The guest room settled into its midnight hush, the lamp still burning low on the nightstand, and Jaden lay on his back staring at the ceiling. The house had gone quiet an hour ago — the click of a bedroom door upstairs, the groan of old pipes falling silent, the last of the porch light clicking off. He'd showered. He'd brushed his teeth. He'd put on the same boxers and T-shirt he'd worn the first night, and he'd lain down in the dark that smelled like Diana's perfume from the pillowcase, and he'd closed his eyes.

Sleep didn't come.

His body was heavy and wired at once, the ghost of Grant's hands still somewhere on his skin, the memory of Diana's mouth still warm in the back of his mind. And somewhere in the house, Tommy Holloway was probably lying awake too, those blue eyes sharp in the dark, still watching even without a window between them.

Jaden rubbed a hand over his face and tried to find a comfortable position. The springs creaked. The pillow was too flat. The lamp cast a yellow circle he couldn't stop looking at.

Then he heard it — a soft sound in the hallway. Not the creak of the house settling. Footsteps. Light ones, careful ones, padding across the floorboards toward his door.

He held his breath.

Three knocks. Soft. Paused between each one, like the person on the other side was second-guessing themselves.

Too light for Diana. Too careful for Grant.

Jaden swung his legs off the bed, crossed the rough carpet in three strides, and opened the door.

Stacy stood in the dim hallway, her hair mussed into a messy halo, a faded T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, pajama shorts that showed the whole length of her legs. Her feet were bare. Her eyes were wide and searching, and she looked small in the half-dark — younger than twenty, younger than she'd looked all weekend.

"Hey," she whispered. Her voice was scratchy, like she'd been asleep and wasn't fully awake yet. "I had a weird dream."

She didn't wait for an answer. She slipped past him into the room, her bare arm brushing his chest as she went, and he caught the scent of her — toothpaste and the faint vanilla of her lotion, familiar and disorienting all at once.

"Stacy —"

"Can I sleep in here?" She was already climbing onto the bed, the springs groaning under her weight. She settled into the center of the mattress, pulling his pillow into her lap, and looked up at him with those blue eyes — the same blue as Grant's, the same blue as Tommy's, but softer, warmer, asking instead of measuring. "I know it's dumb. It's just — the dream was weird, and my room feels too big, and I kept thinking about you."

Jaden stood frozen by the door, his hand still on the knob, his heart beating somewhere in his throat.

"Come here," she said, patting the mattress beside her. "I don't bite."

He didn't move. The room felt smaller with her in it, the air thinner, the lamp's yellow circle suddenly too bright. He could still feel Grant's mouth on his, Diana's hands on his chest, the weight of both of them pressing him into the mattress from opposite sides. And here was Stacy, his girlfriend, the reason he'd come to this house, curling up on his bed like she belonged there.

Because she did belong there. She was supposed to belong there.

"Jaden." Her voice softened. She tilted her head, a strand of honey-blonde falling across her cheek. "You okay?"

"Yeah." The word came out rough. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Just — tired."

"Then come sleep." She patted the mattress again. "I promise I'll keep my hands to myself. Mostly."

That got a laugh out of him — a small one, surprised out of his chest, and something in Stacy's face relaxed when she heard it. She smiled, that easy sunlit smile she'd worn the first time he saw her across the campus library, and it felt like a lifetime ago.

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The springs dipped. Stacy shifted closer, her knee brushing his thigh, and the contact was warm and familiar and nothing like the charged weight of Diana's hand or Grant's shoulder.

"What was the dream about?" he asked, mostly to have something to say.

Stacy's smile flickered. She looked down at her hands, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his pillow. "I don't really remember. Just — something bad. Something about losing you." She looked up, and her eyes were earnest, open, trusting in a way that made his stomach turn. "It felt real. I woke up and my heart was pounding, and I just — I needed to see you."

Jaden's throat tightened. He wanted to say something — wanted to tell her she hadn't lost him, wanted to tell her the truth, wanted to tell her anything that would make that look leave her face — but the words wouldn't come.

So instead, he lay down beside her.

The bed was too narrow for two people, but they'd made it work before, in his dorm room, in her apartment, in the back of his car at a drive-in. Stacy turned onto her side, tucking her knees behind his, and her hand found his chest, resting over his heart.

"Thanks," she whispered. "For letting me stay."

"You don't have to thank me."

"I know." She traced a circle over his heart, the cotton of his T-shirt soft under her fingertips. "But I mean it."

The room went quiet. The lamp hummed. Somewhere in the walls, the old house settled, a soft groan of wood and plaster. Stacy's breath evened out, slow and warm against his neck, and Jaden stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds, waiting for his pulse to slow.

It didn't.

Her hand moved — a slow, deliberate slide down his chest, over his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his boxers. Her fingers rested there, light and warm, and Jaden's breath caught.

