine. You caught me. But you can’t just drop ‘hotwife’ into casual conversation and expect me not to—" He gestured vaguely. "React."
"Mm." Lena tapped her nails against her cup again, a slow, deliberate rhythm. "What if I said I’d only entertain the idea if you wore a chastity cage?"
The coffee in Nico’s mouth suddenly tasted like acid. He swallowed hard. "What."
Lena’s grin didn’t waver as Nico stared at her, his coffee halfway to his lips, frozen mid-sip. “Relax,” she said, flicking a strand of hair over her shoulder. “It’s just roleplay. Unless you’re actually freaked out.” Her foot slid higher up his calf, pressing just enough to make his pulse jump. “But you don’t seem like the freaking-out type.”
Nico set his cup down with deliberate care, buying time. His fingers tapped the table twice before he leaned in, mirroring her posture. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Obviously.” Lena’s eyes glittered with mischief. “But you’re the one who brought up hotwifing. I’m just… escalating.” She took a slow sip of her matcha, watching him over the rim. “Unless you’re not into it. In which case, cool. We can pretend this never happened.”
Nico exhaled through his nose. He’d dated kinky before, but Lena was something else—like she’d taken a buzzsaw to his expectations and was laughing as the pieces fell. “I didn’t say I wasn’t into it,” he muttered. “Just didn’t expect you to go full Fifty Shades in a coffee shop.”
Lena’s laugh was low, husky, and entirely too pleased with herself. "Oh, sweetheart, Fifty Shades is amateur hour." She leaned forward, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup in a slow circle. "But fine. Forget I mentioned it." She made a show of glancing at her watch—a sleek, expensive-looking thing that probably tracked her heartbeat or her stock portfolio or both. "I should get going anyway. Meetings to pretend to care about, startups to accidentally crush under my heel." She stood, slinging her bag over one shoulder with effortless grace.
Nico caught her wrist before he could think better of it. Her skin was warm under his fingers, pulse steady despite the charged air between them. "You don’t get to drop a bomb like that and just walk away," he said, voice lower than he intended.
Lena arched an eyebrow, but she didn’t pull away. "Oh? And what exactly are you going to do about it?" Her free hand tapped his chest lightly, right over his heartbeat. "Because unless you’re about to confess some deep, dark kink of your own, nurse boy, this conversation is over."
The challenge in her voice sent a rush of heat straight to Nico’s gut. He exhaled sharply, loosening his grip on her wrist—but not letting go. "Fine. Yeah. I’d try it." The words came out in a rush, like ripping off a bandage. "The cage thing. If—if that’s what you’re into."
Lena’s fingers twitched against Nico’s wrist—just once—before she pulled away with a slow, deliberate drag of her fingertips. “Oh,” she said softly, her smirk widening into something razor-sharp. “Now this is interesting.” She leaned down, her breath warm against his ear as she murmured, “My place. Tonight. Don’t wear underwear.” Then she straightened, tossing her hair back with a flick of her wrist before sauntering out of the café, leaving Nico staring after her with his coffee cooling in his hands and his pulse hammering in his throat.
Nico arrived at her apartment at 8 PM sharp, his stomach tight with something between anticipation and dread. Lena opened the door wearing a silk robe that clung to her hips, her hair damp from a shower. She didn’t say hello—just stepped aside to let him in, her eyes trailing down his body with a lazy, predatory interest. “You actually came,” she said, as if she’d expected him to bail.
“You told me not to wear underwear,” Nico said, shrugging out of his jacket. “Seemed like a waste not to follow through.”
Lena laughed, low and throaty, and led him to the bedroom where a small, unassuming box sat on the dresser. “Got it on sale,” she said, popping the lid open to reveal a sleek titanium cage nestled in black foam. “Apparently there was a very good offer.”
Nico picked up the cage gingerly, turning it over in his hands. The metal was cold, polished to a dull sheen, and lighter than he expected. "No lock?" he asked, running a thumb along the smooth hinge.
Lena plucked it from his fingers with a smirk. "There’s a trick to it." She held up two small metal clips—thin, almost surgical—and slid them into grooves along the base with a soft click. The cage sealed shut with a finality that made Nico’s stomach flip. "See? No key needed. Just these." She wiggled the clips between her fingers before tossing them onto the nightstand.
The weight of it settled against Nico’s skin as Lena guided him onto the bed, her hands firm but unhurried. She took her time adjusting the fit, her nails scraping lightly along his inner thigh as she checked the alignment. "How’s that?" she asked, her voice low. "Too tight?"
Nico swallowed. "No. It’s—" He shifted slightly, the metal cool and unyielding. "It’s fine."
Nico exhaled sharply when Lena’s fingers brushed the underside of the cage, her touch featherlight and deliberate. "You’re really into this," he muttered, more observation than accusation.
Lena’s smirk was unrepentant as she leaned back on her heels, admiring her handiwork. "And you’re really hard right now," she countered, tapping the cage with a fingernail. The dull metallic ping made Nico’s stomach tighten. "Which, by the way, defeats the purpose."
He rolled his eyes, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. "You try staying soft when someone’s handling you like a fucking art project."
Lena laughed—bright, unguarded—and for a second, the tension between them softened into something warmer. Then she straddled his thighs, her silk robe parting to reveal the smooth curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts barely concealed by the fabric. "Poor baby," she cooed, tracing the cage’s outline with her fingertip. "All locked up with nowhere to go."
Nico’s breath hitched as Lena’s fingers traced the edge of the cage, her nails catching just enough to send a jolt through him. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he muttered, but the way his hips twitched upward betrayed him. Lena’s grin widened, her knee pressing into the mattress beside his thigh as she leaned down, her breath warm against his ear. “And you’re lying,” she whispered. The cage was a cold, unyielding weight between them, but the heat in her voice was enough to make Nico’s pulse spike.
She pulled back just enough to let the robe slip off one shoulder, the fabric pooling at her elbow. “Rule three,” she murmured, dragging a fingertip down his chest. “Never admit when you’re out of your depth.” Nico’s laugh was shaky, his fingers flexing against the sheets. “You’re such a fucking—” Lena cut him off with a sharp pinch to his nipple, her other hand sliding down to grip the cage, the metal pressing into his skin. “Say it,” she dared, her thumb rubbing slow circles over the smooth titanium. Nico’s jaw clenched. “Sadist,” he ground out, and Lena’s laugh was a dark, pleased thing.
The game lasted until dawn—Lena teasing, Nico straining against the cage, both of them riding the edge of frustration until they collapsed into the sheets, sweaty and spent. It was only when the sunlight crept through the blinds that Nico nudged her hip with his knee. “Okay, fun’s over. Key?” Lena blinked at him, slow and drowsy, before rolling onto her side to fumble for the clips on the nightstand. Her fingers stilled. “Huh.” Nico propped himself up on one elbow. “What?”
Lena held up one of the clips, the metal glinting in the morning light. “It’s… bent.” Nico’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean bent?” Lena sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist as she inspected the clip. “I mean it’s bent,” she repeated, her voice losing its playful edge. “Like it… warped when I locked it.” Nico’s pulse thudded in his ears as he reached for the cage, his fingers slipping over the smooth metal. “Just—try the other one.”
Lena scrambled for the second clip, her fingers trembling slightly as she held it up to the light. The metal was twisted at an odd angle, as if it had been crushed in a vise. "Shit," she muttered, turning it over in her palm. Nico’s breath came faster now, his throat tight. "That’s not—that’s not supposed to happen, right?"
She didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed her phone off the nightstand, her thumbs flying across the screen. Nico watched the color drain from her face as she scrolled, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Lena," he said, his voice sharper than he intended. "What?"
She turned the screen toward him. The product page for the titanium cage glared back, the words PERMANENT CHASTITY DEVICE bolded in red at the top. Below it, in smaller print: Designed for irreversible security. Titanium construction cannot be compromised without industrial tools.
Nico’s laugh was hollow, disbelieving. "This is a fucking joke." He yanked at the cage, the metal biting into his skin as he twisted. Nothing budged. Lena’s hand closed over his wrist, her grip tight. "Stop—you’ll hurt yourself." Her voice wavered, the playful confidence from last night gone.
Nico’s breath came in short, panicked bursts as he stared at the cage, the titanium glinting mockingly in the morning light. Lena’s fingers hovered near the metal, hesitant, as if afraid to touch it again. “There has to be a way,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. She grabbed her laptop from the nightstand, the keys clacking furiously as she pulled up forums, emergency lock removal guides, anything. Nico watched her, his throat dry, the weight of the cage suddenly unbearable against his skin.
“Industrial bolt cutters,” Lena announced after a minute, her voice tight. “Some guy on Reddit says they might work.” Nico blinked at her. “Where the fuck are we supposed to get industrial bolt cutters?” Lena chewed her lower lip, her gaze darting to the window. “There’s a hardware store two blocks over. They open at nine.” Nico groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Great. So I just—what? Walk in like this?” He gestured vaguely at his crotch, the cage obscenely visible under his sweatpants. Lena’s mouth twitched. “I’ll go. You stay here and… don’t think about it.”
She dressed quickly, throwing on jeans and a hoodie, her hair still tangled from sleep. Nico paced the length of the bedroom, the cage shifting with every step, a constant, humiliating reminder. Lena paused at the door, her hand on the knob. “Hey,” she said softly. “We’ll figure this out.” Nico nodded, but the knot in his stomach didn’t loosen. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone with the silence and the unyielding metal between his legs.
By the time Lena returned, Nico had exhausted every possible angle of twisting, pulling, and prodding the cage—all to no effect. She burst in, her cheeks flushed from running, a pair of massive bolt cutters clutched in her hands. “They looked at me like I was planning a murder,” she panted, dropping the cutters onto the bed with a thud. Nico eyed them warily. “You sure these won’t just—I don’t know—take everything with it?” Lena shrugged, already positioning the blades around the base of the cage. “Only one way to find out.”
The bolt cutters squealed against the titanium, sending sparks skittering across the sheets. Nico gritted his teeth as Lena strained against the handles, her knuckles white. "Fuck," she hissed, shaking out her wrists. "It's not even dented." The cage gleamed mockingly under the bedside lamp, unscathed.
Nico slumped back against the pillows, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "So what now? ER?" The words tasted bitter. Explaining this to a triage nurse—especially while wearing scrubs from his own hospital—was a humiliation he hadn't prepared for.
Lena tossed the bolt cutters onto the floor with a clatter and grabbed her phone. "Not yet." Her thumbs flew across the screen. "There's a locksmith in Oakland who specializes in BDSM gear. Says he's dealt with 'accidental permalocks' before." She held up the phone, displaying a Yelp review from someone named 'SubmissiveSteve23'. Nico groaned. "You can't be serious."
"Would you rather have Dr. Nguyen from the ER prying this off with a speculum?" Lena arched an eyebrow, already tapping the call button. Nico covered his face with a pillow as she purred into the phone: "Hi, yes, we have a situation involving a titanium chastity device—no, no emergency, just... very stuck."
The locksmith arrived three hours later—a burly man named Dave who looked more like a bouncer than someone who specialized in delicate lock emergencies. He took one look at Nico sprawled on Lena’s couch, sweatpants tented around the cage, and let out a low whistle. "Yeah, that’s the T3 Titanium," he said, crouching between Nico’s legs with the casualness of a mechanic inspecting a carburetor. "Had a guy last month who got his dick stuck in one of these for a week. Ended up having to saw it off in the ER."
Nico’s stomach lurked somewhere near his knees. "Saw it off?"
