The afternoon had stretched like honey, slow and golden, until the kitchen light shifted from white to amber and Stacy's bread had risen twice under the tea towel. Jaden had helped her shape the loaves, his fingers sinking into the dough, feeling it give and spring back, and she'd laughed at something he said—he couldn't remember what—and touched his arm with flour-dusted fingers.

Now he stood on the back porch, the screen door clicking shut behind him, the last of the daylight bleeding through the trees at the edge of the yard. The grass needed cutting. A bird called somewhere in the distance. And Grant's palm was settling on his shoulder, heavy and warm, thumb pressing into the muscle at the base of his neck like he was testing the give of it.

Jaden didn't turn. He felt the pressure of Grant's hand, the way it lingered, the way it wasn't a casual touch—it was a claim, slow and deliberate, the same way Grant did everything.

He doesn't know I know, Jaden thought. He thinks I'm still the boy who stumbled into this house, confused and flattered and grateful to be wanted.

The thought sat inside him like a stone in a pocket, smooth and heavy and secret.

"Tommy told me you held your own," Grant said, low and rough, his hand sliding from Jaden's shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. The grip wasn't hard, but it was certain—the way a man holds something he's already decided belongs to him.

Jaden let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Is that what you call it?"

"I call it whatever it was." Grant's thumb traced the curve of his skull, a slow, possessive stroke. "But I want to hear it from you."

The workshop door was open at the edge of the yard, a rectangle of warm light spilling out across the grass, catching the dust motes that drifted in the still air. Jaden could see the edge of the workbench inside, the tools hanging on the wall, the shadow of something—a chair, a shelf—thrown long across the concrete floor.

He remembered that workbench. The grain of the wood under his palms. The way Grant had taken him there, bent him over it, claimed him with a hunger that had left Jaden breathless and raw and strangely, impossibly whole.

Grant's eyes were the same blue as his daughter's, but darker now, hungrier, as he waited for Jaden to choose whether to follow him inside.

"What do you want to hear?" Jaden asked, and his voice came out steadier than he expected. Steadier than he felt. "That I let him fuck me in the back of his car? That I liked it?"

Grant's fingers tightened in his hair, just a fraction. "That you didn't break."

He's checking, Jaden realized. He wants to know if Tommy broke me the way Derek broke.

The thought sharpened something in his chest. He wasn't Derek. He wasn't the boy who cried afterward, who couldn't hold the weight of what the Holloways offered. He was still standing. Still breathing. Still here.

"I didn't break," Jaden said, and it was true. "Is that what you needed to hear?"

Grant's eyes searched his face, and Jaden let him look. Let him see the steadiness there, the calm that had settled into his bones sometime between reading Stacy's texts and watching her shape bread dough with flour up to her elbows. The calm of knowing. The calm of choosing.

"That's part of it," Grant said, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "The other part is whether you're going to follow me through that door."

The workshop waited. The light spilled across the grass. Somewhere inside the house, Stacy was humming, her hands in dough, the radio playing something soft and forgettable. She had designed this moment—all of it, the whole weekend, the careful architecture of his seduction—and she didn't know he knew.

Jaden looked at Grant, at the hunger in those blue eyes, at the way the man's jaw was set, the way his hand still gripped Jaden's hair like he was afraid Jaden might slip away.

And Jaden decided to play a game.

"You ever been fucked by a man?" he asked.

The question hung in the air between them, strange and sharp, and Jaden watched Grant's face shift—not shock, not anger, but something closer to surprise, a crack in the easy confidence that Grant wore like a second skin.

Grant's hand went still in his hair. "What?"

"It's a simple question." Jaden let a small smile touch his mouth, just enough to show he wasn't joking. "You've had me. You've had Diana. You've had whatever else you've had in all these years. But have you ever been on the other side of it?"

Grant's eyes narrowed, but there was something new in them now—curiosity, maybe, or the first flicker of something that looked like uncertainty. "Where's this coming from?"

"Just answer the question."

The silence stretched. A cricket started somewhere in the grass, a long, lonely trill that seemed to underline the weight of the moment.

"No," Grant said finally, and the word came out rough, reluctant, like it had been pulled from him. "I haven't."

