His thumb keeps tracing that slow circle on my knee, and I can feel the pill working its way through me, or maybe I'm just imagining it—some chemical clock already ticking in my stomach, measuring out the next two weeks in increments I can't see.

"Two weeks," I say again, like saying it makes it more real. "Then we'll know."

His grip tightens, just a fraction, his jaw going hard in the dashboard light. "Then we'll know," he repeats, and it's not a question, not an echo—it's a vow, the same way he said I'm going to kill him.

The truck fills with the smell of him—motor oil and sweat, the familiar scent that started all of this—and underneath it, something else. Something cold. The promise he made in the alley, the one about Vince's brother, settles in the cab like a third passenger, taking up space neither of us can fill.

I turn my phone over in my hand. Still off. Still dead. The screen is black, and I think about the last call that came through it, Ethan's voice on the other end while Derek listened, and then the other sounds—the ones I can't scrub out of my head no matter how hard I try.

"Don't," Derek says, and I realize my thumb is pressing the power button, holding it down, the way I used to hold it when I needed the screen to light up and tell me something good.

I look at him. "I wasn't—"

"You were." His eyes stay on the road, but his hand moves from my knee to my wrist, wrapping around it, his fingers finding the exact spot where bruises used to live. "Leave it off. One more night."

"And then what?" The words come out sharper than I meant, and I feel the edge of them in my own throat. "I turn it on and everything's fine? Ethan's gone, Vince's brother's gone, the two weeks are up—"

"No." He cuts me off, finally looking at me, those blue eyes finding mine in the dark. "You turn it on when you're ready. Not before."

The engine hums. The pharmacy's fluorescent buzz bleeds through the windshield, and I can still taste the pill on my tongue, chalk and something bitter, the flavor of a decision I didn't get to make.

"I should have fought harder," I say, and I don't know if I mean in the alley or in the pharmacy or somewhere else entirely—some version of me that never got on that bus in the first place.

Derek's hand tightens on my wrist, not hard, just present. "You fought. I heard you." His voice drops. "I heard everything."

The words land like gravel in my chest. He heard me beg. He heard me say Derek's name like a prayer that didn't get answered in time. He heard the sounds of hands that weren't his, and he drove anyway, and he got me to the pharmacy, and he stood outside while I swallowed a pill that might not even work.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I don't know what I'm apologizing for—the alley, the phone call, the fact that he had to hear it and couldn't stop it.

"Don't." His thumb finds the inside of my wrist, pressing there, feeling my pulse like he's checking I'm still real. "You don't get to be sorry for what they did."

I look down at his hand on my wrist, the grease still under his nails, the calluses I've memorized. "What if the pill doesn't work?" The question comes out before I can stop it, and I feel the weight of it settle between us. "What if I'm—"

"Then we deal with it together." He says it like it's already decided, like there's no version of this where he walks away. "That was the deal. That's still the deal."

The cab goes quiet. The third passenger shifts, and I think about the name on the paper Ethan gave me, the address I memorized before I crushed it in my fist. Vince's brother. The man who took what wasn't his to take, who left his mark in more ways than one.

"I want to be the one who decides," I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel. "Whatever happens in two weeks. Whatever happens with him. I want it to be my choice."

Derek's eyes find mine, and for a long moment, he just looks at me—really looks, the way he did that first night in the garage, like he's seeing something no one else can. Then he nods, slow, and pulls my hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to my knuckles, right over the bruise that's still fading from the alley.

"Your choice," he says against my skin. "Always."

The engine shifts as he puts the truck in gear, and I feel the countdown start in my chest—two weeks, ticking forward, whether I'm ready or not.

Seven days. I count them on my fingers in the dark of Derek's bedroom, the sheets still smelling like us, like him. Monday bled into Tuesday without me noticing, the way pain does when it's always there. I've stopped checking the calendar on the wall—the one with the garage's logo in the corner—because each crossed-off day feels like a small death, another twenty-four hours I survived without knowing what's growing inside me.

Derek leaves for work before the sun's up, and I've gotten used to the sound of his boots on the stairs, the way he kisses my forehead without waking me, the coffee he leaves on the nightstand that's always cold by the time I reach for it. He doesn't ask if I've taken the pill. He doesn't ask if I've felt anything. He just looks at me across the kitchen table like I'm something fragile he's afraid to break, and I hate it—hate that I need it, hate that I've become the kind of woman who needs to be handled like glass.

