The phone buzzes against the nightstand at 6:12 AM, a harsh vibration that cuts through the gray pre-dawn. I fumble for it, squinting at the brightness, and my heart stutters when I see Derek's unsaved number. Not the bus. The garage. Tonight.

I read it twice. Three times. My pulse is already thick between my legs, that familiar ache blooming like a bruise. Beside me, Ethan shifts, mumbling something about coffee, and I slide the phone under my pillow before his eyes can even open.

My thumbs move before I can think. What time?

The reply comes so fast it feels like he was waiting with his thumb over the screen. When I say.

I grin in the dark, that terrible lit smile I gave the mirror. The ceiling fan stirs stale air above us, and I can already feel Derek's hands on me, rough and certain, like he's here in the room instead of across town in a garage that smells like oil and rust.

Ethan rolls over, his arm finding my waist with the mechanical precision of muscle memory. "You're up early." His voice is thick, sleep-rasped. He doesn't open his eyes.

"Couldn't sleep." The lie slides out easy as breathing. I'm already rehearsing the sister's place story, smoothing its edges for tonight's dinner conversation, for the casual question about my day.

His hand pats my hip twice, a gesture so perfunctory it might as well be a checklist item. "Sister's place again tonight?"

The question catches me off guard—he never asks twice. I turn to look at him, but his eyes are still closed, his face slack with sleep. He doesn't care about the answer. He's just filling the silence the way he fills his coffee cup, automatic and unthinking.

"Yeah. She's been needing help with the new place."

He grunts, already drifting back under. "Tell her I said hi."

I should feel something. Guilt, maybe. The sharp bite of betrayal. Instead, all I feel is the phantom weight of Derek's cock inside me, the memory of his voice saying mine like it was a brand. I slip out of bed, padding naked to the bathroom, and I don't look back at Ethan's sleeping form.

The shower runs hot, steam curling around me, and I press my palm flat against the tile, letting the water pound my shoulders. Derek's text is burned into my brain, that single word—mine—still echoing from last night. When I say. The command sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature.

I think about the garage, about the storage room with its single bulb and the smell of grease. I think about his hands, the way they'd gripped my hips, the way he'd pulled me onto his cock without asking, like he owned every inch of me already.

My fingers find my clit without thinking, the water sluicing down my stomach as I press against myself. I bite my lip to keep quiet—Ethan's still in bed, and I don't want him to hear. I don't want him to touch me. I want Derek's hands, Derek's mouth, Derek's cock filling me until I can't remember my own name.

I come fast and silent, my forehead pressed to the cool tile, and when I open my eyes, I see my reflection in the mirror—flushed, wet, hungry. The bruise on my hip is fading, a yellow-green crescent that's almost gone. I press my fingers to it, wishing it would stay.

Tonight. The garage. When he says.

I step out of the shower and reach for my phone, still under the pillow where I hid it. The screen lights up with one more message, sent just seconds ago, as if he knew exactly when I'd be looking.

Wear the skirt. The one you wore Tuesday.

I stare at the words, my pulse hammering. He remembers what I wore. He's been watching, cataloging, waiting. The skirt is in the back of my closet, a thin floral thing I bought on a whim and never wore for Ethan because he never noticed it.

I walk back to the bedroom, my bare feet cold on the hardwood, and I pull it from the closet. The fabric whispers against my fingers, light and flimsy, easy to push up. Easy to tear.

Ethan's still asleep, snoring softly, his arm reaching across the empty space where I should be. I lay the skirt on the chair by the window and smile at my reflection in the glass—a woman who's about to cross a line she can't uncross.

Tonight, I'm not Maya, the quiet graphic designer. I'm not Ethan's girlfriend, the one who says I know when he says I love you. Tonight, I'm something Derek has been building for two years, and I'm ready to be taken apart.

The skirt whispers against my thighs as I slide it up, the thin floral fabric clinging to the damp heat of my skin. I don't bother with a bra. I don't bother with panties either—Derek's text is still burning in my head, that command to wear the skirt, and I know exactly what he wants access to.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door, turning sideways, watching the way the hem rides up just enough to show the curve of my ass. The bruise on my hip is barely there now, a ghost of yellow-green that's almost faded, and I press my thumb into it, wishing I could make it fresh again.

My phone is cold in my hand. I angle it toward the mirror, catching the flush on my chest, the way my nipples are already hard against the thin cotton, the way my hair falls in damp waves from the shower. I take the photo without thinking too hard, the shutter click loud in the quiet room.

Ethan shifts in the bed behind me, a soft snore escaping his open mouth. He's still asleep. He doesn't see me standing here in this skirt that's too short and too thin, my skin still dewy from the shower, my fingers hovering over the send button.

I look at the photo. The mirror catches everything—the hunger in my eyes, the way my lips are parted, the way the skirt barely covers the shadow between my thighs. I look like someone who's about to do something unforgivable.

I hit send.

No caption. No words. Just the image, delivered into the grease-dark silence of his garage, into the palm of a man who's been waiting for two years.

The message shows delivered. I hold my breath, watching the screen, imagining his phone lighting up in the dark, imagining his blue eyes scanning the photo, the way his jaw would tighten, the way his hands would grip the phone a little too hard.

Nothing comes back.

I stand there in the closet doorway, the skirt brushing my thighs, my pulse a dull throb between my legs. The silence stretches, one second, two, three, and I feel the ache of it in my chest, the uncertainty of not knowing if he's even looking at his phone right now.

Then my phone buzzes in my hand, sharp and sudden, and I nearly drop it. Derek's name flashes on the screen—not the unsaved number this time, but his actual name, as if he's finally letting me see him.

I open the message.

Just a time. Just a command. And then, beneath it, three words that make my thighs press together involuntarily: No panties. Good.

I exhale a shaky breath, my fingers trembling around the phone. He saw the photo. He saw everything. And he approved.

The skirt is already damp against my skin, the thin cotton clinging to the heat between my thighs. I don't have to wait for tonight. I don't have to wait for the garage. He's already here, in my head, in my body, in the way I'm pressing my thighs together and biting my lip to keep quiet.

I glance back at Ethan, still snoring, his arm reaching across the empty space where I should be. He has no idea. He never does.

I slide my phone into the skirt's tiny pocket and walk to the window, looking down at the street, at the garage on the corner of Meridian, at the dark shape of a man leaning against the doorway, looking up at my window.

He's already watching.