Dave shrugged, rummaging through his toolbox. "Titanium’s a bitch. You can’t cut it, you can’t melt it—well, not without melting you first." He pulled out a pair of slender, needle-nosed pliers and wiggled them. "But sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can jimmy the locking mechanism from the inside." He glanced at Lena, who was hovering by the kitchen island, her arms crossed. "Might wanna give us some privacy, sweetheart. This part’s kinda… invasive."
Lena snorted. "Please. I installed the damn thing." She flopped onto the couch next to Nico, her knee brushing his thigh. "Besides, I owe him this." Her grin was sharp, but Nico caught the flicker of guilt in her eyes before she looked away.
Dave sighed, rolling his shoulders like a man preparing for a wrestling match. "Alright, kid. This is gonna feel real weird." The pliers disappeared between Nico's thighs with a clinical precision that did nothing to ease the cold sweat prickling at his temples. The metal scraped against titanium—once, twice—then stopped with a frustrated grunt. "Nope. Mechanism's fused shut." Dave rocked back on his heels, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Looks like whoever sold you this really meant 'permanent.'"
Lena's fingers dug into the couch cushion. "So that's it? You're just—giving up?"
"Lady, unless you've got a CNC laser cutter in your closet, there ain't shit I can do." Dave snapped his toolbox shut with finality. "Your best bet's a urologist with a sense of humor." He stood, tossing a business card onto the coffee table. "Guy in Fremont specializes in... delicate extractions. Tell him Dave sent you. Might get a discount." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving silence thick enough to choke on.
Nico stared at the ceiling, the cage a lead weight between his legs. Lena's hand hovered over his knee before retreating. "I'll call the clinic," she murmured, but her phone clattered to the table unused. The unspoken truth hung between them: no amount of medical jargon would make this appointment anything less than mortifying.
The clinic in Fremont smelled like antiseptic and regret. Nico sat stiffly in the waiting room, acutely aware of the way his sweatpants bunched around the cage—how every shift in his seat made the metal press into his skin. Lena, beside him, flipped through a dog-eared magazine with a forced nonchalance that fooled no one. "So," she muttered under her breath, "worst-case scenario, we tell people you're into cyberpunk body mods."
Nico shot her a glare. "Oh yeah, because that's less embarrassing than—" He cut off as the nurse called his name, his face burning as he shuffled into the exam room. The urologist—Dr. Chen—was a compact man with the weary patience of someone who'd seen it all. He didn't blink at the cage, just gestured for Nico to lie back and snapped on gloves with a practiced efficiency. "Ah, the T3," he said, prodding the titanium with a penlight. "Third one this month. You'd think people would read the product description."
Nico groaned, covering his face with his arm. "It said permanent?"
"Right under 'titanium construction.'" Dr. Chen sighed, palpating the edges of the cage with clinical detachment. "Well, good news is you're not in any immediate danger. Bad news is..." He trailed off, tapping a finger against the unyielding metal. "This isn't coming off without a fight. We could try surgery, but..." He met Nico's gaze squarely. "There's a non-zero chance of, ah, collateral damage."
Nico's throat clicked as he swallowed. "Collateral damage," he repeated, his voice flat. Lena's fingers twitched against his forearm, but he barely felt it. The exam room's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sterile, unforgiving glow.
Dr. Chen removed his gloves with a snap. "We'd need to cut through the titanium. That means heat, torque, and precision no one's eager to apply to..." He gestured vaguely at Nico's lap. "Delicate tissue."
Lena cleared her throat. "So what are our options?" Her voice was steadier than Nico expected, but her nails dug half-moons into her palms where they rested on her thighs.
Dr. Chen leaned against the counter, folding his arms. "Option one: leave it. Titanium's biocompatible—won't rust or irritate the skin. You'd just... live with it." Nico's stomach lurched. The doctor continued, oblivious. "Option two: surgical removal under general anesthesia. Higher risk, but cleaner than trying to pry it off in some back-alley dungeon."
Nico's laughter was brittle, verging on hysterical. "Live with it?" He gestured sharply at the cage. "You're telling me I should just—what? Walk around like this forever?"
Dr. Chen didn't flinch. "Medically speaking, it's viable. The device won't harm you." He paused, then added with deliberate neutrality, "Psychologically, of course, that's another matter."
Lena's hand found Nico's wrist, her grip tight enough to ground him. "Option two," she said firmly. "We're doing option two."
The urologist nodded, already scribbling notes. "I'll schedule you for next Tuesday. Full pre-op workup required—bloodwork, EKG, the usual." He tore off the prescription slip with a crisp efficiency that felt obscenely normal under the circumstances. "Until then, no strenuous activity. And especially no attempts to remove it yourself." His gaze flicked to Lena. "That means no bolt cutters, power tools, or—God help me—angle grinders."
The silence in Lena’s car on the drive back was thick enough to choke on. Nico slouched in the passenger seat, his knees spread awkwardly around the cage, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on his thigh. Lena gripped the steering wheel like it might sprout wings and fly away if she loosened her hold. "So," she said finally, voice too bright, "worst first date ever, right?"
Nico snorted, but the sound lacked any real humor. "Not how I pictured ‘Netflix and chill’ ending." He shifted again, wincing as the titanium chafed against his skin. "Jesus, this thing’s like a fucking tamagotchi. Needs constant attention."
Lena’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. "I can—I can call Dr. Chen back. See if they have an emergency slot." Her voice cracked on the last word, and Nico glanced over to see her biting her lower lip hard enough to leave marks.
He exhaled, long and slow, and reached across the console to squeeze her wrist. "It’s fine. Tuesday’s what—five days? I’ve survived worse shifts." The lie tasted bitter, but the way Lena’s shoulders relaxed minutely was worth it.
The apartment smelled like takeout and antiseptic when they returned, Lena kicking off her heels by the door with a little more force than necessary. Nico flopped onto the couch, the cage shifting uncomfortably as he tried—and failed—to find a position that didn’t remind him of its presence. Lena hovered near the kitchen island, drumming her fingers against the marble. "Hungry?" she asked, already pulling menus from a drawer. "I could go for Thai. Or maybe—"
"Nope," Nico cut in, rubbing his temples. "No more Bay Area clichés today. Just... pizza. Normal, fucking cheesy pizza."
Lena smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Fine. But if you get pineapple on it, I’m revoking your visiting rights to my vagina." The joke landed awkwardly, the words hanging between them like a deflated balloon. Nico winced. "Too soon," he muttered.
The pizza arrived greasy and perfect, and they ate in silence, the TV playing some forgettable reality show in the background. Halfway through his third slice, Nico caught Lena staring at his lap, her chopsticks suspended mid-bite. "Stop that," he grumbled, adjusting the throw pillow over his sweatpants.
Lena blinked, her chopsticks clattering onto her plate. "I wasn’t—" She stopped, her shoulders slumping. "Okay, fine. I was staring." She tossed her napkin onto the table and stood abruptly, pacing to the window where the Bay Bridge glittered in the distance. "This is fucked, Nico. I ordered the damn thing. I clicked the buttons. I locked you in." Her voice cracked. "How do you not hate me right now?"
Nico stared at the half-eaten pizza slice in his hand, the cheese congealing into something unappetizing. "I don’t hate you," he said finally, though the words came out flatter than he intended. He set the slice down. "But I am pissed. Not just at you. At myself for agreeing to this shit without reading the fine print."
Lena turned, her silhouette framed by the city lights. "You trusted me," she whispered.
"Yeah. And you knew what you were doing." Nico’s fingers curled into fists. "That’s what stings."
The silence stretched between them like a live wire. Lena’s fingers twitched at her sides before she abruptly turned and stalked to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Nico exhaled through his nose and slumped deeper into the couch, the titanium cage pressing into his thigh with every shift. The TV droned on—some house-flipping show where people pretended drywall was exciting—but the noise just made the apartment feel emptier.
He lasted ten minutes before knocking on her door. "Lena." No answer. He knocked harder. "Lena, come on." The door swung open to reveal her sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptop balanced on her knees, eyes red-rimmed but dry. She didn’t look up. "I’m researching titanium fatigue rates." Her voice was clinical, detached. "There’s a study from MIT about metal microfractures under constant stress. If we can—"
Nico snatched the laptop away and snapped it shut. "Stop."
She glared up at him, jaw tight. "Give it back."
Nico dropped the laptop onto the bed and sank down beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. "You're not fixing this with a fucking MIT thesis," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. The cage shifted uncomfortably between his legs, a constant, humiliating reminder.
Lena exhaled sharply, her fingers clenching in the comforter. "Then what do you want me to do?" Her voice was raw, stripped of its usual razor-shit edge. "Just—sit here and pretend this isn't my fault?"
Nico studied her profile—the sharp angle of her jaw, the way her bottom lip trembled before she bit down on it. "I don't know," he admitted. "But spiraling into Google scholar isn't helping." He nudged her knee with his own. "Talk to me. For real this time."
Lena's shoulders hunched, her gaze fixed on her hands. "I panicked," she whispered. "When I saw the bent clips. When Dave couldn't—" She broke off, shaking her head. "I kept thinking, this can't be happening. Like if I researched hard enough, I'd find some loophole. Some way to undo it." Her laugh was brittle. "Pathetic, right?"
Nico watched the way Lena's fingers trembled against the comforter, the usually unshakable woman suddenly fragile as cracked glass. He caught her wrist, turning her palm upward to trace the lifeline with his thumb. "Not pathetic," he murmured. "Just human."
Lena scoffed but didn't pull away. "Human would've been reading the product description." Her voice wavered on the last word, and Nico felt something twist in his chest.
The laptop screen blinked to sleep between them, casting the room into dim silence. Outside, a cable car chimed faintly in the distance—the sound of normalcy carrying through the open window. Nico exhaled slowly, the cage shifting as he leaned back against the headboard. "Okay. New rule. No more Googling medical journals or..." He gestured vaguely at his lap. "Industrial metalworking techniques."
Lena's mouth quirked despite herself. "What am I allowed to Google?"
Nico grinned, the first genuine one since the cage had clicked shut. "How about 'ways to still have fun while your boyfriend's dick is in a titanium prison'?"
Lena's laugh was startled, bright, and she swatted his arm. "You're impossible." But her fingers lingered on his wrist, tracing the tendons there. "Seriously, though." She hesitated, biting her lip. "Are we... okay?"
Nico studied her—the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the nervous tap of her foot against the bedframe. He sighed, tugging her closer until their shoulders pressed together. "We're fucked up," he admitted. "But yeah. We're okay."
Lena exhaled, leaning into him. The laptop slid to the floor with a thump, forgotten. For a long moment, they just breathed—her citrus shampoo mixing with the sterile scent of antiseptic still clinging to Nico’s skin from the clinic.
The next morning, Nico woke to the scent of burnt toast and Lena cursing in Mandarin. He blinked at the sunlight streaming through the blinds, the titanium cage pressing uncomfortably against his thigh as he shifted. A dull ache had settled into his groin—not pain, exactly, but a persistent awareness of the metal’s presence, like a bad tattoo you kept forgetting about until you caught your reflection.
He padded into the kitchen to find Lena scowling at a smoking toaster, her hair piled into a messy bun, wearing nothing but one of his old band t-shirts. She glanced over her shoulder, her scowl softening when she saw him. "Morning," she muttered, jabbing at the toaster’s eject button. "I was trying to make breakfast. It’s going great."
Nico leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You don’t cook," he pointed out, nodding at the blackened remains of what might’ve been bread.
Lena tossed the charred slice into the sink with more force than necessary. "I do when I feel guilty," she admitted, her voice quieter than usual. She turned to face him fully, her fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. "So. How’s...?" She gestured vaguely at his sweatpants.