On Wednesday, I find myself in the bathroom with the door locked, staring at the box the pharmacist gave me. The foil blister pack is half empty—seven little circles of nothing, seven mornings of chalk and bitterness. I run my thumb over the remaining pills, feeling the bumps, counting the days left like they're a sentence I'm serving.

"You okay in there?" Derek's voice comes through the door, rough with sleep or worry, I can't tell which anymore.

"Fine." I slide the box back into the medicine cabinet, behind the aspirin, where he won't see it. "Just—give me a minute."

The mirror shows me a version of myself I barely recognize. My cheekbones are sharper. My eyes have that hollow look, the one I used to see in the women at the bus stop who'd been through something. I press my palm flat against my stomach, feeling the softness there, the possibility, and I think about the two lines that were there and gone, and the pill that's supposed to erase the possibility of two more.

Thursday, I go to the garage. Not because Derek asked—he didn't—but because I can't sit in that apartment anymore, counting ceiling tiles and listening to the hum of the refrigerator. He's under a car when I walk in, just his boots sticking out from the frame, and I stand there in the doorway, watching his hands work on something I don't understand, and I feel the familiar pull of him, the way his presence steadies something in me that's been shaking since the alley.

He slides out when he hears the door, wiping his hands on a rag, and the look on his face when he sees me—it's not surprise. It's something else. Something careful. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep." I lean against the workbench, running my fingers over the tools he's left out, the ones with his fingerprints still on them. "Thought I'd keep you company."

He nods, and for a while we just exist in the same space, the way we used to before everything got complicated. He works on the car, and I watch him, and the smell of motor oil and sweat fills my lungs, and for a moment I forget about the pill in my stomach and the two weeks ticking down and the name I memorized that's still burning in my head. For a moment, it's just us.

But then his phone buzzes on the workbench, and we both look at it, and the moment shatters. He doesn't pick it up, just silences it and goes back to work, but I've seen the name on the screen. Mer. The woman who knows too much, who called me a liability, who could still bring everything down around us.

"She's been calling all week," I say, and it's not a question.

He doesn't look at me. "It's nothing."

"Derek." I say his name like a warning, and he finally stops, the wrench hanging loose in his hand. "What does she want?"

He sets the wrench down, slow, and wipes his hands on the rag again, buying time in a way I've learned to recognize. "She wants to make sure the deal's still good. Wants to know if we're going to be a problem."

"Are we?"

His eyes find mine, and there's something hard in them, something I haven't seen since the alley. "She's not going to touch you. That's not a negotiation. That's a fact."

The words land in my chest, warm and heavy, and I want to believe them. I want to believe that this man who watched me for two years, who took me on a bus and made me his, who held me while I broke and put the pieces back together—I want to believe he can keep me safe from all of it. But the pill is still in my stomach, and the name is still in my head, and the two weeks are still ticking forward, and I don't know if anyone can protect me from the choices I've made.

I walk over to him, close enough to smell the grease on his skin, and I take the rag from his hand, tossing it aside. "Then show me," I say, my voice low. "Show me I'm still yours."

His breath catches, and for a second, I see the man from the bus—the one who took what he wanted without asking, who made me feel more in ten minutes than Ethan made me feel in two years. He reaches for me, his hand finding the back of my neck, pulling me into him, and I let him. I let him because I need to feel something other than the countdown. I need to feel his hands on me, his mouth on me, his cock inside me, filling me with something other than fear.

He pushes me back against the workbench, his body pressing into mine, and I feel him hard against my thigh, and I know he needs this too—needs to reclaim something that was taken from both of us in that alley. He pulls my shirt up, his mouth finding my throat, my collarbone, the space between my breasts, and I arch into him, my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.

"I need you," I whisper, and it's not a plea—it's a demand. "I need you to fuck me like you mean it."

He groans against my skin, his hands finding the waistband of my jeans, undoing them with a practiced urgency that makes my cunt clench. "You're going to feel me for days," he says, his voice rough, and I believe him.

