He settles between her thighs, his weight braced on his forearms, and the head of his cock nudges against her slickness. She doesn't close her eyes—she watches his pupils dilate as he pushes forward, the slow stretch filling her, the wet sound of him sliding home. Her breath catches, but she doesn't look away. Her heels find the small of his back, pulling him deeper, and he breathes her name against her lips.

She feels every inch of him inside her, the way his hips meet hers, the solid weight of his chest pressing her into the mattress. His mouth finds her neck, her jaw, the corner of her mouth, and she arches into him, fingers threading through his dark hair. He moves slowly at first, a deep, grinding rhythm that lets her feel every ridge, every pulse of him.

"That's it," he murmurs against her skin. "Look at me while I fuck you."

She does. Her hazel eyes hold his brown ones, and she watches the hunger in them deepen with every thrust. Her hands slide down his back, over the muscles that flex beneath his skin, and she digs her nails in when he hits a spot that makes her gasp. He grins, a flash of teeth, and picks up the pace.

The room fills with the sound of their bodies—the slap of skin, the wet slick of him moving in her, her own broken moans. He rolls his hips differently, angles himself until she's crying out, her legs locking around him. He fucks her like that for what feels like hours, her orgasm building and cresting and building again, each wave leaving her more breathless than the last.

She loses count of how many times she comes. He doesn't stop. He takes her on her back, then turns her over and drives into her from behind, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangled in her hair. Her honey-blonde hair spills across the pillow, and he leans down to bite her shoulder, growling as he spills into her for another time.

But he doesn't pull out. He stays hard, stays inside her, and after a few breaths he starts moving again. She's too weak to protest, too drunk on the pleasure to want to. He fucks her through the aftershocks, building her up again, and this time when he comes, she feels his cum leaking down her thighs.

Somewhere in the dark, after the third or fourth round, she feels herself drifting. His weight is still on her, his cock still inside her, and the last thing she registers is his breath against her ear, whispering something she doesn't catch. Then sleep takes her.

She wakes to the sound of her phone buzzing. The room is dim—morning light filtering through the blinds—and for a moment she forgets where she is. Then she feels the heat of him, still above her, still inside her, and memory floods back.

His name on the screen: Derek.

She reaches for the phone with a trembling hand, thumb sliding across the glass. Marcus's eyes are open now, watching her, a lazy, dangerous smile curling his lips. He shifts his hips, just a little, reminding her of where he is.

"Answer it," he whispers. "Tell him you love him."

She does. She presses the phone to her ear and hears Derek's warm, tired voice. "Hey, baby. Sorry I missed you last night—"

"It's okay," she says, her voice soft, careful. "I was asleep. Miss you."

Marcus begins to move. Slow, shallow thrusts, just enough to make her breath hitch. She presses a hand over her mouth, but he reaches up and pulls it away, shaking his head.

"I miss you too," Derek says. "I was thinking about you last night. About when I get to see you."

"Me too," she manages. Her eyes are locked on Marcus's, and she feels his cock sliding in and out of her, the wet sound of it almost audible. She prays Derek can't hear.

"You sound—" Derek pauses. "You okay? You sound a little out of breath."

"Just woke up," she says. "I'm fine. I love you."

Marcus picks up the pace. Harder, deeper, each thrust pressing her into the mattress. She feels herself getting wetter, feels the heat building again, and she bites her lip hard enough to taste blood.

"I love you too," Derek says, and the guilt lances through her—but so does the pleasure, and she can't separate them anymore. "I'll let you go. Call me later?"

"Yeah. Later."

She ends the call and drops the phone. Marcus is pounding her now, his face buried in her neck, and she hears him laugh—a low, satisfied sound.

"Good girl," he says. "Telling him you love him while I'm inside you. That's the best kind of loyalty."

He fucks her hard, fast, and when he comes he groans her name, his cum mixing with the dried traces from the night before. She lies there, shaking, her legs weak, and she can't stop the laugh that bubbles up—a raw, broken sound.

"You're sick," she says.

"And you're mine," he says, pulling out and rolling onto his back. "For now."

They mock the whole situation later, lying side by side. He makes jokes about Derek's voice, about how sweet and trusting he sounded. Elara slaps his chest, but she's laughing, and the laughter feels like a betrayal deeper than any of the sex.