Nico exhaled through his nose, adjusting the waistband of his sweatpants where the cage dug in. "Still there," he deadpanned. "Still titanium."
Lena's lips pressed into a thin line before she abruptly turned and yanked open the fridge. "We need coffee. And bacon. And—" She paused, her shoulders slumping. "Fuck it, let's just get brunch." She slammed the fridge door hard enough to make the magnets rattle.
Nico watched her storm around the kitchen, the way her bare feet slapped against the tile. "You realize this is the first time I've seen you genuinely flustered," he mused, catching her wrist as she grabbed her phone. "It's kinda cute."
Lena froze, her pulse jumping under his fingers. "I'm not cute," she muttered, but the way her cheeks pinked betrayed her. She tugged her wrist free, jabbing at her screen. "There's a diner on Polk that does bottomless mimosas. We're going."
The diner smelled like stale syrup and overcooked bacon, the vinyl booth squeaking under Nico’s thighs as he slid in across from Lena. She drummed her fingers against the laminated menu, her gaze flicking between him and the oblivious brunch crowd around them. "So," she said, too casually, "how do you feel about explaining that"—she nodded at his lap—"to a waiter if you need to pee?"
Nico groaned, tossing a sugar packet at her. "Shut up and order me pancakes." He shifted, the cage pressing uncomfortably against the denim of his jeans—Lena had vetoed sweatpants in public with a sharp, "We’re not animals, Nico."
The waiter—a bored college kid with a nose ring—took their orders without glancing twice at Nico’s stiff posture or Lena’s death grip on her water glass. When the food arrived, Nico drowned his pancakes in syrup, watching Lena pick at her avocado toast with uncharacteristic hesitation. "You’re brooding," he accused, spearing a strawberry from her plate. "It’s unsettling."
Lena stabbed her fork into an untouched slice of lime. "I’m thinking," she corrected, but the way her knee bounced under the table betrayed her. She leaned in suddenly, voice dropping. "What if—hear me out—we tell Dr. Chen it’s a religious thing? Like, you took a vow of celibacy and the cage is symbolic. They can’t argue with spirituality."
The strawberry Nico had stolen froze halfway to his mouth. "You want me to tell my urologist I'm a chastity monk?"
Lena's grin was sharp, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm against her mimosa glass. "Better than 'I let my girlfriend lock me in a permanent dick cage because I thought it'd be hot.'"
Nico groaned, rubbing his temples. "Christ. When you put it like that—"
"Face it," Lena interrupted, leaning in with the glint of someone who'd found a loophole, "medical professionals love a good spiritual exemption. It's like waving a garlic clove at a vampire." She snatched the strawberry from his fingers and popped it into her mouth, triumphant.
The diner’s background chatter faded into white noise as Nico stared at Lena, her smirk unwavering. “You’re deranged,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Next you’ll tell me we should start a cult.”
Lena’s eyes lit up. “Now you’re thinking.” She swirled her mimosa, the orange juice clinging to the glass. “But seriously, the spiritual angle could work. We’ll say you’re a devotee of some obscure tech-asceticism movement. Very Bay Area.”
Nico rolled his eyes, but before he could retort, his phone buzzed on the table. Dr. Chen’s office. Lena’s fingers froze around her fork as he swiped to answer, her gaze locked onto him like he might vanish if she blinked.
“Tuesday’s still on,” Nico said after a clipped exchange, setting the phone down. “Pre-op bloodwork tomorrow.”
Lena’s mimosa glass clinked against the table louder than intended. "Tuesday," she repeated, like the word might dissolve if she didn’t hold onto it. Nico watched her throat work as she swallowed, the way her fingers tightened around her napkin before smoothing it out with deliberate precision. "That’s—good. Right?"
Nico shrugged, stabbing a syrupy bite of pancake. "Assuming they don’t accidentally saw my dick off, sure." The joke fell flat, but Lena’s sharp exhale was almost a laugh. Almost.
The waiter refilled their coffee with practiced indifference, and Nico realized with sudden clarity that this—sitting in a diner, bickering over brunch, the cage a dull pressure between his thighs—was the most normal moment they’d had since the titanium clicked shut. Lena must’ve sensed it too; her shoulders relaxed infinitesimally, her knee brushing his under the table.
Back at Lena’s apartment, Nico sprawled on the couch while she rummaged through her closet, muttering about "appropriate pre-op pajamas." He flicked through TV channels absently, stopping on a home improvement show where a couple argued over backsplash tiles. The domesticity of it—the mundane bickering, the shared space—struck him as absurdly funny given their circumstances.
The apartment buzzer startled them both. Lena paused mid-fold with a pair of Nico's scrubs in her hands, her brow furrowing. "You expecting someone?"
Nico shook his head, adjusting the waistband of his sweatpants—Lena had finally relented on the "no sweatpants" rule after watching him wince through brunch. The buzzer sounded again, insistent.
Lena tossed the scrubs aside and stalked to the intercom. "Yes?" Her voice sharpened instantly. "No, we didn't—what?" She turned, her expression unreadable. "It's Dave. The locksmith."
Nico sat up too fast, the cage shifting uncomfortably. "Dave? Why is he—"
Lena punched the buzzer with more force than necessary, the sharp click echoing through the apartment. Nico heard the muffled thud of footsteps in the hallway before Dave’s broad silhouette filled the doorway—same leather jacket, same toolbox, same look of a man who’d seen too many weird lock emergencies. He held up a hand before either of them could speak. "Before you ask—no, I still can’t cut titanium."
Nico slumped back against the couch. "Then why—?"
Dave hefted his toolbox onto the coffee table with a metallic clunk. "Got a call from a buddy at the Fremont clinic. Said you were scheduled for surgery." He made air quotes around the word, his expression somewhere between amusement and pity. "Thought you might want a second opinion before letting someone take a Dremel to your junk."
Lena crossed her arms, her hip bumping the edge of the table. "You know a less medieval way to remove it?"
Dave scratched his stubble, eyeing Nico with the detached curiosity of a mechanic inspecting a problematic engine. "Maybe. Depends how much you're willing to risk." He flipped open his toolbox, revealing an array of intimidating metal implements. "See, titanium's tricky, but every lock's got a weak point. Even permanent ones." He selected a slender, hooked probe and twirled it between his fingers. "This beauty's gotten me into safes, chastity belts, even a medieval chastity cage once—guy was really into historical reenactments."
Lena leaned forward, her fingers digging into Nico’s knee. "You think you can pick it?"
Dave’s grin was all teeth. "Lady, I don’t think. I know." He gestured for Nico to lie back. "But fair warning—this'll feel like a pap smear crossed with a tetanus shot."
Nico exhaled sharply but shifted onto his back, sweatpants tenting obscenely around the cage. Lena’s grip tightened briefly before she let go, hovering near the couch like a nervous surgeon’s assistant. Dave crouched between Nico’s legs, the probe glinting ominously in the afternoon light filtering through the blinds. "Alright, kid. Breathe through it."
The probe slid in with a cold, metallic snick that made Nico's stomach flip. Dave's fingers worked with a precision that bordered on obscene, his tongue pressed between his teeth in concentration. Lena hovered at Nico's shoulder, her breath warm against his temple. "You okay?" she murmured, her fingers tangling briefly in his hair. Nico nodded, though his jaw was clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
Dave grunted, adjusting the angle of the probe. "Almost—got it—ah, shit." The tool slipped with a scrape that sent a jolt through Nico's spine. "Damn thing's got a secondary lock." He sat back on his heels, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Whoever engineered this was a sadist."
Lena's knee bounced against the couch. "So that's it? You're done?"
Dave shot her a look. "Didn't say that." He rummaged in his toolbox and produced a vial of clear liquid. "Last resort. Penetrating oil—dissolves rust, loosens seized mechanisms." He uncorked it with his teeth, the sharp scent of chemicals flooding the room. "Might sting."
The oil hit the lock with a cold, creeping sensation that made Nico's breath hitch. Dave's fingers worked methodically, twisting the probe deeper as the liquid seeped into unseen crevices. Lena's nails bit into Nico's forearm, her exhale shaky against his shoulder.
"Give it thirty seconds," Dave muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans. The oil smelled like industrial regret.
Nico stared at the ceiling, counting the water stains as the seconds stretched. Somewhere downstairs, a dog barked. The probe shifted with a click that vibrated through his bones.
Dave's grin was triumphant. "Got it." He twisted the tool with a precision that bordered on artistry—then froze. The cage didn't budge.
Dave’s triumphant grin slid off his face like grease off a hot pan. He twisted the probe again, harder this time, his forearm muscles straining. The cage remained stubbornly locked.
Nico’s breath came fast and shallow, his fingers digging into the couch cushions. "What’s wrong?"
Dave sat back on his heels, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Secondary lock’s fused shut." He tapped the cage with a knuckle, producing a dull metallic ping. "Oil got into the mechanism, but the internal pins are welded. Probably a factory defect." He glanced at Lena, his expression grim. "Or feature, depending on how you look at it."
Lena’s grip on Nico’s arm tightened. "So that’s it? You’re done?"
Dave exhaled through his nose, rubbing his thumb along the probe’s shaft like he was considering its failure personally. "Unless you wanna risk snapping these pins and leaving shards of titanium in your urethra, yeah. I’m done." He snapped the toolbox shut with finality. "Surgery’s your only option now."
Lena’s chair screeched as she stood abruptly, pacing to the window where the late afternoon sun painted the floorboards gold. Her silhouette was rigid, fingers twisting the hem of Nico’s stolen shirt. "There has to be something," she muttered, more to herself than to them.
Nico sat up slowly, the cage shifting with a dull clink that made his stomach roll. He watched Dave pack up with the efficiency of a man who’d just billed for a lost cause. "Thanks for trying," Nico said, though the words tasted like ash.
Dave paused, leather jacket creaking as he slung the toolbox over his shoulder. "Look, kid—I’ve seen guys in worse predicaments. At least this one’s sterile." He nodded toward Lena, who was now glaring at her phone like it had betrayed her. "And you’ve got a girlfriend willing to Google metallurgy for you. Could be worse."
The apartment door clicked shut behind Dave, leaving Nico and Lena in a silence that felt like a held breath. Nico stared at his lap, the titanium cage gleaming faintly in the fading light—a grotesque parody of jewelry. Lena's phone clattered onto the coffee table, the screen lighting up with yet another futile search: titanium lock failure rates industrial applications.
"You know," Nico said, his voice carefully neutral, "this is probably the most research you've ever done for a relationship."
Lena's laugh was abrupt, almost startled, and she swiped at her eyes with the back of her wrist. "Shut up," she muttered, but her fingers found his, threading through them with a desperation that belied her tone.
Nico squeezed back, the weight of the cage between them like a third presence in the room. Outside, a cable car dinged its way up California Street, the sound absurdly cheerful. Lena exhaled sharply, her thumb rubbing circles over Nico's knuckles. "We could," she started, then stopped, biting her lip.
Lena's fingers tightened around Nico's. "We could just...leave it," she whispered, eyes fixed on the cage. "Pretend it never happened. Go back to normal."
Nico barked a laugh that echoed hollowly off the apartment walls. "Normal? Lena, I've got a titanium chastity cage permanently fused to my dick. There is no normal anymore." He shifted, the metal digging into his thigh as if to emphasize the point.
Lena's thumb stilled against his knuckles. "I didn't mean—" She exhaled sharply through her nose, her shoulders slumping. "Fuck. I don't know what I meant."
The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant hum of Bay Area traffic fourteen floors below. Nico studied Lena's profile—the way her bottom lip trembled before she caught it between her teeth, the faint smudge of yesterday's eyeliner clinging stubbornly to her lash line. She looked exhausted. Human. Nothing like the razor-sharp Bay Area professional who'd locked him in with such playful confidence days ago.
