I wake to the smell of motor oil and sweat, the sheets tangled around my legs, and the weight of Derek's arm heavy across my stomach. The morning light is already pushing through the blinds, thin and yellow, and I can feel the dried evidence of last night on my thighs—a reminder that I'm exactly where I chose to be.

His breath stirs against the back of my neck, and I feel him hard against my ass, pressing into the curve of me. "Day one," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, his hand sliding down my hip to the fading bruise he left there. His thumb traces the yellow-green edge of it, and I feel the heat of his intent.

I turn to face him, my legs parting without thinking, and I see something in his blue eyes I haven't seen before—a crack in that predatory confidence. A wonder, almost, that I'm still here. That I chose this.

"Prove it," I say.

His grin is slow and real, and he rolls me onto my back, his body settling over mine, the weight of him familiar now. "I plan to."

His mouth finds my throat, and I arch into him, my hands sliding up his back, feeling the muscles shift under his skin. He's warm and solid, and I can smell the garage on him still, that mix of grease and sweat that's become the scent of this room, of him, of everything I've walked into.

His hand moves down my body, fingers skating over my ribs, my hip, and I feel his cock pressing against my thigh, thick and hard. "You know," he says, his voice low against my ear, "I've been thinking about this all night. Waking up with you. Not a dream."

"Not a dream," I echo, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel.

His thumb finds my clit, and I gasp, my hips bucking into his hand. He's watching me, his eyes dark and focused, and I can feel how much he wants this—how much he wants me. "Three days," he says. "Just you and me. No phone, no Ethan, no garage."

The name lands in the room like a stone, and I see the flicker in his eyes—the awareness of what we're doing, the weight of the lie I'm living. But then his fingers slide lower, pressing into my wetness, and the thought scatters.

"Just you," I breathe, and he kisses me, deep and slow, like he's tasting the words.

His fingers work me open, curling inside me, and I'm already slick from the night before, from the memory of him, from the way he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world. "You're so wet," he murmurs against my lips. "Been thinking about me?"

"All night," I admit, and it's the truth. Even with his cum drying on my thighs, even with his arm around me, I woke up wanting more.

He pulls his hand back, bringing his fingers to his mouth, and the sight of him tasting me makes my cunt clench. "Good," he says, and there's that grin again, the one that makes my stomach flip. "Because I've got plans for you, Maya."

He positions himself at my entrance, and I feel the pressure, the promise, the heat of him. My hands find his shoulders, and I look up at him—this man who watched me for two years, who took me on a bus, who's somehow become the only thing I can think about.

"Show me," I say, and he pushes inside me, slow, inch by inch, until I feel him deep, filling me completely.

He stills for a moment, his forehead pressed to mine, and I can feel him trembling—just slightly, just enough. "You're mine," he says, and it's not a question. It's a fact, a claim, a promise.

"Yours," I breathe, and he starts to move.

His name on my tongue like a question I'm afraid to ask. "Say it," I whisper, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Say my name."

He groans, and the sound vibrates through his chest into mine. "Maya." The word comes out rough, like it's been scraped from somewhere raw. He says it again, softer this time, and I watch his mouth form the syllables.

His jaw. That curve at the corner of his mouth. I'm looking for something I can't find, trying to overlay a stranger's face onto the man above me. The bus was dark, his hands were over my eyes, but I caught that glimpse—sandy hair, a jaw I almost recognized. Derek's jaw is the same shape. It's always been the same shape.

"Again," I demand, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He thrusts harder, and the word breaks apart in his throat. "Maya—fuck—Maya."

But my mind is slipping sideways, back to that night. The seat was vinyl and cold under my thighs. His hand over my mouth was callused, smelled like grease. He didn't speak, not once, and I never saw his face—but I felt him. The weight of him, the way he moved, the way he filled me like he owned me.

Derek moves the same way. The same rhythm, the same angle. I've been telling myself it's coincidence. I've been telling myself a lot of things.

"Look at me," he says, and there's an edge to his voice I haven't heard before. His thumb finds my chin, tilts my face up. "Where are you right now?"

"Here," I breathe, but the word tastes like a lie. "I'm here."