The day passes in a haze of sleep and food and lazy sex. He fucks her on the couch, in the shower, against the kitchen counter. She doesn't check her phone.

That night, the lamplight casts a warm glow across the tangled sheets. Marcus pulls her onto the bed, his mouth trailing down her body, and she shivers as he parts her thighs. He licks and sucks her pussy with a hunger that makes her arch off the mattress, her fingers gripping his hair as he brings her to the edge and back. He doesn't let her come. He pulls away when she's trembling, his chin slick with her, and says, "Turn over. Doggy."

She obeys, getting onto her hands and knees. He moves behind her, his hands running over her curves, and she hears him make a sound of approval. Then his thumb traces something, and she feels a light pressure against her anus.

"Wrong hole," she says, laughing. "Go a little lower."

But he doesn't. He presses harder, and she freezes.

"Marcus."

"What?" His voice is casual, but his grip on her hip tightens. "You didn't think I'd be satisfied with just two holes, did you?"

She tries to move away, but he holds her fast. "No—no, Marcus, I don't—I'm not ready for that—"

"You're here for a project," he says, and she feels the head of his cock pressing against her, blunt and insistent. "Project 'Stretch All Your Holes.' Plural. I won't be content with just your pussy and your mouth."

"Please—"

"Don't worry, love." He strains against her, and she feels the impossible pressure. "Your anal virginity is mine. I'll show you a good time."

She protests, tries to pull away, but he's too strong. His arm locks around her waist, and he pushes. She cries out—a sharp, pained sound—as the head forces its way into her. It's too tight, too much, her body rebelling against the invasion.

"It won't fit," she gasps. "Marcus, it won't—"

"It will." He pushes harder, and she feels herself stretching, burning. "Every hole of yours is made to take me. You'll learn."

He keeps talking, his voice low and cruel, describing Derek in detail. How pathetic he is, how he doesn't deserve a goddess like her. How long he's waited to take her like this, to break her in ways Derek never could. She hears it through the haze of pain and pleasure, and she can't tell which is which anymore.

He bottoms out, and she screams—a muffled scream into the pillow. He holds still, letting her adjust, his cock buried deep in her ass. She feels split open, filled beyond what she thought possible.

"There," he breathes. "See? It fits perfectly."

He begins to move. Slow at first, then faster. The pain fades into something else, something raw and overwhelming. He's a machine—unrelenting, tireless. His thrusts are like a pile driver, each one sending shockwaves through her body. She's crying, but she's also moaning, and she hates how good it feels.

"You're so fucking tight," he growls. "Your pussy was fine, but this—this is heaven. I'll never want your cunt again. I'm going to live in this ass."

He fucks her for twenty minutes. Or an hour. She loses time. He comes inside her, hot and thick, flooding her, and then he collapses onto her back, his full weight pressing her into the mattress. His cock is still inside her, softening but still there, connected.

She collapses too, face down, unable to move. He's on top of her, breathing hard, and she feels his lips press against her shoulder.

"You're a goddess," he murmurs. "Every hole of yours is perfect. But your ass—god, your ass was made for me."

She doesn't answer. She can't. She's drifting, floating, her body battered and full. His weight is heavy and warm, and she feels the slow pulse of his heartbeat through his cock, still buried deep.

"The goddess of sex," he says, his voice fading into sleep. "Mine."

She closes her eyes. She doesn't think about Derek. She doesn't think about anything. She just feels—the fullness, the heat, the weight of him on top of her, in her. And as sleep takes her, she hears his breathing even out, feels the slight shift of his body as he settles deeper into her.

They sleep like that, connected, his cum leaking out around his softening cock, the room warm and dark and full of the smell of them. Sometime before dawn, she dreams of nothing at all.

She stirs to the sound of her own name, murmured against her neck. The room is still dark—the lamp has burned out, leaving only the gray wash of pre-dawn through the blinds. She feels him before she remembers, the weight of his arm across her waist, the soft give of his cock slipping out of her as she shifts. The wet sound of separation, a small slick noise in the silence. His cum leaks onto her thigh, warm and slow.

"You moved," he says, his voice rough with sleep. She feels his arm tighten, pulling her closer, her back against his chest. "Don't."

She doesn't answer. Her eyes are open, staring at the gray window, and she feels the hollow ache in her ass, the tenderness between her thighs. Her body is a map of what he did to her, every sore muscle and bruised patch of skin a landmark she can read without looking.