His hands shove my jeans down my thighs, and the cold air hits my skin, making me gasp. I'm half-naked on the workbench of his garage, the scent of motor oil and sweat filling my nose, and it's the most alive I've felt in a week.

"Lift up," he says, and I do, letting him pull the denim past my knees, past my ankles, until I'm just in my shirt and the damp cotton of my underwear. He looks at me like I'm something he's been starving for, and I feel the heat of it between my legs.

His mouth finds my throat, teeth scraping the skin there, and I tilt my head back, giving him everything. His hands slide up my thighs, calloused and rough, and I feel them catch on the edge of my underwear, pulling it aside, exposing me to the cool garage air.

"Fuck," he breathes, and I feel his fingers slide through my folds, finding me already wet, already aching. "You're dripping."

"That's what you do to me." My voice comes out raw, honest. "You touch me and I—" I can't finish, because his fingers are inside me then, two of them, curling against that spot that makes my vision blur.

He works me slow, watching my face, reading every twitch and gasp like I'm a machine he's tuning. His thumb finds my clit, circles it, and I feel my hips buck against his hand, chasing it.

"I need you inside me," I say, and it's not a request. It's the only truth I have left.

He pulls his fingers out, and I feel the loss like a physical ache, but then he's undoing his belt, and the sound of it—metal and leather—makes my cunt clench around nothing. He pushes his jeans down just enough, and I see him, hard and thick, the head glistening with the same need that's pooling in my stomach.

"You're going to feel me for days," he says again, and then he's positioning himself at my entrance, and I feel the pressure of him there, the promise of it.

He pushes in, and I feel myself stretch around him, the workbench cold against my back, his hands gripping my hips, holding me steady. He fills me completely, and for a second, neither of us moves—just breathing, just feeling, just existing in this moment where nothing else matters.

Then he starts to move, slow, deliberate, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, and I feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and I'm gripping the edge of the workbench, my knuckles white, my legs wrapped around his waist.

"Look at me," he says, and I do, his blue eyes finding mine in the dim garage light. "You're mine. No matter what happens in two weeks. No matter what that pill does or doesn't do. You're mine."

He thrusts deeper, and I feel him hit that spot inside me, the one that makes me see stars, and I moan his name—not a prayer, not a plea, just the truth of it.

"Derek."

He picks up the pace, his hips slapping against mine, the sound of it echoing off the garage walls, and I feel myself climbing, that familiar coil tightening in my stomach, the countdown fading to nothing but him, him, him.

"I'm close," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

He doesn't. He drives into me harder, faster, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath hot on my lips. "Come for me," he says, and it's not a request. "Let me feel you."

I shatter. My body clenches around him, waves of heat and pleasure crashing through me, and I feel him follow, his own release spilling into me, hot and thick, his groan swallowed by my mouth as I pull him down to me, kissing him through it.

We stay like that for a moment, tangled together on the workbench, his weight on me, his cock still inside me, softening, and I feel the warmth of him in my belly, the possibility of it, the hope and the fear tangled up in the same knot.

Then the garage door rattles, and I feel him tense, his head snapping up, his eyes going hard. A car's engine hums outside, and I hear the crunch of gravel as it pulls up, and I feel the countdown start again in my chest, louder than before.

His forehead presses to mine, and I can feel the word forming before he says it—the shape of it in the set of his jaw, the way his breath stills in his chest.

"Mer."

The name lands like cold water. I feel him soften inside me, but neither of us moves, his body still a shield between me and the rattling door. The workbench digs into my spine, and I'm suddenly aware of how exposed I am—shirt bunched at my ribs, jeans pooled at my ankles, his cum still warm between my thighs.

"She said she'd call," I whisper. "She said—"

"She lied." He pulls out of me slowly, and I feel the loss of him like a small grief, the cool air rushing in where his heat was. "She's been circling all week. I thought I had more time."

His hands find my hips, steadying me as I sit up, and I watch him tuck himself back into his jeans, the belt buckle clinking in the sudden quiet. The engine outside cuts off, and I hear a door open, footsteps on gravel.

"What does she want?" I'm already reaching for my underwear, my jeans, my fingers fumbling with the button in a way they never do when Derek's watching.