Jaden nodded slowly, letting that settle. "So you take. But you never give."

"That's not—" Grant stopped. His jaw worked. "That's not the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

The workshop light flickered—a moth batting against the bulb, maybe—and Jaden felt the power in the air shift, subtle as a change in the wind. He was standing on the back porch of the Holloway house, the man who'd claimed him still gripping his hair, and for the first time since he'd walked through the front door, Jaden felt like he had something the other person wanted.

"You called me son," Jaden said, and his voice was quiet now, almost soft. "When you had me over that workbench. You called me son, and I felt something I didn't know I needed."

Grant's breath caught. Just a fraction, just enough for Jaden to feel it in the hand that still held him.

"But if I'm going to be part of this family—all of it, like Diana said—then I need to know what I am to you." Jaden paused. "Not what you want to do to me. What I am."

Grant's blue eyes held his, dark and searching, and Jaden saw something crack in them—something that wasn't hunger or possession but something rawer, something that looked almost like need.

"What do you want to be?" Grant asked, and his voice had lost some of its roughness, some of its certainty.

Jaden stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of Grant's body, close enough to see the gray threading through the dark at his temples, the small scar at the corner of his eyebrow that Jaden had never noticed before.

"Daddy," Jaden said, and the word hung between them like a match struck in the dark.

Grant went still. Completely, utterly still, the way a man goes still when he's been hit by something he didn't see coming.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me." Jaden held his gaze, let the word sit, let it sink into the space between them. "You called me son. I'm calling you daddy. Unless you don't want that."

The silence was a living thing now, thick and breathing, and Jaden could feel his own heart beating in his throat, could feel the risk of what he'd just done. He had no idea if Grant would laugh at him, or push him away, or grab him by the hair and drag him into the workshop and fuck him until he forgot his own name.

Grant's hand tightened in his hair, then loosened. Tightened again, like he couldn't decide what to do with it.

"You're full of surprises," Grant said, and his voice was rough in a way Jaden hadn't heard before—not hungry, not commanding, but something closer to shaken.

"Is that a bad thing?"

Grant's thumb traced the line of Jaden's jaw, slow and deliberate, the callus catching on his skin. "I don't know yet."

"Then let's find out." Jaden turned his head, just enough to press his lips to the inside of Grant's wrist, to feel the pulse beating there, fast and strong. "Take me to the workshop, daddy. Show me what you've got."

The word again, deliberate, a second strike in the same place, and Jaden felt Grant's whole body tense, felt the tremor that ran through him, felt the way his breath caught and held.

Grant grabbed his hand—not gently, not the way a lover takes a lover's hand, but the way a man takes something he's afraid might slip away—and pulled him off the porch, across the grass, toward the open door of the workshop.

The light swallowed them both.

Inside, the workshop smelled of sawdust and oil and something metallic, the same smell that had been in Jaden's nose the first time Grant had bent him over the workbench. The tools hung on the wall in neat rows, organized by size, by purpose, by the kind of attention that spoke of a man who cared about the order of things.

Grant closed the door behind them, and the click of the latch was like a period at the end of a sentence, final and deliberate.

He turned to face Jaden, and his eyes were dark, the blue nearly swallowed by the pupil, his chest rising and falling faster than it had been a moment ago.

"Say it again," Grant said, and his voice was a command, rough and low and stripped of everything but want.

Jaden stepped into his space, close enough to feel the heat radiating off Grant's body, close enough to smell the soap on his skin, the faint trace of coffee on his breath.

"Daddy," he said, and he let the word fill the space between them, let it settle into the sawdust and the shadows. "I'm yours. All of me. Whatever you want."

Grant's hands came up to cup his face, rough palms against his cheeks, thumbs tracing the line of his cheekbones like he was memorizing the shape of him.

"You don't know what you're asking for," Grant said, but his voice broke on the last word, cracked open like something had finally given way.

"Then show me."

Grant's mouth found his, hard and hungry, and Jaden let himself be kissed, let himself be held, let himself be pulled into the heat of Grant's body until there was no space left between them. Grant's hand fisted in his hair again, yanking his head back, exposing his throat, and Jaden let him, let him take what he needed, because he understood now—understood that Grant needed to take, needed to claim, needed to feel like he was still the one in control.