"What time is it?" she asks. Her voice sounds like someone else's—raw, scraped clean.

"Early. Stay."

She stays. There's nowhere else to go. The bed is warm, the sheets tangled and damp, and his arm is a solid weight across her middle. She feels his breath against her shoulder, slow and even, and she doesn't know if he's fallen back asleep or if he's just waiting, like she is.

Time passes. The gray light in the window turns pale gold, and she hears birds outside—a sound so ordinary it feels obscene. She looks at his hand, resting on her stomach, and notices the calluses on his palm, the thick fingers that were inside her last night, in every part of her. She should feel disgust. She should feel shame. Instead she feels a strange, quiet tenderness, like she's seeing him for the first time.

His thumb traces de slow circle on her skin. He's awake.

"You're thinking too loud," he says.

"I'm not thinking at all."

"Liar." He presses a kiss to her shoulder. "What is it?"

She doesn't know how to answer. She doesn't know what she's feeling, only that it's too heavy to name. Her phone is somewhere on the floor, probably dead by now, and Derek's last words are still in her ears—*I love you too*—spoken while Mñarcus was buried in her. She hasn't checked her messages. She hasn't thought about what happens when she leaves this room.

"My phone," she says finally.

"Forget it." He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. His face is shadowed, his dark hair falling across his forehead, and his brown eyes search hers with an intensity that makes her breath catch. "You're still here. That's all that matters."

She meets his gaze. "For now."

He doersn't flinch. "For now." He says it like a promise.

He leans down and kisses her—slow, deliberate, his mouth warm and tasting of sleep. She feels his hand slide down her stomach, between her thighs, and she gasps when his fingers find her, still slick with his spend. He strokes her gently, unhurried, and she closes her eyes, letting the sensation pull her under.

"Again?" she breathes.

"Always again." His mouth trails down her neck, her collarbone, her chest. "I won't ever get tired of you."

She lets him roll her onto her back, lets him part her thighs, lets him push inside her—slow, so slow, the stretch of him filling her, the wet sound of his body meeting hers. She watches his face as he moves, the concentration in his jaw, the way his pupils dilate when he looks at her. He's not cruel now. He's not the predator who took her on the table. He's just a man, fucking her in the gray morning light, and she doesn't know which version of him is more dangerous.

He comes inside her again, a low groan against her throat, and she holds him as he shudders, her fingers in his hair. He stays there, his weight on her, his breath hot against her skin, and she feels his heart pounding against her ribs.

"Stay," he says again. "One more day."

She thinks of her phone, dead on the floor. She thinks of Derek, probably worried, probably wondering why she hasn't called. She thinks of the life waiting for her outside this room—the classes, the project, the careful lies she'll have to tell.

"I can't," she says. But she doesn't push him off.

He lifts his head, looks at her. "Yes, you can. One more day. You text him, tell him you're still with Sarah, tell him you're helping her move or some shit. One more day."

She wants to say no. She wants to be the person who says no. But his eyes are dark and patient, and her body is still humming from him, and the thought of leaving feels like a kind of dying.

"One more day," she repeats.

He smiles—a real smile, without cruelty. "Good girl."

He rolls off her, reaching for the floor, and comes back with her phone. He hands it to her, his fingers brushing hers. "Text him. Then I'll make you breakfast."

She sits up, the sheet pooling around her waist. The screen glows to life as she presses the button. Eight missed calls from Derek. Twelve texts. She opens the most recent one: *Baby, I'm getting worried. Please just let me know you're okay.*

She types: *Sorry, Sarah needed me. Phone died. I love you.*

She sends it. She doesn't wait for a reply. She sets the phone face-down on the nightstand and looks at Marcus, who is watching her with something she can't read.

"Breakfast," she says. "You promised."

He laughs—a low, genuine sound—and pulls her out of bed. She follows him into the kitchen, naked, her thighs sticky with his cum, and she watches him crack eggs into a pan, his back to her, the muscles in his shoulders moving under his skin. She stands in the doorway and feels the absurdity of it, the domesticity of this moment, and she wonders if this is how it starts—not with a betrayal, but with a breakfast. Not with a choice, but with staying.

She doesn't know the answer. She doesn't know if she wants to.

