Diana's weight was warm against his side, her breath slow and even against his skin. The dawn light had shifted from gray to pale gold, painting stripes across the ceiling. Jaden had been awake for what felt like hours, his body still humming with the night, his mind picking through the dark like a thread he couldn't stop pulling.

No regret. That's what kept surfacing. Not guilt, not shame — just the quiet, startling fact of his own stillness. He'd expected something else. A crash. A reckoning. Instead, there was only this: Diana's hand on his chest, the ghost of Grant's mouth on his, and the deep, animal knowledge that he'd wanted all of it.

He watched the dust motes drift in the column of light. Listened to the house settle around him — the creak of old wood, the distant hum of a refrigerator, a bird somewhere outside starting its morning. Normal sounds. A normal house. And he was lying here, hard again in the gray light, with his girlfriend's mother pressed against him and the taste of her husband still somewhere in his mouth.

Diana stirred. Her cheek shifted against his collarbone, and she made a small sound — not quite a word, not quite awake. Her fingers curled against his chest, nails grazing his skin, and she stretched, slow and feline, her whole body arching into the movement. Her thigh slid over his, and he felt the damp heat of her through the sheet, felt himself respond, felt the impossibility of pretending he wasn't.

Her eyes opened.

For a moment, she just looked at him. No smile yet. No greeting. Just that hazel gaze, steady and knowing, reading whatever was on his face. Then her lips curved, slow and private, and her hand slid up from his chest to his jaw.

"Good morning," she murmured, her voice rough with sleep.

"Morning." His own voice came out cracked, and she laughed softly, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone.

"You stayed."

"I said I would."

"I know." She leaned up and kissed him — soft, unhurried, her lips warm and tasting of sleep. "But I've learned not to trust words until I see the morning after."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. She didn't seem to mind. She settled back against him, her hand drifting down to his chest again, her fingers toying with the thin line of hair below his navel. Her touch was lazy, affectionate, as if they'd woken up like this a hundred times.

"Grant's already up," she said, her voice muffled against his skin. "I can hear him in the kitchen. Burning something, probably."

"Stacy mentioned he burns the toast."

"Every time. He thinks it's a signature." She smiled against his chest. "I let him believe it."

The mention of Stacy's name landed like a stone in still water. Jaden felt the ripples spread through him — a flicker of something that might have been guilt, if he'd let it. He didn't. He let it pass, let it settle, let it sink back into the dark where the rest of the night was waiting.

Diana's fingers stilled. She was quiet for a long moment, her palm flat against his heart. Then she lifted her head and looked at him, her expression unreadable.

"How are you doing?"

The question was simple. Direct. And he realized, with a start, that she actually wanted to know. Not the polite version. Not the one he'd give Stacy. The real one.

He considered the lie. Let it sit on his tongue. Then he let it go.

"I don't know," he said. "I keep waiting for it to hit me. The guilt. The — the wrongness. And it's not there." He looked at her, at the way the morning light caught the gold chain at her throat. "Is that bad?"

Diana's eyes softened. She reached up and brushed the hair from his forehead, her touch lingering.

"No," she said quietly. "It means you're honest. Even with yourself."

She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow, the sheet slipping to reveal the curve of her shoulder, the shadow between her breasts. She didn't pull it back up.

"Last night was real, Jaden. We meant every word. And if you wake up this morning and feel nothing but steadiness — that's not wrong. That's you knowing what you want."

He wanted to believe her. He did believe her, in a way that surprised him. But there was still the rest of the world to reckon with — the daughter in the next room, the boyfriend label he'd worn for four months, the version of himself that had walked into this house yesterday afternoon, nervous and hopeful and completely unprepared.

"What happens now?" he asked.

Diana's smile turned knowing. She opened her mouth to answer —

The bedroom door swung open without a knock.

Jaden's body went rigid. Every muscle locked at once, as if he could freeze the moment into something innocent, something explainable. His heart slammed against his ribs, and he felt Diana's hand still against his chest, but she didn't pull away. She didn't even flinch.

Stacy stood in the doorway, backlit by the hall light, her hair a messy ponytail of honey-blonde that she hadn't bothered to fix. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt that hung past her thighs, her legs bare, her feet pink and bare on the hardwood. Her smile was bright, unguarded, the smile of someone who hadn't yet learned to look for the cracks in things.

