The phone keeps buzzing in her palm. Derek's name pulses across the screen—his face, a photo she took last summer, squinting into sun, that crooked grin she fell in love with two years ago. Three thousand miles and a lifetime away.

She answers.

"Hey." Her voice cracks on the single syllable. She clears her throat, swings her legs off the table. The movement sends a dull ache through her hips, a reminder she can't outrun.

"Hey, babe. You sound out of breath." His voice is warm, familiar, laced with that edge of concern she's come to read between every line. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just—ran to catch the phone." The lie comes smooth as silk. Easier than it should be. She presses her thighs together, feels the wetness still there, Marcus's claim still cooling on her skin. "What time is it there? Like, two AM?"

"Something like that. Couldn't sleep." A pause. She hears the creak of his bed, imagines him propped against his headboard, the blue glow of his laptop painting his tired face. "Just kept thinking about you."

The words land like stones in her chest. She closes her eyes. The study room swims behind her lids—the leather chair, the scattered notes, the table where Marcus bent her over and took something she didn't know she had to give.

"I miss you too," she says. And means it. And hates how true it is alongside everything else.

"You sound—" He stops. Rethinks. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off."

Off. What a word for it. She almost laughs. Her body is wrecked in ways he'll never know, her loyalty unraveling thread by thread, and she's sitting in a room that smells like another man's sweat, pretending she just finished a study session.

"Just tired," she says. "Long night."

"The project?"

"Yeah. The project." The word tastes wrong. Marcus's project. Their project. The excuse he gave her, the leash he wrapped around her throat. "It's... a lot of work."

"That guy. Cole. He giving you trouble?"

Her heart stutters. She presses the phone harder against her ear, as if the pressure will steady her voice. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. The way you talked about him before. Said he was a bully."

"He's..." She trails off. What is Marcus Cole? A monster. A predator. The most alive she's felt in months. "He's intense. But we're getting the work done."

A pause stretches between them. She watches a dust mote drift through a beam of lamplight, imagines Derek's face if he knew what that work looked like. Her skirt rucked up. Her hands gripping the table's edge. Marcus's breath hot on her neck.

"I trust you," Derek says quietly. "You know that, right?"

The words hit harder than they should. She blinks, and her eyes are wet. "I know."

"It's just hard, being this far. Not being able to—" He exhales. "I hear shit, you know? Guys at the gym, talking about girls at your university. How pretty they are. How easy."

"Derek."

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just saying—it gets in my head."

She thinks of Marcus's hands. How they lifted her like she weighed nothing. How he held her suspended, pinned, helpless. How she came apart around him and didn't say stop.

"I would never cheat on you," she says. The words come out automatic, a reflex trained over two years of loyalty. She doesn't know if it's a lie anymore. That's the terrifying part.

"I know." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired. And lonely. And I miss the way you feel."

A fresh wave of shame washes through her. She presses her palm flat against the table's edge, the wood still warm from the heat of their bodies. Marcus's cum is drying on her thighs. His scent is in her hair. And Derek is telling her he misses her like she's still his.

"I miss you too," she whispers. "So much."

"Tell me something good."

"What?"

"Something that'll help me sleep. Something about us."

She closes her eyes. Tries to find a memory clean enough to share. "Remember that night at the lake? When we snuck past the gates and swam in the dark?"

"Yeah." She hears the smile in his voice. "You were so scared of getting caught."

"And you kissed me under the water. Came up gasping."

"Your hair was full of leaves."

"You picked them out one by one." Her throat tightens. "Told me I was beautiful even covered in lake weeds."

"You were." His voice softens. "You are."

Silence. She feels the distance like a physical weight, the phone a thin wire stretched across an ocean, carrying words that can't touch, sounds that can't hold.

"I should let you sleep," she says.

"Yeah. Probably." A pause. "Elara?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

Three words. The same three he's said a thousand times. Tonight they feel like a blade under her ribs.

"I love you too," she says. And the second half sticks in her throat: I think.

He hangs up. She holds the phone against her ear for a long moment, listening to the empty line, before letting her hand fall to her lap.

The room is quiet. The lamp hums. Somewhere down the hall, a janitor's cart rattles.