The apartment hummed with the drone of the AC unit kicking on, stirring the stale air between them. Nico watched Lena's fingers tap an erratic rhythm against her thigh—a nervous tell she'd never had before the cage.
"Okay," she said abruptly, standing so fast the couch cushions bounced. "New plan. We're getting drunk."
Nico raised an eyebrow. "Dr. Chen said no alcohol before—"
"Fuck Dr. Chen," Lena snapped, yanking open the liquor cabinet with enough force to rattle the bottles. She emerged clutching a half-empty bottle of gin like it had personally offended her. "You know what this is? Dutch courage. Required reading for pre-op panic." She unscrewed the cap with her teeth and spat it onto the counter.
The gin burned all the way down, but Nico couldn’t decide if it was the alcohol or Lena’s glare that made his throat tighten. She knocked back her shot with the precision of someone who’d practiced in corporate happy hours, slamming the glass down hard enough to crack the stem. "Your turn," she said, sliding a second shot toward him.
Nico eyed the glass warily. "You realize alcohol thins your blood, right? Pre-op—"
"Fuck pre-op." Lena's fingers trembled as she poured herself another shot, the bottle clinking against the rim. "We’re drowning this like it’s a bad Tinder date." She tossed it back without flinching, her pupils dilating in the dim kitchen light.
Nico sighed but picked up his shot. The gin tasted like pine needles and poor decisions. Across the counter, Lena’s lips glistened with the remnants, her usual lipstick long since chewed off. She leaned forward, elbows braced on the marble, her breath warm and sharp with alcohol. "Tell me something," she murmured, her gaze unnervingly direct. "If we could go back—would you?"
The gin glass slipped from Nico's fingers, shattering against the tile with a sound like ice cracking. "Would I what?" he asked, though he knew exactly what she meant.
Lena's fingers traced the condensation on her empty glass, her voice softer than he'd ever heard it. "Would you still say yes? Knowing how it ends?"
Nico stared at the broken glass scattered between his feet—tiny, glittering shards reflecting the overhead light in jagged fragments. His answer came out hoarse. "Yeah. I would."
Lena froze, her glass halfway to her lips. "Why?"
Nico picked up a shard of glass, turning it between his fingers before answering. "Because it was you asking." The words hung in the gin-scented air between them, raw and unguarded. Lena's glass hit the counter with a dull thunk, her expression flickering between disbelief and something softer, more dangerous.
The gin bottle sat empty between them like a surrendered weapon, its once-sharp edges softened by the dim light. Lena’s fingers traced lazy patterns on Nico’s thigh, her touch featherlight above the titanium cage—always avoiding direct contact, as if it might burn her. "We should sleep," she murmured, though her eyes were wide awake, reflecting the city lights through the half-open blinds. Nico nodded, letting her lead him to bed where they curled around each other like parentheses, the cage a cold punctuation between them.
Morning came with the brittle clarity of a hangover and the buzz of Lena’s phone alarm—7:00 AM, Pre-Op Prep. She moved through the apartment like a ghost, boiling water for tea she wouldn’t drink, folding laundry that was already neat. Nico watched from the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. "You’re worse at this than I am," he said, catching her wrist as she passed with a third unnecessary pillow. Lena’s laugh was thin, frayed at the edges. "I don’t do helpless," she admitted, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.
The Uber ride to the clinic was silent save for the GPS’s polite directions. Lena clutched Nico’s hand like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go, her nails leaving half-moon indents in his palm. The clinic’s automatic doors hissed open, swallowing them into a sterile white lobby smelling of antiseptic and dread. A nurse with kind eyes checked Nico’s wristband twice. "Dr. Chen’s running on time," she said, as if it were good news.
Gowned and shivering on the gurney, Nico stared at the ceiling tiles—water stains mapped like unfamiliar constellations. Lena hovered at his side, her corporate armor replaced by scrubs borrowed from the lost-and-found, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. "Remember," she said, too brightly, "this is just a fancy lockpick." Dr. Chen entered with a clipboard and a nod, his presence sucking the air from the room. "Ready?" he asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
The anesthesiologist’s penlight flickered across Nico’s pupils. "Count backward from ten," she instructed. At seven, Lena’s fingers tangled with his, her grip fierce enough to bruise. At five, she whispered something that might have been I’m sorry or hold on. At three, the ceiling tiles blurred. Then—nothing.
Nico woke to the scent of antiseptic and the dull throb of something profoundly wrong. His vision swam into focus just in time to see Dr. Chen's face tighten—a microexpression Nico recognized from years in the ER. The kind that said I have bad news and I don't want to deliver it. Lena stood frozen at the foot of the bed, her fingers curled around the metal railings like she wanted to bend them.
"Well," Dr. Chen said, tapping his clipboard absently. The sound echoed in the too-quiet recovery room. "The good news is there's no tissue damage." He paused. "The bad news is... the device couldn't be removed."
Lena's knuckles went white. "What?"
Dr. Chen sighed, pulling up a series of x-rays on the monitor. The titanium cage glowed ghostly white against the grayscale of Nico's pelvis. "We attempted laser cutting, ultrasonic disruption—even cryofracture." He pointed to microscopic stress marks along the cage's seams. "The alloy's crystalline structure actually reinforces under certain stressors. Whoever engineered this..." He shook his head, admiration and disgust warring in his tone. "It's a masterpiece of materials science."
Nico struggled to sit up, the IV tugging at his wrist. "So what now?"
Dr. Chen clicked his tongue. "Now? You live with it." He shrugged at their twin expressions of disbelief. "It's biocompatible. Zero rejection risk. Hydraulic pressure tests show it won't impede urinary function long-term." A beat. "Assuming you maintain proper hygiene."
Lena made a strangled noise. "Live with it? You're joking."
Dr. Chen folded his arms. "Ms. Wu, I could refer you to a specialist in Zurich who's experimented with controlled explosives for similar cases—"
Nico groaned. "Explosives?"
"—but given the cage's proximity to major vascular structures, I wouldn't recommend it." Dr. Chen tapped the x-ray again. "This alloy was designed to withstand industrial plasma cutters. Short of detonating it with military-grade explosives—"
Lena's phone clattered to the floor.
"—which I also don't recommend—your options are limited." Dr. Chen hesitated. "There is one alternative."
Nico's pulse jumped in his throat. "Yeah?"
The doctor gestured vaguely toward Nico's pelvis. "We could remove everything inside the cage."
Silence. Then Lena's choked laugh. "You're kidding."
Dr. Chen remained impassive. "It's technically feasible. Radical orchiectomy followed by penectomy—"
Nico's stomach lurched. "No."
"—would leave the cage empty," Dr. Chen continued, as if discussing a grocery list. "At which point we could grind it off with industrial diamond bits." He glanced at Lena. "Your insurance might cover it as gender-affirming care."
Lena's fingernails dug into the bed railing hard enough to leave grooves in the plastic. "Absolutely not."
Nico exhaled shakily, his fingers ghosting over the titanium cage beneath the hospital gown. The metal was warm from his body heat—an obscene parody of intimacy. "So my choices are...live with it, or get neutered?"
Dr. Chen's pager beeped. He checked it with the air of a man grateful for the interruption. "I'll give you two some privacy." The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Nico and Lena alone with the hum of fluorescent lights and the scent of sterilized failure.
Lena's knees buckled. She caught herself on the bedside table, sending a cup of ice chips skittering across the floor. "Fuck," she hissed, pressing her forehead against Nico's shoulder. Her breath hitched—once, twice—before she wrestled herself back under control. When she looked up, her eyeliner was smudged like a fighter who'd gone twelve rounds. "Okay. New plan. We're suing the manufacturer."
Nico barked a laugh that hurt his fresh stitches. "On what grounds? 'Your product works too well'?"
"They mislabeled it!" Lena jabbed her phone screen hard enough to crack the protector. "Look—'permanent' means long-lasting, not welded-to-your-bones!" Her voice cracked on the last word.
Nico reached for her wrist. His fingers brushed the racing pulse point beneath her skin. "Lena. Breathe."
She inhaled sharply—the kind of breath you take before plunging into freezing water. The hospital gown rustled as she climbed onto the bed beside him, careful of his IV lines. Up close, Nico could see the mascara flecks under her eyes, the way her bottom lip trembled when she thought he wasn't looking.
"Hey." He nudged her with his elbow. "Still the best decision I ever made."
Lena's laugh was wet. "Really? Even now?"
"Especially now." Nico gestured to the titanium cage visible beneath his thin gown. "Do you know how many ER nurses can say they've got indestructible Bay Area tech literally fused to their dick?"
She snorted despite herself, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. The heart monitor beeped steadily beside them, counting seconds in the antiseptic silence. Outside, a medevac helicopter thudded past, rattling the blinds. Lena's fingers found his, threading through them with a desperation that belied her corporate composure.
Dr. Chen returned with two cups of terrible hospital coffee and the air of a man delivering a eulogy. "So," he said, stirring sugar into his cup with surgical precision. "About your... situation."
Nico sipped his coffee and immediately regretted it. "Let me guess—live with it or die trying?"
"Essentially." Dr. Chen pulled up another x-ray, pointing to the microscopic weld points along the cage's seams. "The manufacturer used a proprietary titanium alloy with shape-memory properties. Under stress, the crystalline structure actually reforms stronger than before." He shook his head. "It's like they wanted this to be irreversible."
Lena's grip on Nico's hand tightened. "There has to be something."
Dr. Chen sighed. "Short of finding the engineer who designed this and holding a gun to his head for the schematics?" He shrugged. "You could try prayer."
Nico's IV stand rattled as he shifted. "Great. So I'm stuck with the world's most expensive cock ring."
Lena's laugh was sudden, sharp, and a little hysterical. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. The absurdity of it all—the sterile hospital room, the defeated doctor, Nico's indestructible chastity—hit her like a wave.
Dr. Chen cleared his throat. "I'll have the nurse bring discharge papers." He hesitated, then added, "And... a care package. Silicone lubricant. Saline solution." He looked pointedly at the cage visible beneath Nico's gown. "You'll need it."
The door swung shut behind him. Nico stared at the ceiling, counting the perforations in the acoustic tiles—ninety-seven before Lena's voice cut through the silence.
"We're suing," she repeated, scrolling through her phone with manic intensity. "False advertising. Emotional distress. Something."
Nico flexed his toes beneath the scratchy hospital blanket. The cage shifted with a dull clink that made his stomach roll. "What jury would convict them? 'Your Honor, the chastity device was too effective'?"
Lena's phone hit the bedside table with a clatter. "Fuck." She pressed her palms to her eyes, breathing through her nose like she was counting seconds. When she lowered her hands, her eyeliner had migrated halfway down her cheeks. "Okay. New plan. We find the engineer."
Nico raised an eyebrow. "And do what? Hold a gun to his head?"
"Yes," Lena said, deadly serious. "Or—or bribe him. Hack his email. Whatever it takes." She grabbed Nico's wrist, her grip feverish. "There's always a backdoor."
The discharge nurse arrived with a plastic bag of supplies—industrial lubricant, sterile wipes, a pamphlet titled Living With Terminal Conditions—and the kind of smile usually reserved for terminal patients. "Sign here," she said, tapping the clipboard with her pen. Nico scrawled his name, the pen slipping in his sweaty grip.
Outside, the Bay Area sunlight hit like a slap. Lena hailed a cab with the ferocity of someone fleeing a crime scene. Inside, Nico slumped against the window, the cage shifting uncomfortably against the cab's vinyl seats. Lena's fingers drummed an erratic rhythm on her thigh—tap tap tap tap—until Nico caught her wrist mid-tap. "Stop. You're making it worse."