He studies me, his blue eyes searching, and I feel the lie stretch between us like a wire pulled tight. His hips slow, and I hate the loss of motion, hate the way his suspicion is cooling the heat between my thighs.

"You were thinking about the bus," he says. Not a question. A statement, flat and certain.

My heart stutters. "Derek—"

"Who were you thinking about just then?" His voice is quiet, and that's worse than if he'd shouted. His cock is still inside me, but he's still now, unmoving, and the silence in the room is suddenly louder than the rattling fan.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The truth sits on my tongue, heavy and shameful: I was thinking about the stranger. The stranger who is him. The stranger who isn't. The stranger whose face I can't quite make out even when I'm staring right at it.

His jaw tightens. I watch the muscle jump under his skin, and I realize I've been searching his face this whole time for something I'm not sure exists. The bus was dark. His hands were over my eyes. But his scent—that mix of motor oil and sweat and something else, something familiar—has been in my nose since the moment he took me.

"Derek," I start, and his name comes out broken, caught between a confession and a plea.

He pulls out slowly, and the emptiness is a shock, a cold rush where his heat was. He rolls onto his back beside me, staring at the ceiling, one arm flung over his eyes. The bare bulb casts hard shadows across his chest, and I can see the sweat drying on his skin, the same sweat I've been tasting all morning.

The silence stretches. The fan rattles. Somewhere below, a car engine turns over and dies.

"You said my name," he says finally, his voice flat. "Last night. You said it like you meant it."

I sit up, the sheet pooling in my lap. "I did mean it."

"But just now?" He lowers his arm, looks at me sideways. "Who were you saying it for?"

I pull the sheet up to my chest, the fabric rough against my skin, and I feel the distance between us like a cold draft. His question hangs in the air, and I know I can't dodge it—not again, not with him looking at me like that, like he's already seen the answer.

"How long did you watch me?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. "Before the bus. You said two years, but I want to know—did you watch me with him?"

His arm drops from his eyes, and he turns his head to look at me. The bare bulb catches the stubble on his jaw, the same jaw I've been trying to map onto a stranger's face. "Every night," he says, quiet. "You'd come home from work, and he'd already be there on the couch, phone in his hand, not even looking up when you walked in."

My throat tightens. I didn't think anyone saw those nights. The ones where I'd stand in the doorway of our own living room, waiting for Ethan to notice me, to say something that wasn't about a bug in production or a meeting that ran long.

"Did you see—" I stop, the words catching. "Did you see him touch me?"

Derek's eyes don't leave mine. "I saw him check his watch while he was inside you."

The air leaves my lungs. I knew. Some part of me always knew, the way you know a bruise is forming before it colors. But hearing it said out loud, in this room, with his cum still drying on my thighs—it makes it real in a way I wasn't ready for.

"That night," I say, and my voice cracks. "The bus. Did you do it because you saw what he did to me?"

He's quiet for a long moment. The fan rattles. A car passes on Meridian below, and I can hear the bass of its stereo thumping through the walls.

"I saw you cry in the shower," he says finally. "Three weeks before the bus. You sat on the tile floor with the water running over you, and you didn't make a sound. Just sat there with your knees pulled up, letting it wash over you."

My eyes burn. That was the night Ethan fell asleep mid-thrust, rolled over, and was snoring before I could even ask what was wrong. I'd gone to the bathroom and sat on the cold tile, and I'd felt so empty I didn't know how to get up.

"You watched me cry," I whisper.

"I watched you disappear," he corrects, and there's something raw in his voice, something I haven't heard before. "You used to laugh. I'd see you on the bus with your headphones on, tapping your foot, smiling at something on your phone. And then you started looking like a ghost."

He sits up, and the sheet falls to his waist. The scar on his ribs catches the light—a thin white line I've traced with my fingers in the dark. "I didn't plan the bus to save you, Maya. I planned it because I couldn't watch you fade anymore."

"But you didn't speak," I say, the memory sharp and sudden. "You didn't say one word. You just—took me."

"Because I knew if I spoke, you'd recognize me." His jaw tightens. "And if you recognized me, you'd have a choice. And I didn't want to give you a choice before I'd proven I could make you feel something."

I stare at him. The man who watched me for two years, who saw me cry on a bathroom floor, who took me on a bus because he couldn't stand to watch me fade. "That's not—" I start, but the words tangle.