But Jaden knew what Grant didn't: that the control was a gift. That Jaden was giving it to him, deliberately, the same way Stacy had given her parents the gift of Jaden's body, the same way the whole family had folded him into their design.

He wasn't being used anymore. He was choosing to be used.

And that made all the difference in the world.

"You're mine," Grant said against his mouth, the words rough and broken. "You understand that? Mine."

"Yes," Jaden breathed. "Daddy."

The word did something to Grant—something Jaden could feel in the way his hands trembled, the way his breath stuttered, the way he pressed his forehead against Jaden's and just breathed for a long moment, his eyes closed, his whole body shaking with something that looked almost like relief.

"I didn't know I needed that," Grant said, so quiet Jaden almost didn't hear it. "I didn't know."

"Now you do." Jaden reached up and covered Grant's hands with his own, felt the calluses, the strength, the slight tremor that ran through them. "You want me to say it again?"

Grant opened his eyes. They were wet, just at the edges, just enough for Jaden to see.

"Yes."

"Daddy."

Grant kissed him again, softer this time, and Jaden felt the shift—felt the way Grant was no longer just taking, but receiving. The power had moved between them, subtle as a breath, and Jaden held it carefully, like a thing that could break.

"I want to try something," Jaden said, pulling back just enough to meet Grant's eyes. "If you'll let me."

Grant's brow furrowed. "What?"

Jaden let his hand slide down Grant's chest, felt the solid wall of muscle, the quick beat of his heart. "I want you to lie down on the workbench."

Grant's eyes widened, just a fraction, and Jaden watched the war play out across his face—the instinct to resist, to stay in control, warring with the hunger for something new, something he'd never had before.

"You want to—" Grant stopped. Swallowed. "You want to fuck me."

"I want to give you something you've never had," Jaden said. "I want you to know what it feels like to be the one who gives up control. Just once. Just to see."

The silence stretched. A moth beat against the light. Somewhere in the house, Stacy was probably pulling the bread out of the oven, setting it to cool on the counter, humming her tuneless hum.

Grant's jaw worked. His hands were still on Jaden's face, still cupping his cheeks, and Jaden could feel the tremor in them—the conflict, the fear, the want.

"I don't know if I can," Grant said, and the admission was raw, naked, stripped of every layer of confidence and control.

"That's okay." Jaden turned his head and pressed a kiss to Grant's palm. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for. I just wanted you to know that I'd be willing."

Grant stared at him for a long moment, his blue eyes searching Jaden's face for something—fear, maybe, or pity, or the cruel edge of a game.

He didn't find it.

"You're not what I expected," Grant said finally, and his voice was strange, almost wondering.

"Neither are you." Jaden let his hands rest on Grant's hips, felt the solid bone beneath the denim. "Neither is any of this. But I'm still here. I'm still choosing this."

Grant's breath shuddered out of him. He looked at the workbench, at the wood grain that Jaden's palms had pressed into, at the tools on the wall, at the door that separated them from the house and the daughter who'd orchestrated all of it.

"Not tonight," Grant said, and his voice was steady again, but softer than Jaden had ever heard it. "But maybe—" He stopped. Started again. "Maybe soon."

Jaden nodded. "Whenever you're ready. I'm not going anywhere."

Grant pulled him close, wrapped his arms around him, held him against his chest like he was something precious, something fragile, something worth keeping. And Jaden let himself be held, let himself be wanted, let himself sink into the warm dark of Grant's body and the smell of sawdust and the sound of a man breathing like he'd just been given something he didn't know he needed.

In the house, the kitchen light flicked on, brighter than the fading dusk, and Stacy's voice called out—something about dinner, something about the bread, something that sounded like a life Jaden was still learning how to live inside.

He didn't pull away from Grant. Not yet.

"We should go in," Jaden said, but his voice was muffled against Grant's chest, and neither of them moved.

"In a minute." Grant's hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. "Just—in a minute."

Jaden closed his eyes and breathed.