Lena exhaled sharply, but her fingers stilled. The cabbie's eyes flicked to them in the rearview mirror, lingering on Nico's hospital bracelet before pointedly looking away. Lena noticed. Her chin lifted. "Take us to Mission Street," she said, too loud. The cabbie nodded, accelerating through a yellow light.
Nico's apartment smelled stale, like takeout and unwashed laundry. Lena kicked the door shut behind them, already pulling up a browser on her laptop. "Okay," she muttered, typing furiously. "Titanium alloys. Proprietary locks. Manufacturing patents." Her nails clicked against the keys. "Come on."
Nico sank onto the couch, the titanium cage pressing uncomfortably against his thigh. He stared at Lena's reflection in the darkened TV screen—her hunched shoulders, the way she chewed her bottom lip raw. "Lena," he started, but she held up a hand.
The search history on Lena's laptop told a story of its own—pages upon pages of metallurgy forums, patent databases, even desperate queries like how to dissolve titanium at home (DO NOT ATTEMPT, screamed the Reddit threads). Nico watched from the kitchen doorway as she slammed her laptop shut with a finality that made the coffee mugs tremble. "Fuck," she hissed, pressing her forehead against the closed screen.
Three months later, the cage had become a third presence in their relationship—a silent, immutable fact as ordinary as the Golden Gate Bridge glimpsed through their apartment window. Lena still reached for him in bed, her fingers skittering away at the last second when they brushed cold titanium instead of warm skin. Their fights took on a ritualistic quality: Nico snapping about some innocuous comment, Lena retreating behind her corporate detachment, both of them collapsing into exhausted silence by midnight.
It happened on a Tuesday. Lena stood silhouetted against the Bay lights, her arms crossed tight over her chest. "I can't do this anymore," she said, and Nico's stomach dropped before she even finished the sentence. "Not us," she clarified, catching his expression. "Just... this." She gestured vaguely at his lap, her nails gleaming in the dim light. "I need—" Her throat worked. "Christ, Nico, I need to be touched."
The words hung between them like a guillotine blade. Nico's fingers clenched around the armrest of their IKEA couch—the one they'd assembled together, back when permanent still felt like a joke. "So what," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "you're just gonna fuck other guys now?"
Lena's laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. "Now? Nico, we haven't even had sex and it's been ninety-two days since this incident happened." She ticked them off on her fingers. "I've tried giving you three chastity handjobs in the shower where you cried afterward. I bought industrial lube from a medical supply store." Her voice cracked. "Fuck, I even tried listening to those celibacy podcasts you left in my Spotify queue—"
Nico flinched. "Those were research—"
"—and guess what?" Lena barreled on, her corporate armor slipping. "Turns out fantasy sucks when it's your actual life." She scrubbed a hand over her face. "I'm twenty-nine. I'm not signing up for celibacy because Amazon mislabeled a goddamn chastity cage."
The silence that followed was punctuated by the distant wail of a foghorn. Nico stared at the condensation ring Lena's gin glass had left on the coffee table—a perfect circle, like the titanium band encircling him. "You're right," he said finally, the words ash in his mouth. "It was my idea too."
Lena exhaled sharply. "So...?"
"So go." Nico gestured to the door with a jerk of his chin. "Just—don't tell me about it."
Lena's heels clicked across the hardwood as she retrieved her purse from the hook by the door. The sound of her keys jingling made Nico's stomach twist. "I'll be back by midnight," she said, her voice softer now. The lock clicked behind her with finality.
The first time, Nico drank himself into a stupor watching Die Hard with the sound off. The second time, he jerked off futilely against the cage until the friction burns made him stop. By the third Thursday—Lena's standing "yoga night"—he'd developed a routine: laundry folded with military precision, their Cal alumni group chat muted, the titanium cage polished to a dull sheen with the specialized cloth Dr. Chen had recommended.
It was the smell that undid him. Lena came home smelling of bergamot and sweat that wasn't hers, her blouse buttoned one hole off-center. Nico's fingers twitched toward the misalignment before curling into fists. "How was yoga?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Lena's fingers stilled on the buttons. A beat. Then she shrugged out of the blouse entirely, tossing it into the hamper with practiced nonchalance. "Fine. Crowded." She avoided his gaze in the bathroom mirror as she scrubbed her face. The steam from the shower fogged the glass before Nico could read her expression.
The rules emerged unspoken: No sleepovers. No repeats. No men from their social circles. Lena kept to them with the same precision she applied to her quarterly reports. Nico pretended not to notice the way she hesitated before swiping right on dating apps, or how she'd started showering the moment she got home.
Six weeks in, Nico came home early from his ER shift to find Lena's favorite lace panties—the black ones with the scalloped edges—draped over the arm of his reading chair. They were inside out. He picked them up with two fingers, the silk cool against his skin. The crotch was still damp.
The microwave beeped—Lena's post-shower ritual of reheating takeout—as Nico stood motionless in the living room, the panties dangling from his grip like a surrender flag. "You left these out," he said when she emerged, toweling her hair.
Lena froze mid-step. Her gaze flicked from the underwear to Nico's face, her cheeks flushing the same shade as the wine stain on their rug. "Oh." She reached for them, her fingers brushing his. "Thanks."
Nico didn't let go. The elastic stretched taut between them. "Was he good?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, raw and jagged.
Lena's grip tightened. "Does it matter?"
The microwave beeped again, insistent and shrill in the silence between them. Lena's fingers twitched against the lace still caught between them, her breath hitching—just once—before she exhaled through her nose like she was counting seconds. Nico watched the pulse jump in her throat, the way her damp hair dripped onto the collar of his old Stanford hoodie she'd claimed years ago.
"Yes," she said finally, the word sharp as shattered glass. "He was good." Her grip on the underwear tightened. "Not better. Just... different."
Nico's fingers spasmed around the lace. The cage pressed against his thigh with a dull, familiar ache.
Lena yanked the panties free with a sound like tearing paper. "Happy now?"
The microwave beeped a third time, insistent as a heart monitor flatlining. Lena stood frozen, the damp underwear clutched in her fist like evidence at a crime scene. Nico could see the exact moment her corporate armor clicked back into place—her spine straightening, chin lifting, lips pressing into that boardroom-perfect line.
"I need air," she announced, striding toward the balcony door. The glass rattled as she shoved it open, letting in the Bay's damp night breeze. Nico followed, the titanium cage shifting with each step—a metallic whisper against his thigh.
Outside, the city glittered below them, indifferent. Lena braced her hands on the railing, her knuckles white against the steel. "This isn't working," she said to the skyline.
Nico leaned against the doorframe. "The cage or—"
Lena whirled around, her hair whipping across her face like a silk curtain. "Us, Nico. This." She gestured wildly between them, her diamond engagement ring catching the light—the one she still wore despite everything. "You think I want to come home smelling like some tech bro's cologne just to feel something?" Her voice cracked on the last word.
The balcony railing vibrated with the distant hum of a passing cable car. Nico flexed his fingers against the doorframe, the titanium cage pressing into his thigh like a brand. "Then stop," he said quietly.
Lena's laugh was bitter as burnt coffee. "And do what? Take up knitting? Join a convent?" She shoved her hair back with both hands, her wrists looking suddenly fragile beneath her smartwatch and stacks of bangles. "I'm touching you right now, and it doesn't even count because—" Her gaze dropped to his lap, then skittered away.
Nico stepped forward until the cage brushed against her thigh through their clothes. Lena inhaled sharply but didn't move. "It counts," he murmured, tracing the familiar freckle beneath her collarbone—the one shaped like California.
Lena's breath hitched as Nico's fingers traced downward, skirting the edges of her collarbone. She caught his wrist before he could go further, her grip surprisingly strong. "Stop," she whispered, but her fingers trembled against his skin. "You know we can't—"
Nico pressed his forehead against hers, the cage a cold barrier between them. "Then tell me what you do want," he murmured, his voice rough with months of frustration.
The city lights blurred in Lena's vision as she exhaled shakily. "Everything," she admitted, the word tearing from her throat like a confession. "I want to feel you inside me for once. I want to wake up without this—this thing between us." Her nails dug into his wrist. "But mostly? I want to stop pretending this is okay."
A siren wailed in the distance, cutting through the night. Nico pulled back just enough to see the tear tracks glittering on Lena's cheeks. He wiped one away with his thumb, the salt lingering on his skin. "So what now?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Lena's fingers tightened around his wrist. "Now," she said, her voice steadier now, "we stop pretending." She stepped back, the balcony lights catching the stubborn set of her jaw. "I'm calling Dr. Chen tomorrow."
Nico blinked. "What?"
"Zurich," Lena said, as if it were obvious. "The explosives specialist. If he can't do it, we'll find someone who can." She pulled out her phone, already typing with manic intensity. "There's a materials scientist at Stanford who—"
Nico caught her elbow. "Lena. Stop." The cage shifted against his thigh, its weight suddenly unbearable. "You heard Chen. Even if they could blast it off—"
Nico's grip tightened around Lena's elbow. "You heard Chen," he repeated, quieter now. "Even if they could blast it off—"
"—we'd risk losing more than just the cage," Lena finished, her voice hollow. The phone screen dimmed in her hand, casting shadows across her face.
They stood there for a long moment, the hum of the city below them punctuated only by the occasional car horn. Then Lena exhaled sharply, tossing her phone onto the outdoor couch with a clatter. "Then what, Nico? We just accept this?" Her hands gestured wildly at his lap. "Live the rest of our lives with you locked in some... some Bay Area startup's idea of a joke?"
Nico rubbed his temples. The headache had been building since the hospital—a low, persistent throb behind his eyes. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I do know explosives aren't the answer."
The bedroom smelled of bergamot and betrayal when Nico woke alone—Lena's side of the bed cold, the indent of her body already smoothed over like an unmarked grave. He rolled onto his back, the titanium cage pressing into his thigh with its usual mocking presence. Down the hall, the espresso machine hissed like an angry cat.
Lena stood at the kitchen island wearing last night's blouse inside out, scrolling through her phone with the intensity of a bomb technician defusing a warhead. Nico watched her thumb pause over a dating app notification—Jason (28) liked your profile!—before flicking it away like a cigarette ash.
"You're up early," Nico said, reaching past her for the Advil.
The third time Lena came home with her hair smelling of unfamiliar shampoo, Nico wordlessly slid a shoebox across the kitchen counter toward her. She peeled back the lid with manicured nails—inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a sleek black harness and a silicone prosthesis so anatomically accurate it made her throat tighten.
"You've got to be joking," Lena said, but her fingers traced the veined contours with clinical curiosity.
Nico leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. "Thought we could try it. Like a... prosthetic." The word tasted medicinal.
Lena's laugh was too sharp. "So now I get to fuck a dildo while you—" Her gaze dropped to his lap, where the titanium cage pressed against his sweatpants.
The harness straps dug into Nico's hips with each thrust, the silicone prosthesis glistening under the bedside lamp. Lena arched beneath him, her fingers scrabbling at the headboard—close, so close—but then her eyes flew open as she shoved him away with a gasp. "Stop. It's not—" Her breath hitched. "God, it's not you."
Nico froze, the strap-on bobbing absurdly between them. Lena rolled away, pressing her face into the pillow with a muffled scream. The silence that followed was punctuated only by the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the ceiling fan and the distant wail of a foghorn.
Three weeks later, Lena came home with her blouse buttoned one hole off-center and the scent of sandalwood clinging to her wrists. Nico wordlessly handed her a gin martini—extra olives, just how she liked it—before retreating to the balcony. Through the sliding glass, he watched her scrub her hands raw under scalding water, the diamond engagement ring catching the light with every frantic movement.
