The lamp cast its small circle of light onto the carpet, and Derek's face was half in shadow, half in that warm glow. He was still talking—something about his drive, the traffic, the way the highway looked different at night—but Elara had stopped hearing the words. She was watching his mouth move, the way his lips curved around syllables, the softness in his eyes that she used to find so endearing.

Her hand drifted to her thigh. Fingertips pressing into the denim, pushing against the memory of another grip—harder, rougher, fingers that left bruises shaped like possession. Marcus's hands. The way they'd dug into her hips, the way he'd lifted her like she weighed nothing, the way he'd held her suspended while he drove into her from behind.

She pressed harder.

"—and then I thought, you know, maybe I should have called first, but I just—" Derek stopped. His eyes caught her hand, the way her fingers were digging into her own leg. "El? You okay?"

She blinked. "Yeah. Fine. Just tired."

He studied her for a moment longer, then leaned in. His hand came up to cup her jaw, thumb brushing across her cheekbone, and she felt the familiar weight of his lips on hers.

She let him kiss her.

Her eyes stayed open.

She watched the sunlight fall across the couch—a long rectangle of gold that caught the dust motes floating in the air, that touched the arm of the sofa, that crept toward the edge of the coffee table. She watched it like it was the most interesting thing in the room. Like she wasn't being kissed by the boy who'd driven four hours to see her.

Derek pulled back, his forehead resting against hers. "I missed you."

"I missed you too." The words came out automatic, practiced. She'd said them so many times this week they'd worn smooth.

She stood. The motion was abrupt enough that Derek's hand fell away, and she crossed the room without looking back, her fingers finding the curtain pull. The fabric rasped as she drew it closed, the sunlight vanishing, the room shrinking to the small circle of lamplight and shadow.

The bruise at her collarbone was hidden now. The swollen tenderness between her legs was hers alone to know.

"Hey." Derek's voice was soft behind her. "Come here."

She turned. He was standing now, his hoodie loose on his lean frame, his hazel eyes warm in the dim light. He opened his arms.

She walked into them.

He kissed her again, slower this time, his hands finding the hem of her sweater, sliding underneath. His palms were warm against her skin, familiar, and she let him guide her back toward the couch. Let him lay her down on the cushions. Let him pull her sweater over her head.

His mouth found her neck, her collarbone—careful, gentle, the kind of kisses that used to make her shiver. She stared at the ceiling and counted the seconds.

"I love you," he murmured against her skin.

"I love you too."

His hands worked at her jeans, pushing them down her thighs, and she lifted her hips to help him. The air was cool on her skin. The couch cushion was warm beneath her back. Derek's weight settled over her, and she felt his cock press against her thigh—familiar, average, the same size it had always been.

He pushed inside her.

She felt it. The stretch, the intrusion. But it was like being touched through a layer of glass—there, but distant. Muffled. Her body accepted him the way a room accepts a visitor, without protest, without welcome.

She hardly felt anything.

Derek's hips moved against hers, his breath coming faster, his hands gripping her waist. She watched his face contort with pleasure, watched the way his eyes squeezed shut, the way his jaw tightened. He was trying. He was always trying.

She moaned. She knew the pitch, the rhythm—she'd been doing it for two years now, longer if she was honest. The little gasps, the way she arched her back, the way she said his name like it meant something. It was choreography. It was muscle memory.

He came in under three minutes.

His body shuddered against hers, his face buried in her neck, his breath hot and ragged. She stared at the ceiling and felt nothing.

"God," he breathed. "I needed that."

She stroked his hair. "Me too."

He softened inside her, pulled out, rolled to the side. His arm found her waist, pulling her against his chest, and within minutes his breathing evened out, slow and deep, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns on her hip.

He fell asleep caressing her.

Elara lay awake in the dark, her eyes open, her body still. She could feel his cum leaking out of her, warm and wet against her thigh. She could feel the ache between her legs—not from pleasure, but from want. A hunger that Derek's careful, loving sex had only sharpened.

She needed to be fucked.

The thought came clean and sharp, no guilt attached. She needed Marcus's hands on her hips. Needed his cock stretching her open, filling her the way she needed to be filled. Needed to be lifted, thrown, taken—not made love to.

She closed her eyes and waited for morning.---

Derek stayed for two days.

She was a good girlfriend. She made him breakfast—eggs and toast, coffee the way he liked it. She sat with him on the couch and watched a movie she didn't pay attention to, her head on his shoulder, her hand in his. She laughed at his jokes and didn't check her phone.

They had sex four more times.

None of it met her expectations.

She stopped calling it fucking in her head after the second time. It was just sex. Penetration. A body inside another body, mechanical and hollow. Derek would push inside her, move in that steady rhythm, kiss her neck and tell her he loved her, and she would lie there and wait for it to be over.

He came fast every time. Three minutes. Four. Once, barely two, and he'd apologized with that embarrassed laugh she used to find cute.

"Sorry," he'd said, his face flushed. "It's just—I missed you so much."

"It's okay," she'd said. And meant it. It was okay. It was fine. It was nothing.

She faked every orgasm.

She knew the sounds to make, the way to tighten around him, the way to gasp his name like she was falling apart. She'd learned those sounds years ago, before she knew what a real orgasm felt like—before Marcus had shown her what her body could actually do.

Now she knew the difference. And the difference was a canyon.

Marcus had ruined her.

The thought came without anger, without regret. It was just a fact, like gravity. Marcus had taken her apart and put her back together differently, and now Derek's gentle, loving touch felt like a handshake when she needed to be tackled.

She kept it all bottled up inside.

She smiled. She laughed. She kissed him goodbye at the door, her arms around his neck, and told him she'd call him tonight.

"I love you," he said, cupping her face, his hazel eyes soft and full of trust.

"I love you too."

He kissed her one last time, then walked to his car, and she stood in the doorway and watched him drive away.

The taillights disappeared around the corner.

She closed the door.

The apartment was quiet. The lamp still burned its small circle of light. The curtains were still drawn. The couch cushions still held the impression of their bodies.

She pulled out her phone.

Her thumb hovered over Marcus's name. The message she'd been composing in her head all weekend—the words she'd been saving, the confession she'd been holding back—sat ready in her chest.

She typed:

He's gone. I need you to fuck me like you mean it.

She pressed send before she could stop herself.

Then she set the phone on the counter, walked to the bathroom, and started the shower. The water ran hot, steam filling the room, and she stood under it and let it wash away the last two days.

She scrubbed Derek's scent from her skin.

She was already thinking about Marcus's.