The workshop smelled like sawdust and oil and the man holding him. The light was warm against his closed lids. Somewhere a cricket sang, and somewhere else the girl who'd designed his destruction was setting the table for dinner, and Jaden stood in the arms of her father and felt, for the first time all weekend, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Maybe that was the game he was really playing. Not a power game, not a revenge game, but the game of finding out what it felt like to be wanted—by all of them, in all the ways they wanted him—and deciding, for himself, whether that was something he could live with.

The answer was still forming, still taking shape in the dark behind his eyes.

But it was getting clearer.

Grant's hand tightened in his hair, once, then loosened. "Come on," he said, and his voice was back to normal—the low, easy drawl, the confidence restored. "Let's go see what my daughter made for dinner."

He said my daughter like it was a title, like it was a reminder, like it was a line he was drawing between the workshop and the house.

But Jaden heard the catch in it. The hesitation. The way the word didn't sit as easily as it used to.

He took Grant's hand—not because Grant offered it, but because Jaden reached for it—and walked with him across the grass, through the twilight, toward the warm yellow light of the kitchen window.

Inside, Stacy was pulling a loaf of bread from the oven, her face flushed with heat, her hair escaping from its ponytail. She looked up when they came in, and her smile was bright and uncomplicated, full of love and flour and the easy confidence of someone who thought she had everything under control.

"There you are," she said. "I was starting to think you two got lost."

"Just showing Jaden the workshop," Grant said, and his voice was smooth, fatherly, the mask back in place. "He's got good instincts with his hands."

Stacy laughed, oblivious, and turned back to the bread. "He's got good instincts everywhere, Dad. Trust me."

Jaden watched her, this girl who'd designed his destruction, and felt something shift in his chest—not anger, not betrayal, but something closer to acceptance. She had brought him here to be devoured. She had offered him to her family like a gift, like a sacrifice, like a test he was meant to pass or fail.

And he had passed.

He was still passing.

He looked at Grant, who was watching him with those dark blue eyes, and he let a small smile touch his mouth—a secret, a promise, a door left open.

Grant's hand brushed his, just for a second, hidden by the counter.

And Jaden sat down at the table, in the chair that was already his, and let the Holloway family close around him like a net he had chosen to wear.

Tommy had taken the chair beside him—not across, not at the head of the table where Grant usually sat, but the empty seat to Jaden's right, close enough that their elbows nearly touched when Tommy reached for the butter. He'd come in from the back door, hair damp from a shower, wearing a gray t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, and he'd slid into place without a word, without looking at Jaden, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But Jaden felt the weight of him. Felt the heat radiating off his body, the way Tommy's knee brushed his under the table and stayed there, a point of contact that neither of them acknowledged.

The table was crowded with food—Stacy's bread, still warm, a pot roast Diana had pulled from the oven, green beans glistening with butter, a salad that looked like it had been composed rather than tossed. The Holloway kitchen had transformed from a domestic space into a stage, and every player had taken their mark.

Grant sat at the head of the table, his plate already half-full, his easy confidence restored. Diana was across from Jaden, her hair loose, a glass of wine in her hand, her hazel eyes moving between her children and her guest with the patient attention of a woman who missed nothing. Stacy was beside her mother, chattering about the bread, about the roast, about how the weekend had flown by and how she didn't want to go back to campus on Monday.

Normal. Easy. A family dinner.

Jaden's hand rested on his thigh under the table, and he felt the weight of the choice sitting in his chest like a held breath.

Play with them, he thought. You said you wanted to play.

The roast was good—tender, seasoned with rosemary and garlic, the kind of meal that tasted like effort and love. Jaden ate mechanically, his body on autopilot while his mind worked through the geometry of the table, the angles, the sightlines, the risk.

Tommy was beside him. Tommy, who had fucked him in the backseat of his car and reported back to Stacy like a good soldier. Tommy, who had watched Jaden with those assessing blue eyes and found him good enough to pass the test.

Jaden wanted to see those eyes change.

"How was the workshop tour?" Diana asked, her voice light, her smile knowing. "Grant doesn't take just anyone back there."

"It was educational," Jaden said, and he let his hand drift from his thigh to the edge of his chair, let his fingers brush against Tommy's knee under the table. Just a whisper of contact, barely there. "He's got a lot of tools."