"It's not what?" he asks, and there's an edge to it now. "It's not romantic? It's not okay? You're right. It's not. I wanted you so bad I took you without asking, and I'd do it again."

His hand finds my chin, tilts my face up. "But I also watched you for three years, not two. I saw him treat you like a checkbox, like a chore he had to finish before he could get back to his code. And I wanted to be the one who made you feel it."

The words land like a blow, and I feel the truth of them settle into my bones. He's not sorry. He's not asking for forgiveness. He's telling me exactly who he is, and I'm still here, naked in his bed, his cum on my thighs, the taste of him still on my tongue.

"Three years," I repeat, testing the number. "You watched me for three years."

"Every day," he says. "Every bus ride. Every night you stood at that window looking out at nothing. I was always there."

I think about all those nights—the ones where I felt unseen, unheard, like a ghost in my own life. And he was out there, watching, wanting, waiting. It should terrify me. It should send me running back to the apartment I left unlocked, back to the man who at least never lied about who he was.

But I don't move. I sit in his bed, in the heat and the smell of him, and I feel something crack open in my chest—something that's been sealed shut for so long I forgot it existed.

"You saw me," I say, and my voice breaks on the words. "You actually saw me."

His thumb traces my jaw, and his eyes are dark, focused, hungry. "I saw you. And I'm never going to stop seeing you."

He leans in, and I meet him halfway, my mouth finding his. The kiss is slow, deliberate, like he's tasting the confession I just made. His hand slides into my hair, and I feel the heat building again, the ache between my thighs returning.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his forehead pressed to mine. "I watched you with him," he says, his voice rough. "I watched him fail you, night after night. And I told myself—when I finally had you, I'd never let you feel that empty again."

His hand moves down my body, fingers finding the bruise on my hip, tracing its fading edge. "You're not a checkbox, Maya. You're the whole damn checklist."

And I feel it—the shift, the turn, the thing I can't name. The line between the stranger on the bus and the man in front of me blurs until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. And I'm not sure I want to.

I push against his chest, and he goes willingly, rolling onto his back with that lazy grin still on his face. The shift in power feels electric, a current running through me as I straddle his hips, my knees settling on either side of him. His cock slides against my slick folds, and I feel him twitch, feel his hands find my thighs, gripping like he's afraid I might vanish.

"You want to be in charge this morning?" he asks, his voice rough, amused.

I don't answer with words. I reach down, wrap my fingers around him, and guide him to my entrance. I sink down slow, inch by inch, watching his eyes roll back, watching his jaw go slack. The stretch is perfect, the fullness exactly what I needed, and I take all of him until I'm seated flush against his hips.

"Fuck," he breathes, his hands sliding up my thighs to my waist. "You feel—"

"I know," I say, and I start to move.

I ride him slow at first, a lazy roll of my hips that makes his fingers dig into my skin. The bare bulb catches the sweat on his chest, and I watch his stomach clench with every thrust, watch the way his mouth falls open when I grind down. He's watching me too, his blue eyes dark and fixed on my face, and I feel powerful in a way I haven't felt in years.

His hands find my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples, and I arch into his touch. The window fan rattles, pushing warm air across my damp skin, and I can smell us—sex and sweat and the motor oil that's soaked into his skin. It's the scent of this room, of him, of everything I've chosen.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice thick. "Taking what you want."

I speed up, my thighs burning, my clit grinding against his pelvis with every roll. He's hitting deep now, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur, and I feel the orgasm building, a coil tightening low in my belly.

"Derek," I say, and the name comes out breathless, but I don't stop. I can't stop. "I've been thinking about something."

"Yeah?" His hands grip my hips, guiding me, helping me find the rhythm. "What's that?"

I lean forward, my palms flat on his chest, my hair falling around us like a curtain. I'm so close, the edge right there, and the words spill out before I can catch them. "Our kids. What they'd look like."

His whole body goes still. His hands freeze on my hips, and for a second, the only sound is the rattling fan and my ragged breathing. I keep moving, slow and deliberate, and I watch his face shift—the surprise, the wonder, the something raw that cracks through his usual confidence.