"Morning, sleepyheads," she said, her voice carrying that easy, sunlit warmth that filled rooms. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and Jaden saw her gaze flick over them — over her mother curled against him, over his bare chest, over the sheet that hid everything and revealed nothing.

Her eyes didn't pause. Didn't catch. Didn't question.

"Mom, Dad's already burning the toast. I think he's trying to set a record."

Diana stretched — slowly, deliberately, a full-bodied arch that pressed her spine into a curve and let the sheet slip another inch. She made a sound of lazy contentment, her hand sliding off Jaden's chest as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and turned her head toward her daughter.

"He always burns the toast on Saturdays," she said, her voice unruffled. "It's his way of telling me he missed me during the week."

Stacy laughed, that easy, uncomplicated sound that Jaden had fallen for months ago. "He's going to set off the smoke detector again."

"Then I'll have to fan it with a towel and tell him it's romantic." Diana sat up slowly, the sheet pooling around her waist. She was wearing the silk camisole from last night, the thin straps slipping off her shoulders, her hair a tumble of waves. She looked like she'd just woken up from a long, deep sleep — and maybe she had. Maybe the night had been exactly what she'd wanted.

Stacy's gaze shifted to Jaden. Her smile softened, warmed, became something private and fond. "Hey, you. Sleep okay?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, I slept fine."

His voice came out steadier than he'd expected. He was grateful for that.

"Good." Stacy pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in three easy strides, her bare feet padding against the wood. She leaned down and kissed him — quick, cheerful, her lips brushing his forehead — then straightened and looked at her mother.

"You're stealing my spot, by the way."

Diana laughed, a low, honeyed sound. "I was here first, sweetheart."

"You were not. I picked this bed. Jaden and I were gonna —" She stopped, her cheeks flushing, and she waved a hand. "You know."

"I know." Diana's smile didn't waver. "But he seemed tired, and I wanted to make sure he was comfortable. You know how I am with guests."

Stacy rolled her eyes, but it was affectionate. "You're a menace, Mom. You know that?"

"I prefer 'hospitable.'" Diana swung her legs over the side of the bed, the sheet falling away. She was wearing the camisole and a pair of thin shorts, and she moved with the easy grace of a woman completely at home in her own skin. She stood, stretched again, and glanced back at Jaden over her shoulder. "I'll go rescue the toast. Stacy, don't keep him all morning — Grant wants to show him the workshop before lunch."

"Workshop?" Jaden said, before he could stop himself.

Diana's eyes met his. There was something in them — a glint, a promise, a warning wrapped in warmth.

"He's very proud of it," she said. "You should let him show you."

She left. The door clicked shut behind her, soft and final.

Stacy flopped onto the bed beside him, her body bouncing the mattress, her warmth settling against his side. She smelled like toothpaste and sleep, like the girl he'd driven upstate with yesterday afternoon, the girl whose hand he'd held while she chattered about her parents' weird sense of humor.

"Sorry about her," Stacy said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "She gets — I don't know. Possessive? She's always been like that with guests. It's like she has to be the one to make everyone feel welcome."

"She's been... nice."

"Nice," Stacy repeated, and laughed. "That's a word for it. Dramatic is another. She literally tucked you in, didn't she?"

Jaden felt something twist in his chest. He didn't know if it was guilt or gratitude or the strange, vertiginous thrill of getting away with something.

"Something like that."

Stacy propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. Her blue eyes were warm, her freckles scattered like constellations across her nose. She was so pretty, so uncomplicatedly pretty, and he could see the future she was imagining — the sleepy morning, the boyfriend in her childhood bed, the normal weekend with her normal family.

She had no idea.

"So," she said, her smile turning sly, "now that my mom's gone — you wanna pick up where we left off last night? Before she stole you?"

His body went still. The question hung between them, innocent and loaded, and he felt the weight of every choice he'd made in the dark.

He should say yes. That was the script. That was the boyfriend thing to do. He should pull her down, kiss her, let her hands find their way under the sheet, let the morning unfold the way she expected it to.

But his body didn't move. His hands didn't reach for her.

And the silence stretched a beat too long.

"Jaden?" Stacy's smile flickered, just a little. "You okay?"

He blinked. Forced a smile. Reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture automatic, familiar.

