“Ever notice how paint separates?” Joe asked, swirling his coffee mug. “Like, if you leave it too long, the oils float up. Makes you wonder what else un-mixes when you’re not looking.”

Jessie glanced up from her laptop, eyebrows raised. She tapped her pen against a spreadsheet filled with budget numbers. “Deep thoughts before breakfast? Did you sleepwalk into a philosophy lecture again?” Her tone carried that familiar blend of amusement and impatience, sharp like a paper cut. Outside, a leaf storm scattered crimson maple seeds across the wet driveway.

He shrugged, rinsing his mug under the tap. Water hissed against ceramic. “Just saying. Things change when you stop stirring.” Joe dried his hands on a dish towel printed with faded lobsters. Across the kitchen, Kim leaned against the fridge, scrolling through her phone. She wore Jessie’s old band t-shirt—the one with the ripped collar. Her presence felt ordinary now, like a third chair at the table. Three months since she’d moved into the spare room after her breakup. Three months of shared groceries and late-night movies.

Jessie snapped her laptop shut. “Okay, pause the existential paint crisis.” She flashed a grin too wide, too bright. “Kim and I have an idea. For tonight.” Kim looked up, cheeks flushing. She tucked a strand of purple hair behind her ear. Jessie continued, voice dropping to that low register she used for surprises. “We want to try something new. All three of us.” Joe felt his pulse kick—a quick, hopeful thump against his ribs. He pictured tangled sheets, skin against skin, the electric slide of possibility. “Yeah?” he said, leaning forward. “What’d you have in mind?”

Jessie exchanged a glance with Kim. Then she reached into her tote bag. Her hand emerged holding a small steel device. It glinted under the kitchen lights—cold, intricate, unmistakable. Joe stared. The thing looked like a medieval birdcage shrunk for a key-chain. “It’s for you,” Jessie said, placing it on the counter with a soft click. “For safety. While Kim and I ... explore.” Silence pooled in the room. Joe’s coffee-sweet optimism curdled, slow and sour. His gaze flicked between the cage and Kim’s nervous smile. Outside, a neighbour started a chain saw, the sound tearing through the morning quiet.

“I’m not so sure,” Joe said. His voice sounded thin, like paper tearing. He traced a faded lobster claw on the dish towel. “This feels ... different.” Kim stepped closer, her hand brushing Jessie’s arm. “It’ll be fun,” she insisted, purple hair catching the light. “Think of it like ... boundaries. So you won’t get carried away.” Jessie nodded, leaning against the counter. “Exactly. Knowing you’re contained means Kim and I can really go for it.” Her eyes held that familiar spark—part challenge, part promise—but aimed entirely past him. Joe swallowed. The steel object seemed to pulse with its own gravity.

He picked it up. IT felt cold. The narrow bars felt rigid, somehow absolute. “Contained,” he repeated softly. The word tasted metallic. He imagined Jessie’s mouth on Kim’s neck, Kim’s fingers tangling in Jessie’s hair—all while he watched, locked away. Safe. Useless. Outside, maple seeds skittered across the driveway like tiny, fleeing crabs. The chain saw snarled again, closer this time.

Jessie touched his wrist. “Trust us?” Her thumb rubbed circles over his pulse point. Kim nodded eagerly, biting her lower lip. Joe closed his hand around the cage. The metal edges were smooth against his palm but unforgiving. He pictured the paint separating in his abandoned mug—oils rising, colours un-mixing. Things changing when you stopped stirring. “Okay,” he heard himself say. The word felt heavy, final. Jessie’s grin returned, wide and bright. Kim exhaled, shoulders relaxing. The cage stayed cold in Joe’s grip.

Upstairs, Joe stood under the shower’s spray. Steam fogged the mirror. He turned the device over in his hands—tiny hinges, a small brass lock, made with careful precision. Water sluiced down his back as he imagined Jessie’s hands on Kim’s waist, Kim’s laugh muffled against Jessie’s shoulder. “Contained”. The word echoed. He dried off mechanically, towel rough against his skin. The cage clicked shut with a sound like a padlock snapping. A strange sense that he had added sommething to himself raised in his mind. Downstairs, low laughter drifted up the steps.

Jessie lit candles in the living room—vanilla and cedar—while Kim dimmed the overhead lights. The sudden intimacy felt staged, like a theatre set. Joe hovered near the stairs, the cage’s cold weight unfamiliar beneath his sweatpants. Kim patted the couch cushion beside her. “Come sit,” she urged, her voice syrup-sweet. Jessie joined them, draping an arm around Kim’s shoulders with practised ease. Joe sank into the sofa, springs groaning.

Jessie’s fingers traced Kim’s jawline. “Relax,” she murmured, not to Joe. Kim leaned in, their lips meeting in a slow, deliberate kiss. Joe watched, knuckles whitening on his knees. The cage pressed against his thigh—a relentless, humming reminder. Jessie’s hand slid under Kim’s shirt, and Kim gasped softly, arching into the touch. Joe’s breath caught. He’d imagined heat, urgency, but this was languid, almost methodical.

Kim broke the kiss, glancing at Joe. Her pupils were wide, dark. “You okay?” she whispered. Before he could answer, Jessie tugged Kim closer, nipping at her earlobe. “He’s fine,” Jessie breathed. “Aren’t you?” Joe nodded stiffly. The cage felt heavier now, a lodestone anchoring him to the periphery. He focused on the candle flames flickering in Jessie’s irises, the way Kim’s fingers trembled as they tangled in Jessie’s hair. He nodded. “Yes, fine,”

Outside, the chain saw snarled again—a jagged, grinding counterpoint to the soft sighs filling the room. Joe closed his eyes. The laughter from earlier echoed in his head, sharp as shrapnel. When he opened them, Jessie’s hand was sliding down Kim’s spine, possessive and sure. Kim moaned, low and throaty, and Joe realised the sound didn’t twist his stomach with jealousy. Just a hollow ache, vast and quiet. Like standing in an empty gallery, staring at art he couldn’t touch.

He shifted on the couch. The cage pressed against his thigh—cold chromed steel biting through thin cotton. Worse than the ache, worse than the exclusion, was the traitorous heat pooling low in his belly. Watching Jessie’s teeth graze Kim’s collarbone, seeing Kim arch and whimper—it shouldn’t ignite him with anything other than jealousy. But it did. A slow, insistent thrum beneath his skin. And the cage answered instantly: a brutal, unforgiving pressure, a vise clamping down on that fragile spark. It wasn’t pain. It was a reminder. A reminder that he had to be contained. His body’s betrayal met with steel-bound denial.

Joe gripped the sofa cushion, fabric bunching under his fingers. He tried focusing on the wallpape print, the separating paint, anything—but Kim gasped Jessie’s name, raw and breathless. Jessie’s hand slid lower, beneath the waistband of Kim’s jeans. Kim’s hips jerked, and Joe’s own breath stuttered. The cage felt impossibly tight now, and heavy, a lodestone dragging him deeper into the couch. Every ragged inhale Kim took, every possessive slide of Jessie’s fingers, tightened that invisible screw. His knuckles ached. Sweat prickled his temples despite the cool air.