"Our kids," he repeats, like he's tasting the words.

"Yeah." I rock against him, feeling him harden inside me, feeling the pulse of him. "I was thinking about it this morning. Before you woke up. What they'd have—your eyes or mine. Your stubbornness, my—"

"Your everything," he finishes, and his voice breaks on the word.

He sits up, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me flush against his chest. I feel his heart pounding against mine, feel his breath hot on my neck, and he thrusts up into me, hard, desperate, like the thought of it has undone something in him.

"You want that?" he asks, his voice rough, almost afraid. "You want my kids?"

I don't hesitate. "Yes."

The word hangs between us, heavy and real, and I feel him shudder inside me. He buries his face in my hair, his hands gripping my ass, guiding me faster, harder, and I'm soaring, the coil in my belly snapping as I come around him, my cunt clenching, milking him.

"Maya—" he groans, and I feel him spill inside me, hot and deep, his whole body tensing beneath me.

I collapse against his chest, my forehead pressed to his, both of us breathing hard. His hands are shaking, I realize—trembling against my back, and I feel the weight of what I said settle over us like a blanket.

"You can't say shit like that," he whispers, his voice wrecked. "You can't just—"

"I meant it." I lift my head, meet his eyes. "I don't know what happens after these three days. I don't know about Mer, or the money, or any of it. But I meant it."

He stares at me, his blue eyes searching, and I see that crack again—the wonder, the disbelief that I'm still here, that I chose this, that I'm choosing it still.

"Then we figure it out," he says, his voice steady now. "Together."

I feel his cum leaking from me, warm and wet on my thighs, and I don't move. I stay right there, wrapped around him, and I let myself believe it.

I feel his cum leaking from me, warm and wet on my thighs, and I don't move. I stay right there, wrapped around him, and I let myself believe it. His hands trace lazy patterns on my back, and the fan rattles its steady rhythm. The silence is comfortable, soft-edged, until he shifts beneath me and his voice comes out low against my hair.

"I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it." His fingers still on my spine. "Getting you pregnant. Wanting it."

I go still. The words settle into me, warm and heavy, and I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are open, unguarded in a way they rarely are, and there's something vulnerable in the set of his jaw.

"But I wasn't sure you'd want it," he says. "And the timing—the next three weeks, with Mer and Vince—it's not exactly the moment for it."

I trace the scar on his ribs, the thin white line I've memorized. "You thought about it, though."

"Every time I came inside you." His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. "Every single time."

The confession cracks something open in my chest, a door I didn't know I'd bolted shut. I'd spent so long being the afterthought, the obligation, the thing Ethan finished with before rolling over. And here's Derek, grease under his nails and wrecked confidence in his voice, telling me he's imagined our children growing inside me.

"Three weeks," I repeat, testing the shape of it.

"You have your pills." His thumb traces my jaw. "If you wanted to stop taking them—that's your call. But I'm not going to ask you to do that while we're still figuring out how to pay off Mer without losing the garage."

I feel the weight of his caution, the practicality underneath the raw need. He wants this—wants me, wants a future with me—but he's drawing a line around it, protecting me from the mess we're in.

"And after?" I whisper.

"After, we talk about it. With clear heads." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "I just needed you to know it wasn't an accident that I haven't pulled out once. Not with you."

The words hit me low in the gut. All those times, the bus, the garage, the storage room—he'd chosen to fill me. On purpose. On purpose because he wanted it, even when he wasn't sure I did.

"I'm still on my pills," I say, and his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "So it doesn't have to be a problem. But I want you to know—I meant what I said. About the kids. About them having your eyes."

He's quiet for so long I think I've said something wrong. Then his arms tighten around me, pulling me flush against his chest, and his breath comes hot against my neck.

"That's going to keep me going through whatever Mer throws at us," he says, his voice rough. "Knowing you're in my bed thinking about my kids."

I laugh, the sound surprised out of me, and he grins against my skin. But the grin fades as he pulls back, his blue eyes searching mine.

"Three days, Maya. We've got three days of just us, no phones, no Ethan watching the garage, no Mer." His hands frame my face. "And then we walk into the fight with Vince coming out of prison, and I need you clear-eyed. Not pregnant, not blindsided. Ready."