He slides a plate toward her, eggs and toast and coffee, and she sits at his small table, eating like it's the most natural thing in the world. He sits across from her, his eyes on her, a faint smile playing at his lips.

"What?" she says.

"Nothing." He shakes his head. "Just looking."

She takes another bite. Outside, the morning brightens, and her phone stays silent on the nightstand. She doesn't check it.

She spreads her arms wide, the morning light catching the curve of her breasts, the shadow between her thighs. Naked and unashamed, she watches him watch her—the slow path of his gaze, the way his grin softens into something hungrier.

He pushes his plate aside, the scrape of ceramic against wood loud in the quiet room. "What's next?" He leans back in his chair, letting his own nakedness settle into the frame of it—legs apart, arms crossed behind his head, every line of him on display. "We could start with the project. I brought my laptop, it's in the bedroom."

"You brought your laptop to your own apartment?"

"I brought it to the living room last night. Got distracted." He nods toward the bedroom door. "It's on the floor, probably under my jeans."

She pushes up from the table, her legs still sore, the ache between her thighs a warm reminder of everything they've done. She doesn't reach for anything to cover herself. The air is cool on her skin, and she feels his eyes on her as she walks past him, a trail of heat following her.

His bedroom is a wreck—sheets twisted, pillows on the floor, the lamp knocked askew. His jeans are crumpled in a heap, and she finds the laptop half-hidden under the leg, a silver rectangle still warm from being left on. She picks it up, her fingers brushing the scuffed edge of the case, and carries it back to the kitchen.

He's still sitting at the table, his coffee mug cradled in both hands, watching her approach with that lazy, dangerous smile. "Find it?"

"Under your jeans. Like you said."

She sets the laptop on the table, opens it. The screen glows to life, showing a login prompt. She looks at him.

"Password?"

"Cole. Capital C."

She types it in, and the desktop appears—a plain background, folders scattered across it. One of them is labeled with their class number. She opens it, finds their project document, and pulls up the last draft they were working on before everything changed.

"Okay," she says, pulling a chair closer to him, sitting down with her thighs pressing together. "Let's see where we left off."

He doesn't look at the screen. He looks at her. His hand reaches out, traces the line of her collarbone, follows it down to her breast. His thumb brushes her nipple, and she feels it harden under his touch.

"You really want to do the project?" he asks.

"You said I could stay another day. I'm staying. But I also need to pass this class." She keeps her eyes on the screen, but her breath has already changed, shallower. "So yes. Project first."

His hand slides down her stomach, between her thighs. She parts them without thinking, lets his fingers find the slick heat of her. He doesn't push inside—just rests there, palm against her, a warm pressure.

"Project while I touch you," he says. "That the deal?"

"That's the deal."

He pulls his hand back and reaches for his coffee instead, taking a long sip. "Fine. Show me what we have."

She scrolls through the document, pointing out sections they need to revise, sources they need to add. Her voice is steady, professional, but she's hyperaware of his presence—the heat of his body, the way his leg brushes hers under the table, the occasional sound he makes, half-agreement, half-amusement.

They work for twenty minutes. Or an hour. She loses track. He asks questions, makes suggestions, and she types, her fingers moving across the keyboard. At some point, his hand returns to her thigh, resting there without moving. She doesn't tell him to stop.

Her phone stays silent on the nightstand. She doesn't look at it.

When they reach a natural pause—a section that needs research she doesn't have—she leans back, stretches her arms over her head. His hand slides higher, his fingers finding the wet heat between her thighs.

"You're not wearing anything," he says, his voice low. "That's going to make the next section difficult."

"I thought that was the point."

He pushes her chair back from the table, spins it to face him. She lets him, her legs falling open, her body already responding to the hunger in his eyes. He drops to his knees in front of her, his hands on her hips, his mouth already descending.

"Let me taste you," he says. "Then we can get back to work."

She doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. His mouth is already on her, his tongue finding her clit, and she arches into him, her fingers in his hair, the laptop open and forgotten beside them.

Later—she doesn't know how much later—she lies across his bed, the sheets tangled beneath her, her cum cooling on her stomach. He's beside her, one hand propped behind his head, the other tracing lazy circles on her hip.

"We should finish the project," she says. Her voice is hoarse.

"We should." He doesn't move.

Silence. The lamp flickers, steadying again. Outside, the morning has fully brightened, the sun casting a pale rectangle across the floor.

