The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

The hot water felt amazing against my aching muscles. Sloane stood under the spray with her eyes closed, pink hair plastered to her scalp as steam filled the entire bathroom.

I watched her through the fogged glass of her shower door, appreciating the view while my brain finally had a moment to process what the hell I’d just agreed to.

A threesome. With her and her mother.

In what universe was this a reasonable solution to any problem?

The Scumbag System’s universe, apparently.

"Are you going to stand there staring, or are you actually going to help me wash these sheets?" Sloane called without opening her eyes.

"I’m appreciating the scenery."

"The scenery is covered in your—" She stopped herself, her face going red despite everything we’d just done. "Just get in here and help me rinse my hair."

I stepped into the shower behind her. The space wasn’t exactly built for two people, which meant we were pressed together immediately. She leaned back against my chest with a satisfied sound.

"Your hands are magic," she muttered as I worked shampoo through her hair. "How did you get so good at this?"

The question made my stomach twist uncomfortably. Because I’ve been practicing on your mother for two weeks straight, was not the answer that would keep this moment peaceful.

"Natural talent," I said instead.

"Right." She didn’t sound entirely convinced, but she also didn’t push it. "Well, keep doing that thing with your thumbs. It feels incredible."

I massaged her scalp carefully, working out the knots from where I’d grabbed her hair earlier. She practically purred under my touch.

This was dangerous. Too comfortable. Too easy.

I was starting to forget that every moment between us was being tracked and monetized by an interface only I could see.

"Turn around," I said quietly.

She did, tilting her head back under the spray to rinse the suds away. Water cascaded over her shoulders and breasts, making her skin shine in the fluorescent bathroom light.

I’d seen her naked before. Hell, I’d been inside her less than twenty minutes ago. But something about this moment felt different. More intimate somehow.

Maybe because she wasn’t performing for me. Wasn’t trying to prove anything or compete with anyone. She was just Sloane, standing in a shower with soap in her hair and a soft smile on her face.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, catching me staring again.

"How much trouble we’re going to be in if your mom gets home early."

She laughed. Actually laughed, bright and genuine. "We’re already in trouble. The question is just how much trouble we can handle before everything explodes."

"Encouraging."

"I’m a realist." She grabbed the body wash and started lathering herself efficiently. "Besides, you’re the one who suggested we all share. You get to figure out how that’s actually going to work."

Fair point.

I grabbed the conditioner and worked it through the ends of her hair while she washed herself. The domesticity of the whole thing was weirdly nice. Like we’d been doing this for years instead of days.

"Does it bother you?" I asked quietly. "Sharing, I mean."

She paused mid-scrub, her expression going complicated. "Honestly? I don’t know yet. Ask me again after we’ve actually tried it."

"That’s not exactly reassuring."

"You want reassuring? You’re sleeping with me and my mother simultaneously. There’s nothing reassuring about this entire situation."

"You’re handling this way better than I expected," I admitted.

"That’s because I haven’t fully processed it yet. Give me twelve hours and I’ll probably have a complete meltdown." She reached up and kissed me softly. "But right now? I’m choosing to focus on the fact that you’re mine, and nobody gets to take that away from me. Not even her."

Something in my chest tightened uncomfortably. Guilt, probably. Or the crushing weight of lying to someone who trusted me completely.

"Come on," she said, pulling back with a small smile. "The sheets aren’t going to wash themselves."

Twenty minutes later we stood in Sloane’s room, staring at the absolute disaster zone that was her bed.

"This is bad," she said flatly.

"Yeah."

"Like, really bad."

"I’m aware."

The sheets were completely soaked through. Not just damp. Actually soaking wet in multiple places, with obvious stains that no amount of strategic folding could hide.

"How much did I—" She stopped herself, her face going bright red again. "Never mind. I don’t want to know."

I grabbed the fitted sheet and started pulling it off the mattress. "It’s natural. Means you were enjoying yourself."

"I squirted on my own bed like some kind of—" She made a strangled sound. "This is mortifying."

"It’s hot."

"It’s embarrassing."

"It’s both."

She threw a pillow at my head. I caught it with Spectral Reach without even looking, which made her scowl deepen.

"Show off."

"You love it."

"I hate you."

"You love me."

She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again with a huff. "Yeah, okay. I do. Unfortunately."

We stripped the bed down to the bare mattress, bundling everything into Sloane’s arms while I grabbed the cleaning supplies from the hallway closet. The mattress itself was salvageable with some strategic spot-cleaning, but the sheets needed a full wash cycle. Maybe two.

"Mom’s going to know," Sloane said quietly as she stuffed everything into the washing machine downstairs.

"Know what?"

"That we had sex. That I—" She gestured vaguely at the sheets. "That this happened."

I leaned against the dryer, watching her work. "Does it matter if she knows?"

"I don’t know." She poured detergent with slightly more force than necessary. "It’s weird, right? Knowing that she’s going to come home and realize we spent all day—"

"Fucking?"

Her ears went red. "Yeah. That."

"She already knows we’re together," I pointed out. "She walked in on us yesterday, remember?"

"That was different. She interrupted us. This is—" Sloane slammed the washing machine lid closed. "This is me deliberately choosing to sleep with you while knowing that she’s also sleeping with you. It’s a completely different thing."

She wasn’t wrong.

The washing machine rumbled to life, filling the awkward silence between us.

"Do you regret it?" I asked carefully.

"No." Her answer came fast and certain. "But I’m allowed to feel weird about it anyway."