"The same thing she always wants." He zips his jeans, and I see the hard line of his jaw in the dim light. "Control."

He picks up the rag I tossed aside, wipes his hands slow and deliberate, and I recognize the gesture for what it is—buying time, settling himself, making sure his voice won't shake when he opens that door.

"Derek." I say his name like a hand on his chest, and he stops, looks at me. "What did you promise her?"

The silence stretches. Somewhere above us, a bird shifts on the roof, and I hear the scrape of its claws on tin, the only sound in the garage besides our breathing.

"She wanted to know you were gone," he says finally, and the words land wrong, tilted. "I told her you left. The night we paid her. I told her you were a mistake I was fixing."

The floor tilts under me. I grip the edge of the workbench, my knuckles going white. "You told her I was—"

"A liability." He says it like it's a wound, like the word itself has been sitting in his mouth for days, rotting. "She called you that, and I let her think she was right. I let her think I was cutting you loose."

I can't breathe. The garage smells like him, like us, like the sex we just had, and underneath it, the sharp chemical tang of something I can't name. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you'd do this." He gestures at me, at the way I'm standing now, half-dressed and shaking. "I knew you'd want to fight her. And I couldn't let you walk into that with her thinking you're anything but gone."

"So I'm your secret now." The words come out bitter, and I hate the taste of them. "I'm the thing you hide."

"You're the thing I protect." He steps closer, and his hands find my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "There's a difference, Maya. There's a line between hiding you and keeping you alive, and I need you to trust me to know which side I'm on."

The footsteps stop at the door. I hear the rattle of the handle, the click of it testing, and I feel the countdown restart in my chest—not two weeks this time, but seconds.

"Don't move." Derek's voice drops to something I've never heard from him—low and flat and dangerous. He turns from me, and I watch his shoulders square as he walks to the door, his hand finding the deadbolt. "Not a sound. Not until I say."

He pulls the door open a crack, and the light from outside spills in, catching the edge of a silhouette I recognize—the sharp shoulders, the careful posture, the woman who knows too much. Mer's voice comes through the gap, smooth and amused.

"Derek. I was hoping I'd catch you alone."

I press my ear to the crack in the door, the cold metal biting into my cheek, and I can smell her perfume through the gap—something floral and expensive, the kind of scent that doesn't belong in a garage full of grease and old rubber.

"I wasn't expecting company," Derek says, his voice easy, casual, the same voice he uses when he's tuning an engine and someone's asking too many questions. "Thought we settled things."

"We settled the money." Mer's heels click on the concrete as she steps closer, and I hear the sound of her hand on the doorframe, the creak of it taking her weight. "But I've been hearing things. Interesting things."

My fingers find the edge of the workbench, gripping it so hard the wood grain digs into my palms. My jeans are still bunched around my ankles, and I can feel Derek's cum cooling on my thighs, the evidence of what we were doing still drying on my skin.

"I don't deal in rumors," Derek says. "You know that."

"This isn't a rumor." Her voice drops, and I have to press my ear harder against the crack to hear her. "Ethan Cole has been seen. Three times this week. Once at a gas station on Halstead, twice near the old Oakwood lot."

The name lands in my chest like a stone dropped into still water. Ethan. The man who took what wasn't his, who left bruises on my thighs and a name in my head that I can't scrub out. I feel the pulse in my throat, the way my whole body goes tight at the sound of his name spoken in her polished voice.

"Why would I care about him?" Derek's voice is flat, but I know him now—I know the way his shoulders square when he's lying, the way his hand finds the wrench on the bench beside him, the way his jaw goes hard when he's trying not to say the wrong thing.

"Because he's not the only one asking questions." Mer's heels click again, a slow circle, and I imagine her walking around him the way she walked around me in her office, cataloging weaknesses, finding the cracks. "Vince's brother has been seen too. And he's been asking about a girl. A girl with long hair. A girl who was supposed to be gone."

The floor tilts under me. I grip the workbench harder, my knuckles going white, and I feel the cold air on my bare thighs, the vulnerability of my position—half-dressed, exposed, listening to the woman who called me a liability describe the man who raped me.

"She is gone." Derek's voice is low, flat, the same tone he used when he told me he'd kill him. "You made sure of that. You and your deal."

