By morning, he was back under the covers like he’d been there all night. If I hadn’t seen the empty mattress at 2 AM, I’d have zero proof.
The math is starting to add up, and the total iswild.
EXHIBIT E: Walker’s hand.
Walker wandered into the kitchen post-shower, wearing nothing but low-slung sweats.
He stopped next to Kit at the counter, and patted his shoulder—normal bro behavior, right? But then I watched his hand slide down Kit’s back, slipping beneath the waistband of Kit’s shorts to squeeze his ass firmly before reaching past him for a protein shake.
Kit didn’t even flinch. He didn’t even break his stride while stirring his coffee.
A normal reaction would have been a laugh, a shove, a “bro, what the hell?”But Kit just kept drinking his coffee like it didn’thappen. Actually, he did more than nothing—he leaned back into Walker’s space for a split second, an almost imperceptible tilt of the hips that looked like a reflex.
Like this kind of thing has been happening so long, it doesn’t even register as an event anymore.
I filed that evidence away in under three seconds, initially trying to tell my brain that that was just the way jocks communicate, or some weird “guys being dudes” locker room ritual.
But what the hell?
EXHIBIT F: The 3 AM Incident (AKA, The Most Important Evidence)
Two nights ago, I was on my bed, fully awake, my head full of Kit. Kit! Kit? Kit?!
The door to our room was pushed open. It wasn’t a quiet entrance. It was heavy and stumbling.
I kept my breathing even, eyes narrowed to slits, watching through the dark. Grant was a silhouette in the doorway, stinking of alcohol and moving with the jagged coordination of the truly wasted.
He didn’t wake Kit up like a person wakes up a friend. He didn’t shake his shoulder or whisper his name. Instead, he sat on the edge of the mattress and reached out, his hand sliding under the covers and—judging by where his arm went—up Kit’s thighs.
“Kit,” he rumbled. “I need it.”
I waited for the blowup. For Kit to shove him off, to tell him to get fucked, to remind him it was three in the morning and he was hammered.
Kit shifted, and sat up slowly.
“Dude,” he whispered. “I’m not onStandby.”
“Don’t care,” Grant muttered. He leaned in, his large frame crowding Kit against the headboard. I caught the sound of a zipper. “Just stay still.”
Kit placed a hand on Grant’s chest. “Fine, but not here. Reid’s right there.”
Grant glanced toward my bed for the first time. I stayed still as dead, trying not to give myself away.
“He’s out,” Grant said, turning back to Kit.
“Doesn’t matter, man. We have rules.”
Kit got out of bed. He didn’t put on a shirt. He didn’t even look at me as he led a stumbling, obviously hard Grant out of the room.
I lay there for two hours, staring at the ceiling.
The Theory
Here is my current working case: Kit is letting the guys hit.
All of them.Regularly. Consensually, based on the system, and on the zero distress in anything I’ve observed. He’s not gay, the guys are straight, and yet—consistently,repeatedly,in a managed way with astatus dashboard—this is happening.
The question I haven’t answered yet iswhy.