"Yeah," he said. "Just — still waking up. Coffee first?"

Her smile returned, relieved and bright. "Deal. But I'm holding you to the rest later."

She kissed him — quick, light — and slid off the bed, her T-shirt riding up as she stretched. "Come on. I'll make you my famous scrambled eggs. They're only slightly burnt."

She laughed at her own joke and padded out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.

Jaden lay still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling. The sheet was tangled around his legs, and he could still smell Diana on the pillow — her shampoo, her skin, the faint trace of something floral and warm. He could still feel Grant's hand on his hip, the weight of his voice calling him son.

He sat up. Swung his legs over the side of the bed. Stood on unsteady legs and reached for his jeans, folded over the chair where he'd left them last night.

He didn't know what he was going to do.

But he knew he was going to find out.

The kitchen was warm and bright, filled with the smell of burnt toast and coffee. Grant stood at the stove in a simple henley and worn jeans, spatula in hand, a towel slung over his shoulder. He looked up when Jaden entered, and his blue eyes — Stacy's eyes, but older, sharper — met his across the room.

There was no hesitation in them. No caution. Just the same steady, appraising attention that had pinned Jaden to the chair last night.

"Morning, son." The word landed like a hand on his shoulder. "Coffee's fresh. Grab a seat."

Diana was at the counter, buttering a slice of toast, her movements unhurried. She glanced at him as he passed and smiled — that slow, private smile that felt like a secret shared between them.

Stacy was already at the table, scrolling through her phone, her legs tucked under her. She looked up as Jaden sat down and slid a mug toward him.

"Here. Cream and one sugar, right?"

He blinked. "You remembered."

"Of course I remembered. I'm a good girlfriend." She grinned, and he felt the weight of the word — good, girlfriend, normal — settle over his shoulders like a coat that no longer fit.

He wrapped his hands around the mug. The warmth seeped into his palms. Across the room, Grant flipped an egg with practiced ease, and Diana laughed at something he said, her hand brushing his arm as she reached for the salt.

They moved around each other like a dance they'd been doing for decades. Easy. Familiar. Complete.

And Jaden sat at their table, holding the coffee Stacy had made him, and wondered if he'd already crossed a line he couldn't uncross — or if he'd only just reached the beginning.

The plate landed in front of him with a solid ceramic click. Eggs, golden and steaming. A slice of toast buttered to the edges. Three strips of bacon, their fat crisped to a precise brown. It looked like something from a diner menu, the kind of breakfast that said I took time with this.

Grant stood over him, the spatula still in his hand, the towel still slung over his shoulder. His blue eyes held Jaden's a beat longer than necessary, and when he spoke, his voice was low, unhurried, the same register he'd used in the dark.

"Eat. You'll need it."

The words landed like stones dropped into still water. Jaden felt the ripples move through him—his stomach tightening, his pulse flickering at the base of his throat. Across the table, Stacy glanced up from her phone, her brow furrowing.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, but it was light, curious, not suspicious. "He's gonna need his strength for my famous scrambled eggs?"

Grant's mouth twitched. "Something like that." He turned back to the stove, picking up the pan with one easy motion and sliding a second portion onto a plate for himself.

Diana's hand found Jaden's shoulder as she passed behind him, her fingers grazing the back of his neck in a gesture that could have been maternal, could have been anything. She didn't look at him. She just kept walking, her coffee mug in her other hand, and settled into the chair beside her husband.

Stacy was already talking again, something about a TikTok she'd seen, something about a squirrel that had learned to open a screen door. Her voice filled the kitchen the way it filled every room—sunlight through a window, effortless and warm. Jaden nodded at the right moments, made sounds of acknowledgment, but his attention was split, fractured, a pane of glass with a crack running through its center.

He picked up his fork. Took a bite. The eggs were perfect—fluffy, salted just right, a hint of pepper. He chewed, swallowed, took another bite. The toast was warm against his fingers. The bacon crunched between his teeth.

He couldn't taste any of it.

Grant ate in silence at the table's head, his movements efficient, his eyes occasionally lifting to track Jaden across the room. Diana sipped her coffee and scrolled through something on her phone, her bare foot finding Jaden's ankle under the table—just once, a brush of warmth, gone before he could react.

Stacy finished her eggs first, pushing her plate away and stretching with a satisfied groan. "Okay. I'm gonna go shower. Mom, you said something about grocery shopping later?"