"Marcus."

"Yeah?"

"What happens when I leave?"

His hand stops moving. He's quiet for a long moment. "You come back."

"I can't keep staying. I have classes. Derek will—" She stops. She doesn't want to say his name here, in this bed, with Marcus's hand on her hip and his cum still warm on her skin.

"He'll what? Suspect something?" Marcus's voice is flat. "He already suspects. He just doesn't want to know."

She doesn't answer. She stares at the ceiling, at the crack that spiders from the light fixture to the corner. She's traced it a dozen times in the past two days.

"You're not going back to him," Marcus says. It's not a question.

"I don't know what I'm doing."

"You know." He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His face is close to hers, his breath warm. "You've known since the library. Since the first time I fucked you on that table. You just don't want to say it out loud."

She turns her head to look at him. His brown eyes are steady, patient, waiting.

"Say it," he says. "I want to hear you say it."

She opens her mouth. Closes it. The words are there, heavy on her tongue, but she can't let them out. Because once she says them, she can't take them back. Once she says them, she becomes someone else—the girl who chose, who crossed the line she's been dancing on for weeks.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. A single vibration. A text.

They both look at it. She doesn't reach for it.

"Aren't you going to check that?" Marcus asks.

"No."

He smiles—slow, satisfied, like he's won something. He leans in and kisses her, soft and deep, and she lets herself sink into it, lets herself forget the phone, the text, the world outside this room.

When he pulls back, his voice is quiet. "One more day," he says. "Then we'll figure out the rest."

She nods. Her phone buzzes again. She doesn't look.

The sun climbs higher. The lamp flickers once, twice, and goes out, leaving only the pale gold light of morning. She closes her eyes and lets him pull her closer, his arm around her waist, his breath warm against her shoulder.

Her phone buzzes a third time.

She doesn't check it.

She doesn't check it.

The third buzz fades into silence. The room settles around them—the creak of the bed frame, the distant hum of a car passing outside. Marcus's arm is still around her, his breath warm on her shoulder, and she feels the steady beat of his heart against her back.

"Three times," he says. His voice is low, conversational. "He's persistent."

She doesn't answer. Her eyes are fixed on the phone, face-down on the nightstand, the screen dark. She imagines the messages piling up—Derek's worry hardening into fear, his trust slowly cracking. She should feel something. Guilt, maybe. Panic. Instead, she feels a strange, hollow curiosity.

Marcus shifts behind her, his hand sliding from her waist to her hip. "You want to look?"

"No."

"Liar."

She turns her head to look at him. His brown eyes are half-lidded, patient, watching her with that quiet amusement that makes her feel seen in a way she doesn't know how to name. "What would you do?" she asks. "If you were me."

"I wouldn't have let it buzz three times." He traces a line down her thigh. "I'd have answered it. Let him hear what I was doing."

She shivers. Not from cold.

"But that's not you," he continues. "You're still pretending. Still holding onto the idea that you can have both."

"I'm not—"

"You are." He says it gently, without judgment. "And that's fine. I don't need you to choose today. I just need you to stop pretending when you're in this bed."

She stares at him. The morning light catches the edge of his jaw, the stubble shadowing his skin. He looks almost kind in this light—dangerous and patient and impossibly sure of himself.

"Read them to me," she says.

He blinks. "What?"

"The texts." She reaches for the phone, picks it up. The screen glows as she turns it over, revealing a stack of notifications—eight missed calls, twelve texts. She doesn't scroll through them. She holds the phone out to him. "Read them to me. While you fuck me from behind."

His eyebrows rise. A slow smile spreads across his face, the kind that starts in his eyes and works its way down. "That's a new request."

"You said you want me to stop pretending." Her voice is steady, but her hand trembles slightly as she holds the phone. "So I'm not pretending. I want to hear what he said while you're inside me. I want to know what I'm throwing away."

He takes the phone from her. His fingers brush hers, warm and sure. "You're sure?"

"No." She swallows. "Do it anyway."

He studies her for a long moment, his gaze searching hers. Then he sets the phone on the pillow beside them and moves, his body shifting behind her, one hand on her hip guiding her onto her stomach. She goes willingly, letting him arrange her—her knees drawn up beneath her, her face turned to the side, the curve of her back soft and waiting. He settles behind her, the heat of his chest against her spine, and she feels his cock harden against the cleft of her ass.

