Ballerina's Bulge

Michael's glued to the TV when Domino stomps in from rehearsal, kicks off her shoes like they're trying to escape, and crashes onto the couch. Today's class went full torture session, but that's the job when you're chasing pirouettes. He watches her curl up, sweat still clinging to her collarbone. "Anything I can do?" he offers, half-joking. Domino answers with zero hesitation: her feet are killing her. Five minutes later they're sprawled across his lap and his thumbs are working those arches, slow and firm. The angle shifts, cloth pulls tight across her middle, and he sees it—the outline straining right at him. He freezes, staring like the remote's vanished. She catches the look, lifts an eyebrow, and grins. So much for the safe roommate pact. Neither says a word, but every press of his fingers feels less like mercy and more like foreplay.