It became a ritual: Lena would arrive flushed from some stranger's bed, Nico would mix her a drink, and they'd pretend not to notice how her hands trembled when she unclasped her bra. Until one Tuesday, when Lena dropped her keys on the entryway table with a clatter and announced, "I can't do this anymore," her voice steadier than it had been in months.
The strap-on was Lena's idea—or at least, that's what she told herself when she pulled it from the drawer for the third time that week. The silicone gleamed under the bedside lamp, its veined contours almost mocking in their perfection. Nico watched from the edge of the bed as she adjusted the harness straps with trembling fingers, her usual corporate precision crumbling under the weight of what they were about to do.
"It's just anatomy," she muttered, more to herself than to him. The harness buckles clicked like handcuffs.
Nico reached for her, then hesitated when the cage shifted audibly beneath his sweatpants. "We don't have to—"
"I want to," Lena snapped, too quickly. Her hands stilled on the strap-on's base, her manicured nails digging into the silicone. A beat. Then softer: "I want to feel you."
The strap-on worked—for a while. Nico learned to time his thrusts to the creak of their IKEA bedframe, his hands gripping Lena's hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents where her corporate slacks usually sat. Lena came with her face buried in a pillow, muffling sounds that might have been his name or someone else's. Afterwards, they'd lie tangled in sweaty sheets, the silicone prosthesis still strapped to Nico's hips like some grotesque parody of what they'd lost.
Lena stopped counting her hookups after the seventh. Or maybe the eighth. The faces blurred together—tech bros with Patagonia vests, finance guys who talked about their portfolios mid-thrust, one astonishingly flexible yoga instructor who'd folded Lena into positions that left bruises shaped like Sanskrit symbols. She came home with stranger's cologne clinging to her clavicle and Nico would wordlessly hand her a martini, the ice clinking like a metronome keeping time with her unraveling.
The dating app notification blinked on Lena's phone—Kevin (31), 2.1 miles away—accompanied by a photo of a grinning Asian man in a Patagonia vest. His bio read VC by day, dumpling enthusiast by night in painfully earnest Comic Sans. Lena's thumb hovered over the screen before she sighed and turned to Nico, who was methodically folding laundry with the precision of an ER nurse preparing a sterile field.
"Would it bother you if it was... someone like me?" she asked, tilting the screen toward him.
Nico paused mid-fold, a sock dangling from his fingers. "You mean Asian?"
Lena's phone case creaked under her grip. "Chinese-American. Third generation. Speaks worse Mandarin than I do." She wrinkled her nose at Kevin's profile. "He listed Crazy Rich Asians under favorite films."
The sock hit the laundry basket with a soft thump. Nico studied Lena's reflection in the darkened TV screen—the tightness around her eyes, the way she chewed the inside of her cheek when lying to herself. "Do you want to?"
Lena's thumb hovered over the "Super Like" button. "I should know if the stereotype holds up," she said lightly, but her voice cracked on the last word. The notification whooshed away into the digital void before Nico could answer.
Kevin smelled like sandalwood and the faintest hint of his grandmother's apartment—linen closets and star anise. Lena catalogued each detail with clinical detachment as he poured her a glass of plum wine in his Marina District high-rise. His fingers brushed hers when handing over the glass, lingering just a beat too long.
"You're exactly my type," Kevin murmured, his gaze dropping to her cleavage with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "Career-focused. Bilingual. Great skin." His thumb swiped across her cheekbone. "No pores."
Lena resisted the urge to bite his finger off. "Funny," she said, swirling the plum wine. "You're exactly what I thought my type was." The wine tasted like cough syrup and regret.
Kevin's bedroom was aggressively minimalist—low platform bed, abstract ink wash paintings, a single orchid that looked plastic. Lena counted the ceiling tiles while he fumbled with the condom wrapper, his Harvard ring clinking against her teeth when he kissed her. His body was lean where Nico was broad, his hands soft where Nico's were calloused from ER work. When he entered her, Lena squeezed her eyes shut and imagined the weight of Nico's hips against hers instead of this stranger's frantic thrusting.
Afterward, Kevin traced the characters tattooed on her shoulder blade—自強不息, her father's favorite proverb. "Does this mean 'hot as fuck'?" he joked, his breath warm against her skin.
Lena rolled away before he could see her flinch. "It means 'self-reliance'," she said, reaching for her bra. The clasp was still warm from when Nico had unhooked it three nights prior.
The Uber ride home smelled of pine air freshener and stale fries. Lena scrubbed at her wrists with a travel-sized hand sanitizer, watching the city lights blur past. Her phone buzzed—Kevin's follow-up text: When can I see you again? She deleted it without replying, the screen reflecting her smudged eyeliner back at her like a Rorschach test.
Nico was asleep on the couch when she crept in, his face slack beneath the blue glow of a muted infomercial. The titanium cage made a faint clink when she draped the blanket over him—a sound so familiar it ached. Lena hesitated, then pressed a kiss to his forehead where a vein pulsed faintly. Nico stirred but didn't wake, his lips forming silent words that might have been her name.
In the shower, Lena turned the water scalding and scrubbed until her skin turned pink. Kevin's cologne lingered stubbornly in her hair—sandalwood with top notes of entitlement. She thought of Nico's shampoo, plain and clinical like hospital soap. Thought of how he'd once washed her hair in this same shower, his fingers gentle against her scalp while the cage pressed cool between them.
The bed felt too large without Nico's warmth. Lena curled around his pillow, inhaling the faded scent of his sweat and the sterile tang of cage lubricant. Her phone buzzed again—another text from Kevin, this time with a winking emoji. She deleted his number with a stab of her thumb, then rolled over to face Nico's empty side of the bed.
Morning came with Nico making pancakes in last night's clothes, the cage shifting audibly beneath his sweatpants when he flipped a too-perfect circle. Lena watched from the doorway, cataloging the tension in his shoulders. "You're up early," she said.
Nico didn't turn around. "ER shift." The pancake landed with a soft plop. "There's coffee."
Lena poured herself a cup, noticing the extra sugar he'd added—just how she liked it. The silence stretched between them like taffy until Nico finally spoke: "How was..." He gestured vaguely with the spatula.
"Fine." Lena traced the rim of her mug. "Predictable." She didn't mention how Kevin had complimented her "exotic eyes" mid-thrust. Didn't mention how she'd bitten her tongue until it bled rather than scream Nico's name.
The kitchen smelled of maple syrup and antiseptic. Nico turned off the burner with a decisive click. "Good," he said, too evenly. "That's... good."
Lena watched his reflection in the microwave door—the way his jaw tightened when he thought she wasn't looking. "You okay with this?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. "The... heritage thing."
Nico's shoulders stiffened. "Why wouldn't I be?" He scrubbed the pan with unnecessary force. "You're just testing stereotypes, right?" The words landed like a scalpel between her ribs.
Lena's phone buzzed on the counter—Kevin's morning-after text complete with dumpling emojis. Nico glanced at it, then deliberately turned back to the dishes. The silence curdled between them until Lena exhaled sharply and typed a reply: Not interested.
Four weeks passed. Four weeks where Lena was gradually feeling more and more nauseous. She expected something was up but she had to check to make sure.
The pregnancy test sat on the bathroom counter like an indictment, its twin pink lines glowing faintly in the morning light. Lena stared at her reflection—the slight pallor beneath her cheekbones, the way her fingers trembled against the sink’s edge—and wondered how she hadn’t seen it sooner. Four weeks. The math was mercilessly precise.
Kevin’s voice on the phone had been equal parts apologetic and smug. "Condoms break," he’d said with the breezy confidence of someone who’d never faced consequences. "But hey—my kid’ll have killer cheekbones." Lena had hung up before he could finish his pitch about co-parenting in his Marina District pentitude.
Nico found her in the kitchen pressing an ice pack to her forehead, the test now tucked discreetly into her planner. "Migraine?" he asked, already reaching for the Advil. The titanium cage clicked softly as he moved—a sound that had become as familiar as his breathing.
"It’s not a migraine," Lena said, watching his reflection in the toaster. The chrome surface warped his face into something grotesque, all sharp angles and hollows. "I’m pregnant. Four weeks."
The Advil bottle hit the counter with a clatter. Nico’s hands went still mid-reach, his fingers curling slowly into fists. "Kevin," he said flatly. Not a question.
"The condom ‘broke’." Lena made air quotes with her free hand. "Apparently his sperm have ‘disruptor energy’ like his startup." She tried to laugh; it came out strangled.
Nico turned mechanically toward the sink, bracing himself against the countertop. The faucet dripped steadily into a half-filled glass—plink, plink, plink—counting the seconds until he spoke. "What do you want to do?"
Lena pressed the ice pack harder against her temples. "My parents will disown me if I’m an unwed mother." Her voice sounded distant, like she was narrating someone else’s life. "But they’ll throw a banquet if I marry a nice Chinese-American boy from a good family."
The titanium cage clicked audibly as Nico shifted his weight. When he turned around, his face was eerily calm—that same detached professionalism he used when telling families their loved ones hadn’t made it. "Kevin," he stated again.
Lena’s phone buzzed on the counter. Kevin’s latest text glowed up at them: My parents would love you btw. Mom’s already picking out wedding venues. Attached was a photo of a gaudy gold invitation template with their names hastily photoshopped in Comic Sans.
Nico stared at the screen. "He sabotaged the condom."
"He’s a venture capitalist," Lena said dully. "Disrupting birth control is probably his idea of a pivot." She watched a drop of condensation slide down the ice pack onto her wrist—cold, then gone. "I can’t do this to you."
The titanium cage clicked as Nico shifted. "You’re not doing anything. This was—" His jaw worked. "An accident."
"One that solves all my problems." Lena’s laugh was bitter. "Marry the nice Chinese boy. Give my parents the perfect grandbaby. Save face." Her fingers tightened around the ice pack. "It’s what they’ve always wanted."
Nico’s reflection in the microwave door was distorted, his face elongated into something unrecognizable. "And what do you want?"
Lena pressed her forehead against the cool granite countertop. "I want to not be here," she whispered. "I want to wake up and have this just be some fucked-up dream where we never ordered that stupid cage."
The titanium cage clicked as Nico knelt beside her, his knees popping audibly. When he took her hand, his palm was warm against her icy fingers. "Then don’t marry him."
Lena’s breath hitched. "And do what? Raise a kid that’s obviously not yours while you’re—" Her gaze dropped to his lap, where the cage pressed against his sweatpants.
Nico’s thumb traced circles on her wrist. "We’ll figure it out." His voice was steadier than she expected. "Adoption. Moving. Faking our deaths and starting over in Belize." A weak joke, but it made her snort.
The pregnancy test still sat on the bathroom counter when Lena went to brush her teeth that night. Two pink lines like a road sign pointing toward a future she’d never planned for. She pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach, wondering when the nausea would start.
Kevin’s texts became increasingly insistent over the next 72 hours—My parents want to meet you followed by Mom’s booking the Four Seasons for the engagement party. Lena left him on read until he sent a photo of a Tiffany ring box with the caption 3 carats, just like you deserve.
Nico found her crying in the walk-in closet that weekend, surrounded by shoeboxes of designer heels she’d never wear again. "It’s not the shoes," she hiccuped when he knelt beside her. "It’s the principle."
The titanium cage clicked as Nico gathered her into his arms. "Tell me what you need." His breath was warm against her temple.
Lena pressed her face into his shoulder. "I need to not be pregnant by some VC bro who thinks ‘consent’ is a Series A funding round." Her fingers clutched at his shirt. "I need to not marry him just because—" Her voice broke.