I nod, his hands warm on my cheeks. The fan rattles. A truck idles somewhere on Meridian, its engine a low, patient hum. In a few hours we'll make breakfast in his cramped kitchenette, and later he'll let me leaf through the binder of receipts for the garage, showing me the numbers against Mer's loan. But right now, with the morning heat peeling up from his skin and his cum still leaking between my thighs, I don't want anywhere else.

Ready, the word took shape in my chest, and latches its teeth into my sternum. Three weeks feels like both a lifetime and no time at all.

His fingers still on my spine, and I feel the question building in him before he asks it. I know because the air changes, the way it does before a storm.

"What if you weren't on them?"

The words land soft, but I feel them hit bone. I lift my head, and his eyes are open, unguarded in a way they rarely are. "The first time," he clarifies, and his thumb traces the curve of my hip. "The bus. If you hadn't been on your pills. If I'd gotten you pregnant that night."

I go still. The fan rattles. A truck downshifts on Meridian, and the sound grinds through the walls.

"Would you have told me?" I ask. "If you found out. If you knew I was carrying your kid while I was still with Ethan, still going home to him every night—would you have reached out?"

His jaw works, the muscle jumping under his skin. He looks away for a second, at the bare bulb, at the cracked vinyl floor, and I watch him decide something real.

"I watched you for three years," he says finally. "I knew your schedule, your habits, the way you take your coffee. I knew you were on birth control—I watched you take it every morning at 7:15. But I also knew that pills fail. I knew what I was risking."

"And?"

"And I'd have watched you raise my kid with him." His voice is flat, deliberate. "I'd have watched you push a stroller down Meridian, watched him teach my son to throw a ball, watched you grow into a life I wasn't in. And I'd have stayed in the garage, because stepping forward would have blown up everything—your life, your choices, the tiny chance you'd ever choose me on your own."

I feel the confession settle between us like a stone dropped in still water. "You'd have let him raise your kid."

"No." His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up. "I'd have let you decide. But if you'd stayed with him, if you'd chosen that life, I'd have watched from a distance. I'd have made sure the kid was okay, made sure you were okay, without ever letting either of you know I was there."

My throat tightens. "That's—"

"That's what loving you looks like from where I stood." He says it simply, without drama, and the weight of it cracks something in my chest. "Three years of watching you fade, knowing I could walk up to your door, tell you everything, blow up your life. And I didn't, because I wanted you to come to me with your eyes open."

The fan rattles. His cum is still leaking from me, warm and wet on my thighs, and I feel the shape of his words settling into my bones.

"But you took me anyway," I say. "On the bus. You didn't ask."

"I took you because I knew you'd never leave him on your own." His thumb traces my jaw. "You were drowning, Maya. And I couldn't watch you go under without doing something."

I look at him—this man who watched me for three years, who saw me cry on a bathroom floor, who planned a bus ride to take me without asking, who would have watched me raise his child from a distance if I'd chosen otherwise.

"And now?" I ask, my voice barely a thread. "If I got pregnant now—if the pills failed, if we slipped up—what would you do?"

His hands settle on my hips, and I feel the shift in him, the certainty hardening. "Now I'd be there for every appointment. Every midnight craving. Every 3 AM feeding. I'd paint the room, build the crib, hold your hair back when you're sick." His voice drops. "Now I get to be the one who sees it happen."

The words hit me low and hot, and I feel the ache between my thighs sharpen. He's not talking about hypotheticals anymore. He's talking about us, about the future we just started building in this room with the rattling fan and the cracked vinyl floor.

"You want that," I say, and it's not a question.

"I've wanted it since I saw you laugh on the bus two years ago." His hand slides up my back, fingers tangling in my hair. "Before I ever touched you, I wanted to give you something that was ours."

I kiss him then, hard, and he meets me with the same hunger. His hands find my hips, and I feel him hardening against me again, the conversation settling into something rawer. I roll my hips, and he groans into my mouth, his fingers digging into my skin.

"Three days," I breathe against his lips. "We've got three days. And then we figure out Mer, and Vince, and the garage."

"And us?" he asks.

"And us." I sink onto him, taking him deep, and I feel the words shape themselves in my chest. "Us is the whole point."