"Ready?" he asks.

She nods, her throat tight.

He picks up the phone. The screen casts a pale glow across his face as he scrolls through the messages. She hears him let out a low breath, almost amused.

"What?" she asks.

"He's sweet." Marcus's voice is dry. "Listen." He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts—softer, worried, a perfect mimic of Derek's voice. "'Hey babe. Call me when you get this. I just want to hear your voice.'"

He shifts his hips, pressing forward. The head of his cock nudges against her, slick and ready. She gasps as he pushes inside, the slow stretch of him filling her, the familiar ache of being taken. He pauses when he's fully seated, his breath warm on her neck.

"Second one." His voice is back to his own, low and steady. "'Sarah's house? I don't recognize that number in your location. Is everything okay?'"

She feels a cold knot form in her stomach. Location. He checked her location. She didn't think about that. The phone must have pinged from Marcus's apartment, not whatever fake address she'd given.

Marcus begins to move. Slow, deep thrusts that rock her forward, her fingers gripping the sheet. He picks up the phone again, scrolling with one hand while the other grips her hip.

"'Please just let me know you're safe. I'm not angry. I'm worried.'"

His voice carries the words in Derek's cadence, and she hears the fear in them, the desperate hope that she's still his. Marcus's cock slides in and out of her, a steady rhythm that matches the beat of her heart, and she feels the dissonance—the tenderness of the words against the brutality of the act.

"Another one." He pauses, reads. "'I called your mom. She hasn't heard from you. Baby, where are you?'"

Her breath catches. He called her mother. Derek is truly panicking now. She imagines him pacing his tiny studio, phone pressed to his ear, the worry lines deepening on his face. And she's here, on her knees, being fucked by the man who took her in every possible way, listening to the evidence of her betrayal read aloud like a bedtime story.

"Don't stop," she whispers.

Marcus doesn't. He picks up the pace, driving deeper, and she feels the edge of pleasure building despite everything—the guilt, the shame, the cold reality of what she's doing. He reads another message, his voice flat but the words laced with Derek's desperation.

"'I'm getting in the car. I'll drive to you if I have to. Please just call me.'"

She closes her eyes. She sees Derek grabbing his keys, his hoodie, his tired face set in determination. She sees him getting into his old sedan, the one with the dented bumper, and starting the long drive to her city, not knowing where he's even going, just knowing she's gone silent.

"He said he'd drive," she says. Her voice is barely audible.

Marcus slows, his hips stilling inside her. "He's bluffing."

"He's not. He drove eight hours once when I had a fever and couldn't get a flight. He will drive."

A pause. She feels him shift, his hand brushing her hair aside, his lips pressing against the back of her neck. "Then we'd better make sure you're worth the trip."

He starts moving again, harder now, a brutal, punishing rhythm that leaves no room for thought. He reads the remaining texts in a monotone, each one a fresh cut—"I love you," "Please," "I'm sorry if I did something wrong." She listens to them while he fucks her, her body responding against her will, her pleasure building in sick harmony with the words.

When he comes, he buries his face in her shoulder and groans her name, his cum spilling into her in hot pulses. She doesn't come. She stays still, her cheek pressed to the pillow, the phone screen still glowing beside them.

He pulls out slowly, gently, and lies beside her. She doesn't move. The phone is still there, unanswered, Derek's words hanging in the air like smoke.

"That was cruel," she says. Her voice is flat.

"You asked for it."

"I didn't know it would feel like this."

"Like what?"

She turns her head to look at him. Her eyes are dry, but her chest feels hollow. "Like I'm already gone. Like he's already lost me. And I don't even know when it happened."

Marcus reaches out, brushes a strand of hair from her face. "It happened on the table in the library. It happened when you came back the next day. It happened every time you said Derek's name with my cum still on your tongue."

She closes her eyes. The phone buzzes again—a fourth time. This time, she reaches for it. She doesn't open the texts. She just holds it, the weight of it in her palm, and feels the vibration fade.

"One more day," she says. "That was the deal."

"One more day."

She sets the phone back on the nightstand, face-down. She doesn't check it. She turns to him, presses her face into his chest, and lets the silence swallow them both. Outside, the morning brightens, and somewhere on a highway, a boy in a dented sedan is driving toward a girl who is no longer sure she's waiting.