Nico’s hands stilled on her back. "You don’t have to."
Lena pulled away, swiping at her smudged mascara. "My mother will count the weeks at the wedding banquet." Her laugh was jagged. "At least this way they’ll think we timed it perfectly."
"We could say it’s mine," Nico said quietly. Lena stared at him, her lips parting. "Nico, the baby will—"
"—have your eyes," he interrupted. "Your laugh. Your terrifying ability to calculate tips without a calculator." His thumb brushed her cheekbone. "That’s all that matters."
Later...
The ultrasound room was colder than Lena expected. When the technician squirted gel onto her stomach, Nico’s grip on her hand tightened—his wedding band pressing into her knuckles. The wand moved in slow circles until a staticky whoosh filled the room.
"There’s your baby," the technician said cheerfully.
Lena’s breath caught. On the screen, the grainy image looked more like a seahorse than a human. Nico leaned forward, his brow furrowing. "Is that...?"
"A perfect little heartbeat," the technician confirmed, pointing to the flickering white blip. Lena counted the rapid beats—one for each day she’d avoided telling her parents about her pregnancy.
In the parking lot afterward, Kevin’s text buzzed in her purse: Mom wants to host the baby shower at our Palo Alto house. Attached was a photo of a venue decked out in red and gold decorations—the colors of luck, prosperity, all the things Lena’s mother had always wanted for her. Nico wordlessly took her keys and opened the passenger door for her.
"You don’t have to do this," he said quietly as they pulled onto the freeway. The titanium cage clicked faintly when he shifted gears.
Lena stared at the ultrasound photo in her lap. The technician had drawn a tiny arrow pointing at the blur: Baby Wu! Except the last name was wrong. "Yes, I do," she murmured...
The engagement ring felt like a handcuff. Lena turned it under the dim light of Kevin’s Tesla, watching the diamonds catch and fracture the glow of the highway signs. Three carats, just like he’d promised—ostentatious enough to impress his parents’ friends, heavy enough to leave marks when she clenched her fist.
"You’re quiet," Kevin said, fingers drumming on the steering wheel to some VC podcast about disruption. His cufflinks—tiny gold dumplings—winked at her. "Second thoughts?"
Lena inhaled through her nose. "I need to see Nico once a week."
Kevin’s laugh was sharp as a spreadsheet. "Uh, no? That’s not how marriage works, babe."
"He’s..." Lena rolled the engagement ring around her finger, the diamond catching on her knuckle. "Family."
Kevin snorted. "Your family owns three electronics factories in Shenzhen. He’s some pasty ER doc with a—"
"Permanent chastity cage," Lena blurted. The Tesla’s autopilot jerked slightly, as if startled. "He can’t fuck me even if he wanted to."
Silence. The car’s leather seats creaked as Kevin turned fully toward her. "Wait. You mean like—" He made a crude gesture toward his crotch. "Forever?"
Lena tapped her nails against the Tiffany box in her lap. "Titanium doesn’t bend." She could see the exact moment Kevin’s lizard-brain VC instincts kicked in—the way his pupils dilated at the word permanent, the twitch of his fingers like he was mentally calculating market share.
"Once a week," he conceded, merging aggressively onto the 101. "But no overnights." His cufflinks clicked against the steering wheel. "And we tell my parents he’s your cousin."
Nico was elbow-deep in a lasagna pan when Lena arrived with the engagement ring still digging into her thigh through her pocket. He didn’t turn around when the door opened, just kept scrubbing at a stubborn cheese crust. "You’re late for Thursday pasta night."
The smell of burnt marinara clung to the apartment. Lena kicked off her heels—Louboutins, a "congrats on your engagement" gift from Kevin’s mother—and padded over to the sink. Nico’s shoulders tensed when she pressed against his back, her forehead between his shoulder blades. "I told him about the cage," she murmured into his sweat-damp shirt.
The scrub brush stilled. "And?"
"He laughed." Lena’s fingers curled around his waistband. "Then asked if I’d filmed the locksmith trying to cut it off."
Nico’s exhale fogged the window above the sink. The lasagna pan clattered into the drying rack. "Romantic."
Lena turned him around. The titanium cage pressed against her thigh as she stood on tiptoe to kiss the hollow under his jaw. "I made him agree to weekly visits," she whispered against his stubble. Nico’s hands hovered over her hips before settling just above the waistline of her jeans—careful, always so careful now.
Kevin’s ring dug into her palm when she squeezed Nico’s shoulders. "Once a week," she repeated. "Every Thursday."
The Thursday pasta tradition became their silent rebellion—a weekly reminder that not everything belonged to Kevin. Nico would arrive exactly at 7:02 PM, two minutes late just to annoy Lena’s punctuality obsession, carrying a reusable grocery bag with ingredients too expensive for his resident’s salary. The first time he showed up with black truffles, Lena had burst into tears halfway through grating them.
"You realize this is insane," she whispered now, watching him knead dough with the same clinical precision he used to suture wounds. His forearms flexed under rolled-up sleeves, flour dusting the scars from failed cage removal attempts.
Nico didn’t look up. "Truffle agnolotti’s good for fetal brain development." A lie so transparent it hurt. The real reason sat between them in the knife block—the chef’s knife he’d sharpened weekly since her engagement, its edge gleaming like a promise.
Lena’s belly rounded slightly beneath her oversized Stanford hoodie (stolen from Nico’s closet, another petty theft Kevin never noticed). She pressed a hand to the swell just as the baby kicked—a flutter Nico felt when he brushed past her to reach for the semolina flour. His breath hitched.
They moved through the kitchen like ghosts haunting their old life. Nico’s fingers lingered half a second too long when passing her the pepper grinder. Lena deliberately used the warped toaster so she could watch his reflection warp alongside hers. The titanium cage clicked softly whenever he adjusted his stance at the stove, a sound she’d come to associate with suppressed longing.
Kevin’s 7:30PM check-in call went to voicemail. Lena left her phone screen-down on the counter, vibrating against the marble like an angry hornet. Nico’s jaw tightened with each buzz.
"You should answer," he said, turning the pasta sheets with surgical care. Another lie.
The third missed call coincided with the first forkful of truffle-filled agnolotti bursting on Lena’s tongue. She closed her eyes against the rush of umami—Nico’s truffle supplier was the same one who’d catered their disastrous one-year anniversary—and felt the baby kick again. Stronger this time.
Nico froze mid-bite. His fork hovered in the air, strands of pasta dangling like IV lines. "Was that—?"
"Mm." Lena guided his hand to the curve of her stomach. The titanium cage pressed cold against her thigh as he leaned in. When the next kick came, Nico’s fingers flexed instinctively, flour-dusted knuckles whitening.
Kevin’s text notification flashed across the discarded phone: Mom says no raw cheese while pregnant. Nico exhaled sharply through his nose and reached for the pecorino. He grated it directly over Lena’s plate with exaggerated care, the cheese snowing down in thick flakes.
They ate in silence punctuated by Lena’s phone buzzing against granite. The truffle oil pooled gold in the pasta crevices—Nico always used too much, just how she liked it. Somewhere between the second and third bites, Lena realized Nico had set the table with their old wedding china—the delicate bone-white plates they’d registered for during that brief window when normalcy seemed possible.
Lena's fingers trembled around the stem of her wine glass—the one nice crystal piece Nico had salvaged from their shared apartment. The Cabernet left bitter streaks along her tongue when she finally spoke. "It's...part of the arrangement now." Her voice cracked on the last syllable. "Every night. Like—like clockwork."
Nico's knife stilled halfway through slicing the remaining agnolotti. The blade quivered for half a second before he set it down with deliberate care. "Contractually?" he asked, in that terrifyingly calm tone he used when restraining himself in the ER.
"He says..." Lena traced the lip of her glass, watching the wine shiver. "Says it's to 'ensure paternity confidence' before the wedding." The phrase tasted vile, exactly the corporate doublespeak Kevin would use. "If I refuse, he'll—" Her throat closed around the word prenup.
Nico's reflection in the toaster elongated his face into something grotesque as he leaned forward. "He's holding financial security over you." Not a question. His fingers twitched toward the chef's knife.
Lena caught his wrist—felt his pulse rabbiting beneath her thumb. "Don't," she whispered. The titanium cage clicked faintly as he shifted, pressing against her thigh through his jeans. "It's just...until the wedding." Another lie. They both knew Kevin would keep adding clauses.
The silence curdled. Nico's breathing turned measured—that controlled rhythm he used during trauma resuscitations. When he finally spoke, his voice was clinical. "What positions?"
Lena's wineglass slipped from her fingers. The stem snapped cleanly against the hardwood, leaving a Rorschach blot of Cabernet. "What?"
Nico didn't blink. "Is he making you..." His jaw worked. "On your back? Knees? Does he—" A muscle jumped in his temple. "—record it?"
The baby kicked violently, as if protesting the conversation. Lena pressed a hand to her stomach, suddenly nauseous. "Mostly missionary," she whispered. "He says...it's better for conception." A hysterical laugh bubbled up her throat. "As if we need more proof." Silence pooled between them until Lena whispered the worst part: "He makes me keep my eyes open." Her fingers crept toward her belly. "Watches himself...inside me."
The titanium cage clicked as Nico pushed back from the table—once, twice, three precise movements like he was counting surgical instruments. His reflection in the broken crystal shards fragmented into a dozen distorted versions. "Does he hurt you?"
"He doesn't need to." Lena stared at the wine stain creeping toward Nico's shoelaces. "It's...transactional. Like getting a flu shot from some pharma bro who owns the patent."
Nico's hands flexed on the table edge, tendons standing in stark relief. When he reached for the chef's knife, Lena didn't flinch—just watched him slice a perfect X into the remaining agnolotti. Golden truffle filling oozed out like pus from an incision. "Duration?"
"Seven minutes." She caught Nico's twitch at the precision. "Sets a timer on his fucking Apple Watch." The baby kicked hard enough to ripple her hoodie—right on schedule, just past 8:15PM. Kevin's Pavlovian conception window.
The phone buzzed against Lena's thigh while Nico was kneading dough—Kevin's personalized ringtone, some insufferable EDM track from a Burning Man afterparty. Lena watched flour puff into the air as Nico's hands stilled mid-fold. "I have to take this," she murmured, already reaching for her purse.
Kevin's voice crackled through the speaker with the nasal urgency of a man who'd never been told no. "Mom moved the wedding up," he announced without preamble. "Grandmaster Feng says the eighth is auspicious for male heirs." Behind him, Lena could hear his mother rattling off dates in rapid-fire Mandarin.
Nico's rolling pin hit the counter with a thud that echoed Lena's sudden heartbeat. The eighth was three weeks away. Three weeks until she'd wake up in Kevin's Palo Alto McMansion with his initials monogrammed on the towels. Three weeks until Nico's Thursday pasta nights became stolen hours instead of their last tether to normalcy.
"I'll be home soon," Lena lied into the phone, watching Nico's shoulders tense at the word home. Kevin didn't notice the hesitation—he was already dictating alterations to his wedding coordinator. The call ended with a perfunctory "Love you, babe," as hollow as the Tiffany box sitting on Nico's bookshelf.
Nico's hands were wrist-deep in semolina flour when Lena returned from the bedroom with her overnight bag. He didn't turn around, just kept folding the dough with surgical precision—over, press, quarter turn. Repeat. The titanium cage clicked faintly beneath his apron when he shifted his weight.
"You don't have to go," he said to the flour-dusted countertop. Not a plea. A fact.
Lena's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. "My mother already booked the dragon dancers." She tried to laugh; it came out strangled. The baby kicked sharply—Kevin's son reminding her whose DNA he carried.