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, riding the same breath as my confession about the pills.

"What if I told you I flushed them yesterday?"

The room goes very still. The fan rattles. The truck on Meridian is gone now, and the silence it leaves behind is thicker than the heat.

Derek's cock is still inside me, and I feel him go rigid around me, every tendon that had been loose and warm going hard at once. His blue eyes search mine, scanning for the truth I might be hiding behind the question.

"Before we agreed on the plan," I clarify, my voice steadier than I feel. "Before you drew the line about clear heads and Mer and Vince standing over us. I want to know if you'd still want me this way. If the timing was terrible, if everything was stacked against us, if it meant walking into that fight with a baby in my belly instead of after it—"

"Maya."

The sound of my name in his mouth stops the spiral. His hands come up, framing my face with that same sure grip he's used from the first night, grounding me in the heat of his palms.

"Say it plainly," he says. "Don't bury the question in all the wreckage. Ask me what you actually want to ask."

I swallow. His cum is cooling between my thighs, and the air smells like us—sweat, sex, and the betraying vanilla of my body spray he's told me he loves. Three days in this room, and the scent is already soaked into the sheets.

"If I stopped taking them because I wanted your kids enough to risk everything," I say slowly, "and the pills on the counter right now are just the ones I don't need anymore—how would you feel about what we just did?"

His hands slide down my arms. My skin rises to the touch even now, even with my heart hammering a confession he hasn't answered yet.

"You just did," I push. "You didn't pull out. Again. If that was planting, if that was your choice too even though I'm still 'on them' as far as you know—are you telling me you didn't feel it tonight?"

He exhales slow, and his thumb strokes the curve of my hip. The empty air around us contracts.

"I feel everything," he says finally. "Every time I'm in you and the clock is ticking toward Mer, toward Vince walking out of prison, toward this garage I could lose—I feel how close we are to having a life depend on us. And I've been raw about wanting that. I told you I didn't pull out on purpose, said I wanted you to know it wasn't an accident." His voice drops lower. "What I haven't told you is—"

He pauses. His jaw tightens, and the muscle jumps under his skin the way it does when he's deciding. I can taste the boundary in the air, the confession rising up to meet mine.

"Right before Mer showed up, when we were closing the storage room door," he says, "I came inside you and I remember thinking, what if she's late on her pills. What if today's the one day. And part of me wasn't scared."

The words land hard against my bones.

"Part of you wanted it," I breathe.

"Part of me threw the dice." His hands slide up my thighs. "I chose to hope, Maya. Even in the worst timing we've got in front of us. If I woke up tomorrow and you told me you'd flushed them, that the pill case was just empty plastic and you were maybe already carrying me—" He shakes his head. "I'd still be back inside you tonight. That's what I'm asking you to believe."

I trace the line of his jaw. It's smoother than it should be this morning—he shaved what feels like minutes ago, and I watch the mechanics work the numbers in front of me. Then his hand covers milk where the morning's spill still dries.

"But?" I ask, because I know Derek well enough to hear the but waiting in the quiet.

"But I'd be scared as hell." He confesses it without flinching, his thumb still pressing point-men gestures into my skin.

The confession sits between us, heavy and honest, and I feel the shape of it pressing against my ribs. He's scared. Derek Vance—the man who planned a bus ride to take me, who watched me for three years, who threw the dice on purpose—is scared of what we've already started.

"I'm not flushing them." The words come out steady, grounded. "I wanted to know if you'd still want me if I did. But the pills are still in the case, still in my routine, still working."

His blue eyes search mine, and I watch the tension in his shoulders ease by a fraction. "Why ask, then?"

"Because I needed to know what we're building here." My hand rests flat on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. "If this is just three days of hiding and a fight for a garage—or if it's actually a life. And you just told me you'd be scared as hell, and that's the most honest thing you've said all morning."

He lets out a breath that's almost a laugh. "You're something else, you know that?"

"I know." I shift on top of him, feeling him still half-hard inside me, the conversation keeping us tethered to something real. "But I needed the truth before we walk into Mer's game. Because if we're doing this—if we're really doing this—I need to know you're not just in it for the garage or the revenge or the chase."