There's a pause, and I hear the sound of her lighter flicking open, the sharp smell of cigarette smoke curling through the crack. "I made sure of the money. The girl was your choice."

"She was never your concern."

"No." Her voice is almost amused. "But she's becoming one. Because if Vince's brother is asking about her, and Ethan Cole is skulking around Halstead, then the whole thing—the testimony, the deal, the garage—it all becomes very messy. And I don't do messy, Derek."

I hear him shift his weight, the creak of his boots on the concrete. "What do you want?"

"I want to know if she's really gone." The cigarette smoke curls through the crack, and I smell it mixing with the grease and the sex, a cocktail of everything that's been building since the bus. "I want to know if I need to start planning for a different kind of future. One where the testimony gets used instead of buried."

The threat hangs in the air between them, and I feel it settle on my skin like the cold air on my thighs. She's not here for the money. She's here to remind him what's at stake. What he'll lose if the wrong person finds me.

"She's gone." Derek's voice is steady, but I hear the strain under it, the effort it takes to say those words. "You made sure of that."

The silence stretches, and I hold my breath, my ear still pressed to the crack, my body frozen on the workbench. I can feel the countdown ticking in my chest—not two weeks this time, but seconds, each one stretching into an eternity as I wait to hear what she says next, what she knows, what she's planning to do with it.

His shoulders block the light from the doorway, and I watch the muscles in his back shift as he eases himself through the crack, pulling the door mostly shut behind him. The metal clicks soft, not quite latching, leaving me a sliver of gray daylight and the sound of their voices.

"What do you really want, Mer?" His voice is flat, the same tone he uses when he's calling someone's bluff at the poker table. "You didn't drive all the way out here to check on my love life."

I hear the click of her lighter again, the sharp inhale of smoke. "I want to see her."

The words land in my chest like a fist. I press my palm flat against the workbench, feeling the cold metal through my skin, my jeans still bunched around my ankles, his cum cooling on my thighs. I can't move. I can't breathe. I can only listen.

"The girl," Mer continues, and I hear the smile in her voice, the way it curls around the words like smoke. "The one who was supposed to be gone. I want to see her with my own eyes."

The silence stretches. I count the seconds in the beat of my heart—one, two, three—and I feel the weight of it, the way Derek's silence is its own answer. He's cornered, and he knows it, and I know it, and Mer knows it. The garage smells like us, like the sex we just had, and I feel the shame of it crawling up my throat, the evidence of what we were doing still on my skin.

"She's not here." His voice is steady, but I hear the crack in it, the fault line under the surface. "I told you that."

"Then you won't mind me taking a look around." Her heels click on the concrete, and I hear the sound of her moving past him, the creak of her weight on the doorframe. "Just to be sure."

I grip the edge of the workbench, my knuckles going white, and I feel the cold air on my bare thighs, the vulnerability of my position. The door cracks open wider, and I see her silhouette in the gap—the sharp shoulders, the careful posture, the woman who called me a liability and made it stick.

Derek's hand shoots out, catching the door before it opens further. "You don't want to do this."

"Don't I?" Her voice is amused, a cat playing with something it's already caught. "You paid me. You signed the release. But I've been thinking, Derek. Thinking about what happens when the wrong person finds out she's still here. About what happens to you. About what happens to her."

The threat hangs in the air between them, and I feel it settle on my skin like the cold air on my thighs. She's not here for the money. She's here to remind him what's at stake. What he'll lose if the wrong person finds me.

"She's gone." Derek's voice is flat, but I hear the strain under it, the effort it takes to say those words. "You made sure of that."

"No." Her voice drops, and I hear the smile in it, the way it curls around the word. "You made sure of that. You told me she was a mistake. You told me you were fixing it. But I've been watching, Derek. I've been watching the garage, and I've been watching you, and I know what a man looks like when he's lying."

The silence stretches, and I hold my breath, my body frozen on the workbench. I can feel the countdown ticking in my chest—not two weeks this time, but seconds, each one stretching into an eternity as I wait to hear what she says next, what she knows, what she's planning to do with it.

"I want to see her." Mer's voice is soft, almost gentle, and that's the worst part—the way she says it like she's asking for a favor, like she's not threatening to tear everything down. "I want to see the girl who made Derek Vance lie to me."