"Stacy —"

"Shh." She lifted her head, propping herself on one elbow, and looked down at him. Her hair fell forward, curtaining them both in honey-blonde shadow. Her eyes were dark in the dim light, her lips slightly parted, and she looked at him the way she'd looked at him a hundred times before — with wanting, with certainty, with no question at all. "I know my parents are right down the hall. I don't care."

She leaned down and kissed him.

It was soft at first — her lips warm and familiar, the taste of toothpaste, the gentle pressure of a kiss that knew exactly what it wanted. Jaden's hand found her waist out of habit, his fingers curling into the fabric of her T-shirt, and she made a small sound against his mouth, a hum of approval that sent a shiver down his spine.

She deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding against his, and he felt the shift — the way her body pressed closer, the way her hand slid lower, hooking into the waistband of his boxers and tugging. He was half-hard already, the heat of her mouth and the weight of her thigh pushing him there, and when her fingers found him through the cotton, he gasped against her lips.

"I missed this," she murmured, her mouth moving to his jaw, his throat. "I missed you."

She pulled at his boxers, and he lifted his hips to help her, the fabric sliding down his thighs. Her hand closed around him, warm and sure, and she stroked once, twice, watching his face as she did it, reading the way his eyes fluttered closed, the way his breath stuttered.

"You're so quiet," she said, almost amused. "You've always been quiet. But I can feel it — the way your heart races, the way you tense up. I know what you want, Jaden."

She kissed down his chest, her lips trailing over his collarbone, his sternum, his stomach, her tongue flicking against his skin as she went. When she reached his hips, she looked up at him — one last glance, checking — and then she took him into her mouth.

Jaden's head fell back against the pillow, his hand finding her hair, his fingers threading through the honey-blonde strands. Her mouth was hot and wet, her tongue tracing the length of him with a practiced rhythm, and he had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound. The bedsprings creaked as she shifted, finding a better angle, and the sound of it — the wet sound of her mouth, the creak of the old iron frame — filled the small room like a confession.

She took him deeper, and he felt the back of her throat, the reflexive swallow, the way she relaxed into it like she'd done it a hundred times before. And she had — a hundred times, in his dorm, in her car, in the dark of her apartment while her roommate slept. It was familiar. It was good. It was everything he'd wanted from the moment he met her.

And it wasn't enough.

The thought hit him like cold water, and he opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling, his hand still tangled in her hair. Because he could feel the difference — the way her mouth was eager but not hungry, the way her hand wrapped around what she couldn't reach but didn't grip, didn't demand. Diana had taken him like she owned him. Grant had taken him like he was claiming territory. Stacy was giving him pleasure, and it was the first time all weekend someone had done that without wanting something else from him.

He closed his eyes and let himself have it.

She worked him until he was close, the heat building in his gut, his hips starting to lift into her mouth. She pulled off just before the edge, a wet sound that made his stomach clench, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smiling up at him, pleased with herself.

"Your turn," she said, and she rolled onto her back, pulling her shorts down her thighs and kicking them off onto the floor. She lay there in the dim light, her T-shirt bunched around her ribs, her legs open, the dark triangle of hair between them already glistening. "Come here."

Jaden moved without thinking, shifting down the bed, settling between her thighs. The scent of her hit him — warm and musky and familiar, the scent of Stacy when she was turned on, and his mouth watered despite himself. He leaned down and tasted her, and she gasped, her hand finding his hair, her thighs tightening around his head.

He licked her slowly, deliberately, the way he'd learned she liked it — broad strokes, then pointed pressure, then a circle that made her hips jerk. She was wet and warm against his tongue, and he listened to the sounds she made, those small breathy moans she tried to swallow, the way her fingers clenched in his hair when he hit the right spot.

But there was a rhythm he knew — the rhythm of her, the rhythm of their hundred nights together — and his tongue traced it by rote, by memory, by the muscle memory of a body that had learned this one partner and no other. And as her breath quickened, as her hips started to roll against his mouth, he felt a strange distance open up inside him. He knew exactly what she needed next. He knew what sound she'd make when he gave it to her. He knew, with a certainty that felt like a small betrayal in itself, that he could make her come in three minutes flat and that she'd never know the difference between his mouth and the mouth of someone who'd learned from a different teacher.

He pushed the thought away and focused on her. On the taste of her. On the way her thighs trembled. On the soft curse she breathed when he pressed harder, faster, until her back arched and she came against his mouth with a shuddering cry that she barely managed to muffle against her own hand.

He kissed his way up her body, tasting himself on her lips as she pulled him into a kiss, her tongue sliding against his, lazy and satisfied. She was smiling when they broke apart, her eyes half-closed, her cheeks flushed.