His hands slide up my back, fingers finding the knots in my shoulders. "I've been in it for you since before you knew my name."

"Then we're clear." I lean forward, pressing my forehead to his. "Pills stay in the case. We take on Mer with clear heads. And when this is over—when Vince is handled and the garage is safe—we talk about what happens next. Together."

He kisses me, slow and deep, and I feel the last of the tension drain from his body. "Three days," he murmurs against my lips. "Then we burn that bridge and build our own."

"Our own," I repeat, and the words feel like a foundation being poured.

He rolls us, pressing me into the mattress, and the shift sends a jolt through me as he slides deeper. The conversation's over. The confession's landed. And now there's only this—his weight on me, his breath in my ear, the rattle of the fan doing nothing to cool the heat between us.

"I meant what I said," he breathes, his mouth finding my throat. "Every word. Scared as hell, but I'd still choose this. Choose you."

I arch into him, my nails raking down his back. "Then show me."

He does. Slow at first, a long drag that has me gripping the sheets, then a rhythm that builds like a wave, each thrust pushing me closer to the edge. His mouth finds mine, swallowing my moans, and I feel the familiar coil tightening in my belly.

"Come for me," he says against my lips, and I do—my cunt clenching around him, pulling him with me. He follows a heartbeat later, spilling into me with a groan that vibrates through his chest.

We lie there, tangled and slick, the fan rattling its approval. His cum leaks from me, warm and wet, and I feel the weight of what we just promised settling into my bones.

"Three days," I say, tracing the line of his jaw.

"Three days," he echoes. And then his phone buzzes on the nightstand—a sharp, insistent sound that cuts through the afterglow.

He reaches for it, and I see the screen light up. Mer's name. A message I can't read from this angle, but I watch his jaw tighten, the muscle jumping under his skin.

"She's early," he says, and the words land like a stone in the still water of the room.

I slide off him, the sheet pooling around my hips, and the cool air hits the slick between my thighs. His cum still warm against my skin. I don't reach for anything to cover myself—I want him to see me like this when I ask.

"What does she want?"

Derek's eyes track down my body before they find my face. He's still half-hard, still marked with my nails, and the buzz of the phone sits between us like a third person in the bed.

"The message," I push. "What does Mer want this time?"

He looks at the screen again, thumb hovering. The fan rattles. Outside, a truck rumbles past on Meridian, and I watch his jaw work the way it does when he's deciding how much to hand me.

"She's not asking for the quarter anymore," he says finally. "She's saying the loan's already been drafted. Vince signed off on it from inside. It goes through tomorrow at noon unless I show up and sign the counter-offer."

"Counter-offer." I say the word like it tastes wrong. "What counter-offer?"

His eyes meet mine, and there's something raw in them I haven't seen before. "She wants the garage as collateral. Straight up. No loan, no shell companies, no pretense. She's done playing the long game. She wants to own me outright."

The words land in the heat of the room, and I feel the shape of them pressing against my ribs. Three days. We promised each other three days before the fight. Mer's not waiting.

"And if you don't show?"

He sets the phone down on the nightstand, face-up, the screen still glowing with her name. "Then she says she's got someone who'll testify I was the one who set up the Oakwood job. Not Vince. Me. And that's eighteen months I'd be looking at, not him."

"She's bluffing." I hear the hope in my own voice, thin and unconvincing.

"Maybe." He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "But Vince gets out in three weeks. If she's got him singing a different tune by then, I'm not just losing a garage. I'm losing everything I built to get clear of that life."

I shift on the mattress, the sheet slipping lower. The cum is drying on my thighs, and I can smell us on the air—sweat and sex and the vanillin of my body spray. This room, this bed, this man—it all feels like something I just found, and Mer's reaching for it with both hands.

"What's the exact number?" I ask.

Derek's eyes search mine for a long moment. Then he picks up the phone again, turns it so I can see the screen. A string of digits I have to count twice to believe.

"That's what she's calling due today," he says. "That's what the counter-offer's for."

The number sits in the air between us, heavy as the heat. And I feel the three days we promised each other collapse into something much smaller—a window that's closing before we even got to stand in it.

"Today," I repeat. "Not in three days."

"Today." He says it like a stone dropping into still water. "She wants an answer by five."