"After lunch, I thought." Diana's voice was smooth, unhurried. "I need to pick up a few things for dinner."

"Cool. Jaden, you good?"

He looked up. She was standing, her T-shirt riding up, her hair falling in messy waves around her face. She was so beautiful, so unguarded, and he felt the crack in the glass widen.

"Yeah. I'm good."

She smiled, blew him a kiss, and padded out of the kitchen. Her footsteps retreated up the stairs, and the house settled into a different kind of quiet—not the silence of emptiness, but the silence of someone else's absence.

Diana drained her coffee and stood, carrying her mug to the sink. She rinsed it, set it in the rack, and turned. Her eyes found Jaden's, held them, and then slid to her husband's.

"I'll start the laundry," she said. "Don't keep him too long, Grant. He's got a whole weekend ahead of him."

Grant didn't answer. He was already standing, his plate in one hand, his coffee mug in the other. He moved to the sink, rinsed both, and set them beside Diana's. Their shoulders brushed as she passed, a movement so casual, so intimate, that Jaden felt like an intruder just watching.

Then Diana was gone, her footsteps soft on the stairs, and Jaden was alone at the table with Grant.

The older man dried his hands on a towel, folded it, hung it over the oven handle. He didn't rush. He moved through the kitchen with the deliberate economy of someone who knew exactly where everything belonged, who had done this a thousand times before. When he turned, his eyes found Jaden's again, and there was no question in them. No hesitation.

"Ready for that tour?"

Jaden stood. His legs felt steadier than they had any right to. "Yeah."

Grant led him out the back door, through a mudroom lined with boots and jackets, and across a short stretch of gravel to a detached building that Jaden had noticed when they'd pulled in yesterday. It was larger than he'd expected—two bays, a pitched roof, a single window glowing with pale morning light. Grant pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked the side door, and held it open.

Jaden stepped inside.

The workshop smelled of sawdust and oil and old wood. Tools hung on pegboards in neat rows—hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, each with its shadow painted on the board behind it. A workbench ran along the far wall, its surface scarred with years of use. A half-finished table sat in the center of the room, its legs clamped into place, a plane resting beside it. There was a lathe in the corner, a band saw, a drill press. Everything was clean, organized, cared for.

"This is..." Jaden started, not sure how to finish.

"My space," Grant said, closing the door behind him. The latch clicked, and the sound was louder than it should have been in the quiet. "Been building it out for years. Started with just the bench and a hand saw. It grows slow."

Jaden turned in a slow circle, taking it in. The light through the window caught the dust suspended in the air, the same kind of motes he'd watched this morning, but sharper here. Workman's light. Real light.

Grant moved past him, his hand brushing the surface of the half-finished table. "Cherry," he said. "From a tree that came down in the back lot three years ago. I milled it myself, let it season. Took until last winter to be ready."

Jaden stepped closer, running his fingers along the grain. The wood was smooth, cool, alive under his touch. "It's beautiful."

"It's almost done." Grant's voice had dropped, gone low and rough at the edges. "Another week, maybe two. Then it goes to the client."

He was standing closer than Jaden had realized. The heat of him radiated through the cool air of the workshop, and Jaden could smell him—soap and coffee and something underneath, something that had been in Jaden's mouth last night, that he'd tasted when Grant had kissed him in the dark.

Jaden's hand stilled on the wood.

Grant reached out, slow, deliberate, and took Jaden's wrist. His thumb pressed against the pulse point, and Jaden felt it jump, felt the older man feel it jump, and neither of them looked away.

"I meant what I said," Grant murmured. "About needing you to eat."

Jaden's mouth went dry. "Why?"

Grant's grip tightened, just a fraction. "Because I'm not done with you yet. And I don't share well the first time."

Then he kissed him.

It wasn't the careful, measured kiss from last night—the one that had tested Jaden's willingness, that had waited for permission. This was a claiming, a taking, Grant's free hand coming up to grip Jaden's jaw, tilting his head back, his mouth opening Jaden's with a hunger that sent a shock through his entire body. Jaden made a sound against his lips, something between a gasp and a moan, and Grant swallowed it, his tongue sliding deep, claiming the space Jaden's mouth became.