She looks at the table where Marcus took her. The wood grain holds the memory of her fingernails. The air still carries the salt-and-sweat musk of what they did.

And she can still feel his voice in her spine. Good girl.

Her phone buzzes again. A text this time.

She looks down.

Marcus: Tomorrow. Same time. Don't be late.

She stares at it. Her thumb hovers over the screen. Derek's voice is still echoing in her ear—I trust you—but her body is already answering, a heat coiling low in her belly, a hunger she didn't know she had.

She types: I'll be there.

And hits send before she can stop herself.

She stares at the screen. The message is sent. Delivered. Read. No response yet. The quiet of the room presses in around her, the lamp casting her shadow long across the floor, and she feels the gravity of what she just agreed to settling into her bones like a cold tide.

She doesn't sleep that night. Not really. She lies in her dorm bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the feeling of his hands on her hips, his voice in her ear, the way he lifted her like she weighed nothing. And underneath it, Derek's voice—I trust you—a splinter she can't dig out.

Morning comes gray and damp. She chooses her clothes carefully. A short plaid skirt. A thin blouse. No panties, because she doesn't want to feel them soaked again, or maybe because she wants to feel nothing between them. She doesn't examine the choice too closely.

The walk to the study room is a blur. Her heart hammers against her ribs with every step, her palms slick against the strap of her bag. The hallway is empty. The door is closed. She pauses, her hand hovering over the handle, and takes a breath that doesn't settle anything.

She pushes open the door.

He's already there. Standing by the window with his back to her, broad shoulders cutting a dark silhouette against the pale morning light. He turns at the sound of the door, and the smile that spreads across his face is slow, confident, hungry.

"You're early," he says. His voice is low, rough like he just woke up, but there's nothing sleepy in his eyes. They rake over her, slow and deliberate, cataloging every inch. Lingering on the skirt. The bare legs. The thin fabric of her blouse.

She opens her mouth to say something—she doesn't know what—but he's already moving. He crosses the room in three long strides, and something in her freezes. Not fear. Anticipation. Her body knows what's coming before her mind catches up.

Her bag hits the floor before she can process the decision to drop it. Her hands find the edge of the table, and she bends over it, ass arched high, skirt riding up her thighs. The position is automatic. Programmed into her overnight, or maybe it was always there, waiting for someone to unlock it.

Behind her, Marcus stops. She feels his gaze on the curve of her ass, the thin strip of fabric that's supposed to cover her but doesn't, not really. The silence stretches, and she holds her breath, waiting.

"Well, well, well." His voice is a drawl, thick with amusement. She hears him step closer. Feels the heat of his body behind her, not touching, but close enough that she can feel it radiating off him. "I didn't even have to do or say anything, and you're already bent over for me."

Her face burns. But she doesn't straighten up.

A finger traces down her spine, slow, featherlight. "And it looks like you wore a skirt again." He laughs, soft and cruel. "Did you want to give me easy access? Seems like you're very cooperative with the project."

She should be embarrassed. Humiliated. She should feel the shame crawl up her throat and choke her. But instead, a laugh escapes her—surprising her, surprising him. It's a small thing, breathless and unsteady, but it's real.

He pauses. "Did you just laugh?"

She turns her head, cheek pressed against the cool wood, and looks up at him. His dark eyes are wide with genuine surprise, the cruel amusement flickering into something else. Something almost curious.

"Maybe I did," she says, and her voice sounds different. Lighter. Looser. Like something in her chest has unknotted.

A slow grin spreads across his face. She can see the surprise settle, the curiosity sharpen into something hungrier. "That's new," he says, and his voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. "I like it."

He steps back, just half a step, and she feels the absence of his heat like a withdrawal. She starts to push herself up, but his hand lands on the small of her back, pressing her down.

"Stay," he says. Just that. One word. And she does.

She hears him move behind her. The rustle of his belt, the zipper of his jeans. The quiet sound of him spitting into his palm, the wet slide of his hand over himself. She squeezes her eyes shut, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her fingers gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles go white.

"You know what the project is called today?" His voice is casual, almost conversational, as if he's discussing the weather. But there's a growl underneath it, a roughness that makes her thighs clench.