Derek's hand tightens on the doorframe, and I see the muscles in his forearm flex, the tendons standing out. "You can't."

"Why not?"

He doesn't answer. The silence stretches, and I hear the sound of her lighter flicking open again, the sharp smell of cigarette smoke curling through the crack. I press my ear harder against the gap, and I can hear the sound of his breathing, the way it's gone shallow and tight, the way it does when he's trying not to say the wrong thing.

"Because she's not here," he says finally, and the words land wrong, tilted, like a table with one leg shorter than the others. "Because I sent her away. Because she's gone, Mer, and you need to accept that."

The lie sits in the air between them, and I feel it settle on my skin like a second layer of cold. I'm half-naked on the workbench, his cum still drying on my thighs, and I'm listening to the man I love tell the woman who could destroy us that I don't exist.

Her heels click on the concrete, a slow circle, and I imagine her walking around him the way she walked around me in her office, cataloging weaknesses, finding the cracks. "You're lying to me, Derek."

"I'm not."

"You are." Her voice is almost kind now, almost patient. "And I'm going to find out why."

My fingers fumble with the button of my jeans, the denim stiff and cold against my thighs as I drag them up. The zipper catches on the edge of my hip, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound, the metal teeth scraping skin that's still tender from the workbench.

Through the crack in the door, I hear Mer's heels stop. The silence stretches, and I can picture her standing there in the gray light, cataloging the lie on Derek's face like she's reading a balance sheet.

"You're lying to me, Derek." Her voice is soft, almost gentle. "And I'm going to find out why."

The door shifts under Derek's hand, and I hear the wood creak. "You've got your money. You've got your signed release. What else is there to find out?"

"Vince's brother." Mer's voice drops, and I hear the smile in it. "He's been asking about a girl. A girl with long hair. A girl who smells like motor oil and fear."

My heart slams against my ribs. I press my palm flat against the workbench, feeling the cold metal through my skin, my jeans still unbuttoned, the waistband digging into my hips. The name Ethan Cole hangs in the air between them like smoke, and I feel it settle on my skin.

"I don't know anything about that." Derek's voice is flat, but I hear the strain under it.

"No?" Mer's heels click again, a slow circle. "Then why did Ethan Cole call me this morning? Why did he ask about a girl who was supposed to be gone? A girl who left her apartment door open?"

The floor tilts under me. I grip the edge of the workbench, my knuckles going white, and I feel the cold air on my bare thighs, the vulnerability of my position—half-dressed, exposed, listening to the woman who could destroy everything.

"He's fishing." Derek's voice is steady, but I hear the crack in it. "He doesn't know anything."

"He knows enough." Mer's voice is almost kind now. "He knows you're hiding something. He knows there's a girl who smells like motor oil and fear. And he's not the only one asking questions."

I hear the sound of her lighter flicking open, the sharp smell of cigarette smoke curling through the crack. I press my ear harder against the gap, and I can hear the sound of Derek's breathing, the way it's gone shallow and tight.

"What do you want, Mer?" His voice is low, dangerous.

"I want to see her." Her voice is soft, almost gentle. "I want to see the girl who made Derek Vance lie to me. The girl who left her apartment door open. The girl who's been seen in the garage when she was supposed to be gone."

My fingers find the zipper of my jeans, pulling it up with a soft click. The sound seems too loud in the silence, and I freeze, my breath caught in my throat, waiting for the sound of her heels turning toward the door.

But the silence stretches, and I hear Derek's boots shift on the concrete. "She's gone. I told you that."

"Then you won't mind me taking a look around." Her heels click again, and I hear the sound of her moving past him, the creak of her weight on the doorframe. "Just to be sure."

The door cracks open wider, and I see her silhouette in the gap—the sharp shoulders, the careful posture, the woman who called me a liability and made it stick. I press myself against the workbench, my heart pounding, my jeans finally buttoned, the evidence of what we were doing still drying on my skin.

Derek's hand shoots out, catching the door before it opens further. "You don't want to do this."

"Don't I?" Her voice is amused, a cat playing with something it's already caught. "Ethan Cole is looking for a girl who smells like motor oil and fear. And I'm starting to think he's not the only one."