The wedding passed in a blur of red silk and gold-leaf invitations. Lena moved through the banquet like a doll in a qipao tailored to hide her five-month bump. Kevin's hands lingered possessively on the small of her back whenever they posed for photos, his Stanford class ring digging into her spine. Between courses, she caught Nico's reflection in the massive ice sculpture—his rented tux hanging slightly loose on shoulders that had grown bony over months of stolen pasta dinners.
She miscounted the weeks when her parents asked about the baby's due date. Kevin smoothly corrected her with a laugh—"Pregnancy brain!"—while squeezing her wrist hard enough to leave marks. His mother beamed at the oversight, already planning the full-month celebration. Only Nico noticed Lena's flinch when the older woman patted her belly and called the fetus "our little golden grandson."
The Thursday visits continued like clockwork. Lena arrived at 7:02 PM sharp, swollen ankles protesting the heels Kevin insisted she wear. Nico had the bath already running—Epsom salts for her aching back, just like the nurses used in maternity wards. He kneaded the tension from her shoulders with hands that remembered every knot, every scar from failed cage removal attempts. The titanium pressed cold against her thigh when he helped her out of the tub.
"I'm sorry," she whispered one night, fingers tracing the permanent grooves where metal met flesh. "About the cage. About never..." Her throat closed around the word sex. The baby kicked violently, as if protesting her guilt.
Nico pressed a kiss to her stretch marks. "You didn't know."
Kevin's call came during their ninth month—an emergency board meeting running late, he wouldn't be home until midnight. Lena arrived at Nico's apartment still in her maternity wedding photoshoot dress, the silk straining across her belly. Nico undid the hidden zipper with practiced ease, his fingers never brushing skin. The dress pooled at her feet like shed skin.
"Prostitutes," she blurted suddenly, watching Nico's reflection in the microwave. His face elongated grotesquely. "Kevin said...after the birth. No more sex if I let him hire..." The words tasted like hospital antiseptic.
Nico's hands stilled on the bath faucet. The water ran scalding before he adjusted it. "And you agreed?"
Lena pressed her forehead against the cool tile. "He's a rich husband." The excuse sounded hollow even to her. The baby turned sharply—a foot jutting against her ribs like a tiny protest.
Kevin's unexpected call came at 6:47PM, thirteen minutes before pasta night. Lena watched Nico's shoulders tense through his thin t-shirt as she answered on speaker. "Mom's bringing the feng shui master tonight," Kevin's voice crackled. "Need you home to balance the qi before labor." In the background, his mother chattered about proper womb alignment.
Nico's fingers whitened around the rolling pin. The titanium cage clicked as he shifted—once, twice—before forcing his grip to relax. "You should go," he said to the flour-dusted counter. Not kindness. Resignation.
As the months passed and Lena eventually gave birth, Thursday nights with Nico evolved from weekly into once a month, now that Lena was busy taking care of her only son. Unfortunately for Nico, that one-time monthly visit was not only about him, but about Lena's continued sexual frustrations.
The first Thursday of the month arrived with the crisp precision of a surgical scalpel—6:58 PM by Nico's wristwatch as he arranged fusilli into perfect concentric circles on the baking sheet. The front door clicked open at 7:02, two minutes late as always, but the footsteps that followed were wrong—heavier, punctuated by the squeak of unfamiliar dress shoes on hardwood.
"Matt works in private equity," Lena announced by way of greeting, her maternity sweater stretched tight across postpartum curves. The stranger trailing her had the polished vacancy of a LinkedIn headshot, his Rolex catching the kitchen light as he shook Nico's flour-dusted hand with the enthusiasm of a man meeting his girlfriend's eccentric uncle.
Nico's titanium cage clicked softly when Matt's gaze dropped to his waistband—a reflexive assessment Lena's lovers always made within thirty seconds. "Bedroom's down the hall," Nico said, turning back to the oven. The fusilli smelled of burnt garlic.
Lena's fingers lingered on his shoulder—warmth through thin cotton—before she guided Matt away with the same hand that used to trace Nico's scars. The first moan pierced the apartment at 7:14, timed perfectly with Nico's pasta water reaching a boil. He stirred the pot with surgical focus, counting each rotation as the sounds crescendoed—Lena's sharp gasp, the headboard's rhythmic thud against the drywall they'd once painted sage green during nesting phase.
The bedroom door opened at 7:45, releasing a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and unfamiliar cologne. Matt adjusted his belt buckle with the smug satisfaction of a man who'd just conquered something. "She's, uh...cleaning up," he told Nico's back before letting himself out. The elevator ding muffled Lena's reappearance in a silk robe Nico didn't recognize.
"I'll text you," she called after Matt, then turned to Nico with a tired smile. "Tagliatelle tonight?" As if the last forty-three minutes hadn't happened. As if the robe wasn't a gift from Kevin's mother.
Nico plated the pasta with trembling hands. Lena's damp hair curled at the nape where Matt's grip had mussed it. "He's not usually that loud," she offered, reaching for Parmesan. The robe gaped to reveal a fresh hickey above her C-section scar—purple against stretched skin.
The fork tines screeched against ceramic when Nico pushed her plate across the island. "Monthly appointments now?" His voice sounded disembodied, like a trauma surgeon calling time of death.
Lena twirled noodles absently. "Kevin thinks it's postnatal yoga." She gestured to her phone where Kevin's latest text glowed: Mom says no carbs after 8PM. The baby monitor crackled with white noise from the room in Kevin's home—their son dreaming in the crib Nico had assembled while Kevin was closing Series B funding.
The bedroom still smelled of Matt's cologne when Nico changed the sheets afterward. He found the condom wrapper tucked under Lena's pillow—Magnum, because of course—and the faint lipstick smudge on the headboard that matched the shade Kevin bought her for Valentine's Day. The laundry hamper overflowed with towels damp from their shared shower.
"You could say no," Nico said that night as Lena watched her son on the baby monitor. Lena adjusted the baby monitor camera angle without looking up. "To Kevin? Or Matt? Pick your impossibility." The Tiffany cufflinks Kevin had gifted her—"for good breastfeeding posture"—glinted in the low kitchen light.
The kitchen light buzzed like a dying insect overhead. Lena's fingers drummed arrhythmically against Nico's chipped Formica countertop—leftover damage from the night they'd tried prying the titanium cage open with a butter knife.
"I can't keep sneaking around parking garages," she said abruptly. "Plus audits my Amex statements like they're quarterly earnings reports."
Nico's reflection warped in the toaster as he methodically wiped flour from the rolling pin. The titanium cage gave a soft click beneath his apron when he shifted his weight.
"You could—" he began, then stopped. The words say no had become a private joke between them, as hollow as Kevin's "I love you" texts.
Lena's fingers twitched toward her phone where Matt's last message glowed: Same time next month? The screen illuminated the faint bruises circling her wrists—Kevin's idea of foreplay since the birth. "Hotels leave paper trails," she murmured. "Airbnbs require ID scans." Her thumbnail picked at the edge of Nico's countertop where they'd chipped it during the butter knife incident. "Unless..."
The oven timer beeped. Nico turned with the precision of a man who'd learned to move carefully. Lena's gaze dropped to his waistband out of habit, then flicked away just as fast. That familiar ache twisted low in her belly—not desire, but the phantom limb sensation of wanting what she could no longer have.
"You're here once a month on Thursday," he said quietly. Not a question. A fact etched deeper than the scars around his hips.
Lena's laugh came out too sharp. "For pasta. Not for—" She gestured vaguely toward the bedroom where Matt's cologne still lingered. The motion made her silk robe gape, revealing the fresh stretch marks alongside older ones Nico remembered tracing with his tongue.
Kevin's text vibrated against the marble island: Mom says no red sauce while nursing. Nico reached for the pecorino without being asked, grating it directly over Lena's plate with the same automatic care he'd once used to fasten her bra when her fingers were too swollen with pregnancy. The cheese snowed down in thick flakes.
"I need..." Lena's fingers tightened around her wineglass.The Cabernet left bitter streaks when she licked her lips. "Not just...this." Her hand fluttered between them. The words stuck like hospital gauze. "White boys. Hands that can actually—" Her throat closed around fuck me properly.
Nico's fingers trembled against Lena's thigh, the titanium cage clicking softly as he shifted closer. "Please," he whispered against her neck, breath hot with desperation. "Just once—let me taste you. I've... never tasted your pussy... Or..." His hand slid higher, thumb brushing the edge of her underwear. "The strap-on. I'll go so slow you won't even—"
Lena's palm slapped down over his wrist, pinning it to the couch. "No." The word came out sharp, final. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. It was as if years of frustration were let out at once. Lena finally snapped. "You don't get to touch me like that anymore. Not after what happened."
"What happened?" Nico's laugh cracked midway. "Lena, you're the one who—"
"You begged for this on that night." She twisted her grip until his wrist bones ground together. "Whimpered about how hot it would be to watch me fuck other men while you stayed locked up like a good little cuck." Her other hand drifted to his waistband, fingertips brushing the cold titanium. "Now you get to live with the fantasy you creamed your pants over."
Nico's breathing turned ragged. His fingers twitched toward her bare thigh—stopped halfway when she arched an eyebrow. "Just...just let me taste you," he whispered. "One time. I'll make you come so hard you'll—"
"With what?" Lena's laugh was all teeth. She tapped the cage with her Louboutin. "Your phantom dick? That pathetic little nub you piss through?" The baby monitor crackled from the nursery as she leaned in close enough for him to smell Matt's cologne on her neck. "Face it, Nico. You're not a man anymore. You're a walking joke."
The words hung between them like surgical gauze caught in a wound. Nico's reflection in the microwave warped grotesquely as he hunched forward, hands hovering near her knees like a supplicant at confession. "The strap-on," he rasped. "We could—"
"Christ, listen to yourself." Lena rolled her eyes toward the ceiling where a water stain shaped like Rhode Island had grown since Matt last visited. "You really think I would let you use something that big on me again? After I gave birth?" Her fingers traced the edge of his cage through his sweatpants. "Besides, what makes you think I'd let some neutered—"
The baby monitor erupted with static. They both froze as Kevin's voice crackled through—"Babe? You there?"—followed by the telltale whimper of their son waking from a nap. Lena was halfway to the hallway before Nico caught her wrist, his grip damp with flour.
"Just once," he whispered. His breath hitched when she didn't pull away. "Let me taste you. Just once." His thumb brushed her pulse point where Matt's teeth marks had barely faded. "I'll make you come so hard you'll forget his name."
For a heartbeat, Lena's pupils dilated. Then she wrenched free with a snort. "God, you're pathetic." She adjusted her robe where it gaped over fresh stretch marks. "You really think I'd risk another miracle situation with you?" Her fingers twitched toward her phone where Kevin's last text glowed: Mom says no more accidents.
Nico's hands trembled at his sides. The titanium cage pressed cold against his thigh as Lena turned toward the nursery, her silhouette haloed by the fridge light. "Keep dreaming, cuck," she tossed over her shoulder. "Maybe if you're good, I'll let you lick my shoes next month."
"You know why I locked you?" Lena's Louboutin tapped the cage through his sweatpants—once, twice—like a judge's gavel. "Because deep down, you're still that horny med student who begged to watch me fuck other men." She leaned in until her perfume drowned out Matt's cologne. "The difference? Now you can't jerk off to the fantasy."
Nico's throat worked soundlessly. The cage clicked when he shifted—a mechanical reminder of permanence.
Lena straightened with surgical precision. "Cook the lasagna pan when I come over next month," she said, sliding Kevin's engagement ring back onto her finger. "And Nico?" Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Wear the apron I bought you."