Jaden's back hit the workbench before he understood they'd moved. The edge of the wood bit into his hip, and Grant's body pressed against his, solid and unyielding, the broad chest, the hard thighs, the unmistakable length of him already thickening behind his jeans. Grant's hand left Jaden's jaw and found his hip, fingers digging into the bone, and he pulled Jaden against him, a low growl vibrating through his chest.

"I don't want to share this," Grant said, his mouth against Jaden's throat, the words hot against his skin. "Not yet. Not the first time I have you alone."

Jaden's hands found Grant's shoulders. He meant to push. He meant to say something—Stacy, Diana, what about— but the words wouldn't come. His fingers curled into the fabric of Grant's henley, and he held on, his breath coming short, his body already answering a question his mind hadn't finished asking.

"Tell me no," Grant said, and his voice was rough, frayed, the voice of a man who was holding himself back by a thread. "Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you don't—"

Jaden kissed him.

It wasn't a decision. It was gravity. He rose up and met Grant's mouth, his hands sliding up from the henley to the back of Grant's neck, pulling him down, pulling him closer. He felt Grant's groan vibrate through his own chest, and then the older man's hands were moving—one in Jaden's hair, gripping hard, the other finding the button of his jeans.

The workshop was cold. The air was cool on Jaden's skin as Grant pushed his jeans down his hips, as his underwear followed, as the rough calloused hand wrapped around his already hard cock, and Jaden gasped, his head falling back, his hips thrusting into Grant's grip before he could help himself.

"That's it," Grant murmured, his thumb sweeping over the head, spreading the slick bead of pre-cum that had already gathered there. "That's what I wanted to see. You, like this. Just you."

Jaden's knees buckled, but Grant caught him, guided him, turned him and bent him over the edge of the workbench. The wood pressed against his stomach, cool against his heated skin, and he felt Grant's hands on his hips, spreading him, exposing him to the cold air of the workshop.

"You've got lube?" Jaden heard himself say, and his voice was cracked, desperate, not his own.

Grant laughed—low, dark, the sound of a man who had already won. "I've got everything I need."

He reached into his back pocket and produced a small metal tin, the kind Jaden had seen in hardware stores, the kind meant for tools. He opened it with his thumb, and Jaden caught the scent—linseed oil, warm and organic, mixed with something else. Grant dipped two fingers in, coating them, and then those fingers found Jaden's entrance, circling, pressing, and Jaden's breath caught in his throat.

"You ready?" Grant asked, and his voice had gone soft, almost tender, the voice of a man who was about to take something he wanted very badly.

Jaden nodded. His hands gripped the edge of the workbench, his knuckles white, his whole body trembling with anticipation.

"Say it," Grant said.

Jaden's throat tightened. He swallowed. And then, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, he said it.

"Yes."

Grant's fingers pushed inside.

The stretch was immediate, a burning pressure that made Jaden gasp and grip the wood harder. Grant worked slowly, deliberately, one finger, then two, scissoring, stretching, finding the rhythm that made Jaden's hips push back, that made him moan into the sawdust-scented air. The oil was warm, slick, and Grant's fingers were patient, thorough, working Jaden open until the burn faded into something else, something hungry.

"Please," Jaden heard himself say. "Please, Grant—"

Grant's fingers withdrew, and Jaden felt the loss like an absence of breath. He heard the sound of a zipper, the rustle of denom, and then Grant's hands were on his hips again, repositioning him, and the head of Grant's cock pressed against his entrance.

"Look at me."

Jaden twisted his head, craned his neck, and found Grant's eyes. They were dark, blown wide, full of a hunger that made Jaden's chest ache.

"Don't look away," Grant said. And then he pushed in.

Jaden's mouth opened, but no sound came out. The stretch was deeper than last night, harder, Grant's cock filling him inch by unbearable inch, and Jaden's whole body bowed, his hands clawing at the workbench as if he could anchor himself to something solid. Grant's grip on his hips was iron, unyielding, and he kept pushing, kept sinking into Jaden's body until he was buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush against Jaden's ass, his breath hot and ragged against the back of Jaden's neck.

Grant held there. Didn't move. Just stayed, filling Jaden completely, and the pressure was overwhelming, a fullness that pushed against every nerve, that made Jaden's cock ache and his thighs tremble and his mind go blank with the sheer presence of it.