She shakes her head, not trusting her voice.

"'Stretch all your holes.'"

The laugh that escapes her this time is sharper, surprised out of her by the sheer audacity of it. She turns her head again, meeting his gaze over her shoulder, and there's a wildness in her eyes that she doesn't recognize.

"That's terrible," she says. "That's a terrible project name."

He grins, and it reaches his eyes. "You laughed. That means you liked it."

She doesn't deny it.

His hand finds her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he pulls her back against him. She feels him, hard and hot, pressing against her thigh. His other hand comes down on the small of her back, pressing her deeper into the curve of the table, arching her ass up for him.

"You're not going to fight me today, are you?" His voice drops, a low rumble against her ear as he leans over her. "You came here wearing no panties under a skirt, bent over before I asked, and laughed at my joke. I think we've moved past fighting."

She doesn't answer. She just presses back against him, a small movement, an invitation.

He makes a sound low in his throat—approval, hunger—and then he's pushing into her, slow and thick and so, so full. She gasps, her body clenching around him, and he groans, his hands gripping her hips tight enough to bruise.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so tight. You're always so fucking tight."

He doesn't give her time to adjust. He pulls back and drives into her again, deeper this time, and she cries out, her nails scraping across the wood. He sets a rhythm, hard and punishing, his hips slapping against her ass with every thrust.

The table slides across the floor with each impact, screeching against the tile. She braces herself, her legs shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands find her waist, pulling her back onto him with each thrust, using her like she's made for this.

"Look at you," he says, his voice strained. "Look at how well you take it. Like you were made for my cock."

She moans, a sound she barely recognizes. It's wanton, desperate. She's never sounded like that before. Not with Derek. Not with anyone.

His hand snakes around her front, finds her clit, and presses. Hard. She jerks, a broken cry escaping her throat, and he laughs, breathless, triumphant.

"That's it. That's what I want to hear."

He fucks her through it, his thumb circling her clit in time with his thrusts, and she feels the orgasm building, coiling tight in her belly, hot and inevitable. She tries to hold it back, tries to make it last, but he's too good, too relentless, and it crashes over her like a wave, pulling her under.

She comes with a sob, her body clenching around him, and he swears, driving into her through the aftershocks, chasing his own release. He finds it a few seconds later, slamming into her one last time and holding, his groan low and guttural as he spills into her.

They stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, the room filled with the smell of sex and sweat. She feels him softening inside her, feels the warm trickle of his cum running down her thigh, and she should feel used. She should feel dirty. But she doesn't.

She feels alive.

He pulls out slowly, and she shivers at the loss. She hears him tuck himself back into his jeans, the rustle of fabric, the click of his belt. She stays bent over the table, her forehead resting on the wood, her heart hammering in her chest.

A hand lands on her ass, a firm slap that makes her gasp. "Get up," he says, and his voice is warm, almost fond. "We actually have a project to work on. You know. The one for class."

She laughs again, shaky and surprised, and pushes herself upright. Her legs are trembling. Her skirt is bunched around her waist. She looks down at herself—the mess between her thighs, the marks of his fingers on her hips—and something in her chest shifts.

She should feel guilty. She should be thinking about Derek, about the phone call last night, about every promise she's breaking. And she does. The guilt is there, a knot of cold dread in her stomach.

But underneath it, there's something else. Something that feels terrifyingly like freedom.

She reaches down, pulls up her skirt, and turns to face him. He's leaning against the window, watching her with that lazy, predatory smile, and she feels a thrill run down her spine.

"Well?" she says, and her voice is steady. "What's the first question?"

His smile widens. "I think we've already done question one. Question two is going to require a lot more research."

She shakes her head, but she's smiling. "You're insufferable."

"And yet."

She doesn't finish the thought. Maybe she doesn't have to. They both know what the answer is.

She pulls out a chair and sits down, pulling her notebook from her bag with hands that still tremble. He does the same, settling across from her, and for a moment, they're just two students working on a project.

But the air between them is thick with what just happened. With what's going to happen again. And they both know it.

Her phone buzzes in her bag. She doesn't check it. She already knows who it is.

And she already knows she's not going to answer.