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

She rolled him onto his back, straddling his hips, and he felt her wetness against his stomach, the heat of her settling over him. She reached down and guided him to her entrance, and he felt the tip of himself press against her, the familiar pressure, the way she paused there, hovering, her eyes meeting his.

"Ready?" she whispered.

He nodded. He couldn't find words.

She sank down onto him, slow and deliberate, and the heat of her enveloped him, tight and wet and perfect. She let out a long breath, her eyes fluttering closed, her hands braced on his chest, and she sat there for a moment, adjusting to the fullness of him inside her.

Then she began to move.

The rhythm was familiar — the rock of her hips, the way she leaned forward when she wanted it deeper, the small sound she made on every downstroke. Her hair swung forward, brushing his chest, and he watched her face in the dim light, watched the concentration and the pleasure and the trust written across her features. She was beautiful. She was his girlfriend. She had no idea what he'd done this morning, what he'd done this weekend, what her own parents had done to him and with him and for him.

The guilt didn't come. It should have. He waited for it, braced for it, but there was nothing — just the warm weight of her body, the slick heat of her cunt, the creak of the bedsprings keeping time with her rhythm. He was inside her, and she was riding him, and all he could think about was the difference between this and the way Grant had fucked him over the workbench. The difference between the way Stacy moved and the way Diana had taken him into her body, slow and claiming, like she was memorizing him.

Stacy leaned down, her mouth finding his, and she kissed him as she rode him, sloppy and open-mouthed, her breath hot against his cheek. Her pace quickened, her thighs starting to shake, and he felt her tightening around him, felt her getting close.

"Come with me," she whispered against his lips. "Please. Come with me."

He wanted to. He wanted to let go, to fall into the familiar heat of her, to come inside her the way he'd done a dozen times before. But his body wouldn't follow. He was hard inside her, present and awake, but the edge wouldn't come — the release wouldn't find him — and he realized, with a clarity that felt like a door closing, that he wasn't in his body anymore. He was watching himself from somewhere above the bed, watching the shapes they made in the lamplight, a college sophomore and his girlfriend, and he couldn't feel any of it.

Stacy came with a shattered sigh, her body clenching around him, her nails digging into his chest. She rode through it, slowing, her hips stuttering until she stilled, collapsed against his chest, her heart hammering against his ribs.

She lay there for a long moment, catching her breath. Then she lifted her head, her brow furrowed, and looked at him.

"You didn't come," she said. It wasn't an accusation. Just an observation, a note of concern in her sleepy voice.

"I'm okay."

"I know, but —" She shifted off him, and he felt the loss of her warmth, the sudden cool air on his skin. She lay beside him, propping herself on an elbow, her hand tracing a lazy pattern on his chest. "You didn't used to hold back like that."

He didn't know what to say to that. He stared at the ceiling, at the shadows the lamp threw against the plaster.

"You've learned some new things," she said, and there was a note in her voice he couldn't read — teasing, maybe, or curious, or something in between. "The way you went down on me tonight. That was different. Slower. More —" She searched for the word. "Intentional."

Jaden's heart stopped. Then started again, too fast.

"I've always been intentional," he said, keeping his voice light.

"No, you haven't." She laughed, soft and fond, and poked his ribs. "You're cute when you're trying not to brag. But I know your mouth, Jaden. I've been knowing it for six months." Her hand found his, her fingers threading through his. "Something's different."

The silence stretched. The lamp hummed. The house settled, a soft groan from somewhere in the walls.

Jaden could feel the question hanging in the air between them — unspoken, delicate, waiting to be asked. He could feel the weight of it, the shape of it, the way it pressed against his chest like a hand. She was giving him an opening. She was asking, without asking, for the truth.

He didn't give it to her.

"I don't know what to tell you," he said, and the lie came out smooth, practiced, like he'd been telling it his whole life. "Maybe I'm just getting better."

Stacy was quiet for a long moment. Her thumb traced circles on the back of his hand, slow and thoughtful. He could feel her eyes on him, searching his face in the dim light, looking for something he wasn't sure he was hiding well enough.

Then she let out a breath — a soft, accepting sound — and snuggled closer, pressing her face into his shoulder. "Maybe you are," she murmured. "Lucky me."

She didn't ask. She didn't push. She curled against his side, her hand over his heart, and within minutes, her breathing evened out, slow and deep, the rhythm of sleep pulling her under.

Jaden lay awake beside her, the lamp still burning, the ceiling still covered in shadows. He could feel the ghost of Grant's hands on his hips. The ghost of Diana's mouth on his throat. The ghost of Tommy's blue eyes watching through the kitchen window. And the ghost of Stacy's question, still hanging in the air between them, unanswered, unacknowledged, waiting for a day when she wouldn't be too tired to ask it again.

He didn't sleep that night. He stared at the ceiling until the lamp began to dim, and when the first gray light of morning crept through the curtains, he was still awake, still watching, still waiting for a guilt that never came.