"Breathe," Grant whispered, his voice rough. "Breathe, son."

The word hit Jaden like a shockwave. He gasped, and his body loosened around Grant's cock, a surrender that was as much mental as physical, and Grant began to move.

The first stroke was slow, deliberate, a full pull-back and a slow, grinding thrust that drove Jaden's hips against the wood. The second was harder, faster, and the third was a demand. Grant set a rhythm that built from the ground up—his hips slapping against Jaden's ass, his hands gripping so hard they would leave marks, his breath coming in ragged grunts that filled the workshop.

Jaden had never been fucked like this. Not last night, not ever. This wasn't the careful, choreographed attention of a three-way. This was a man taking what he'd decided he wanted, and Jaden's body was the object of that wanting, and every stroke drove the truth deeper into him.

He could feel Grant everywhere. In the grip of his hands, in the weight of his body pressing him down, in the rhythm that owned Jaden's hips, in the voice that growled his name. Grant leaned over him, his chest pressing against Jaden's back, his mouth against Jaden's ear, and he whispered things that made Jaden's eyes roll back—filthy, possessive things, words that claimed him, marked him, owned him in ways no one ever had.

Jaden came without warning. One moment he was holding on, the next he was falling apart, his release spilling across the wood of the workbench, his body clenching around Grant's cock in pulsing waves that drew a deep, animal groan from the older man. Grant drove into him twice more, three times, and then he was coming, his body shuddering behind Jaden, his grip tightening until it was almost pain, his breath hot and ragged against Jaden's shoulder.

The workshop was quiet again, save for the sound of two men breathing.

Grant pulled out slowly, and Jaden felt the loss like a cold draft. He stayed bent over the workbench, his arms shaking, his legs barely holding him, his release cooling on the wood beneath him. Grant's hand found the back of his neck, rubbed once, a gesture that was almost tender.

"You okay?"

Jaden laughed. It came out cracked, breathless, a little unhinged. "I don't know what 'okay' means anymore."

Grant's hand stilled. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Jaden's shoulder, a slow press of lips that lingered.

"That's fair," he said. "But ask me again tonight."

He straightened, and Jaden heard him move, heard the sound of paper towels being pulled from a roll, the rustle of a zipper being done up. Grant returned and pressed a wad of paper towels into Jaden's hand.

"Clean up. When you're ready, come back inside. I'll put on fresh coffee."

Jaden nodded. He didn't look up. He heard Grant's footsteps cross the workshop, heard the door open, heard it close.

He was alone.

He straightened slowly, his muscles protesting, his body marked with the memory of Grant's hands. He looked down at the workbench—at the spilled release, the smeared oil, the dent where his own fingers had clawed into the wood.

He pressed the paper towels to his skin. Wiped. Folded. Wiped again. His hands were steady, which surprised him. He'd expected them to shake.

When he was clean, he pulled up his jeans, fastened the button, and stood in the center of the workshop, surrounded by the tools of a man who had just taken him apart. The half-finished table stood in its clamps, indifferent. The sawdust hung in the air, settling slowly, returning to rest.

Jaden looked at his reflection in the window—a young man with dark hair and dark eyes and a mouth that was still swollen from being kissed. He didn't look like someone who had just betrayed his girlfriend again. He looked like someone who had finally stopped pretending.

He opened the door, and the morning light washed over him, warm and ordinary.

Inside the house, Grant was pouring coffee into a fresh mug. He looked up when Jaden entered, and his blue eyes—Stacy's eyes, but older, sharper—held Jaden's across the room. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. The look he gave Jaden was enough—a look that said I know what you taste like now, and I'll have you again before the day is done.

Jaden took the mug Grant offered him. Their fingers touched. Neither pulled away.

Somewhere upstairs, water was running. Stacy was still in the shower, humming a song he'd heard her hum a hundred times, and she had no idea that the world had shifted under her feet. No idea that her boyfriend had just been fucked over her father's workbench, that he'd come with her father's name on his lips, that he'd already decided—in the hollow, honest space between one breath and the next—that he didn't know how to go back to the person he'd been before this house.

Jaden lifted the mug to his mouth. The coffee was hot, bitter, perfect.

And across the kitchen, Grant raised his own mug in a silent toast—not to the night they'd shared, not to the morning they'd just spent, but to the long afternoon still waiting ahead of them.