Tommy's knee jerked—just a fraction, just enough for Jaden to feel it. Then it stilled. Then it pressed back.

The confirmation was electric.

"He's had that workshop since before the kids were born," Diana said, her eyes flicking to her husband with a warmth that looked genuine. "It's his sanctuary."

"Every man needs a sanctuary," Grant said, and his voice was easy, but his eyes were on Jaden, tracking the way Jaden's hand had disappeared below the table, the way Tommy had gone very still beside him.

Jaden saw Grant's gaze catch. Saw the flicker of understanding. Saw the way Grant's jaw tightened, just for a moment, before he reached for his wine and took a long, slow drink.

He knows, Jaden thought. Or he suspects.

The thought thrilled through him, sharp and bright.

He let his hand settle on Tommy's thigh, palm flat, feeling the solid muscle through the denim. Tommy's breathing changed—a barely audible hitch, the kind of sound you'd miss if you weren't listening for it. Jaden was listening.

"This bread is incredible," Jaden said, reaching across the table with his free hand, tearing off a piece, keeping his voice steady and warm. "You've got to teach me how you did the crust."

Stacy's face lit up. "Really? Most guys don't care about baking."

"Most guys don't know what they're missing." Jaden smiled at her, open and sincere, while his fingers traced the seam of Tommy's jeans, slow and deliberate, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. "Fresh bread. Rosemary. Garlic. That's the whole point of being alive, isn't it?"

Stacy laughed, bright and uncomplicated, and launched into a detailed explanation of steam and oven temperature and the exact timing of the egg wash.

Jaden nodded along, asked questions, kept his eyes on her face while his hand moved higher on Tommy's thigh, finding the growing heat of him, the shape of him beginning to harden under the denim.

Tommy's hand was gripping his fork too tightly, the knuckles white. He hadn't taken a bite in thirty seconds.

"You okay, Tommy?" Diana asked, and her voice was casual, but her eyes were sharp, moving between her son and Jaden with a knowing gleam. "You look a little flushed."

"Fine," Tommy said, and his voice came out rough, tighter than usual. "Just—thinking about something."

"Don't think too hard," Grant said, and there was an edge to his voice, something that might have been amusement or might have been warning. "You'll hurt yourself."

Tommy shot his father a look that Jaden couldn't quite read, but he didn't move his leg. Didn't pull away. Didn't stop Jaden's hand.

Jaden's fingers found the button of Tommy's jeans, traced the metal edge, felt the heat of the body beneath. Tommy's cock was fully hard now, pressing against the fly, and Jaden could feel the shape of it through the denim, the length and the weight and the desperate urgency of it.

"So the trick is the steam," Stacy was saying, oblivious, her hands moving as she talked. "You put a pan of water in the bottom of the oven, and it creates this—this perfect environment for the crust to develop."

"That makes sense," Jaden said, and his voice was steady, his smile easy, while his fingers worked the button of Tommy's jeans one-handed, popping it open with a soft click that only Tommy could hear. "It's all about the environment."

Tommy's breath caught. His hand dropped to his lap, under the table, and Jaden felt his fingers brush against his own—not pushing him away, not pulling him closer, just touching, like Tommy needed to confirm this was really happening.

Jaden caught his wrist, held it, guided Tommy's hand to his own thigh. A trade. A promise.

Then he reached into Tommy's open fly and wrapped his fingers around the hot, hard length of him.

Tommy made a sound—small, barely audible, swallowed almost before it left his throat. But Jaden heard it. Felt it in the way Tommy's cock twitched against his palm, in the way Tommy's thighs tensed, in the way his breathing went shallow and uneven.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" Diana asked, and her voice was honey, her eyes on her son, her smile never wavering. "You've gone quiet."

"Fine," Tommy said again, and the word came out strangled. He cleared his throat, reached for his water, took a long drink. "Just tired."

"Young people are always tired," Grant said, and his voice was dry, but his eyes were on Jaden's arm, on the way it was angled, on the way it disappeared below the table. "Too much energy spent on things that don't matter."

Jaden felt the words land, felt the weight of Grant's gaze, felt the way the man was watching him with a new kind of attention—not hunger, not possession, but something closer to recognition.

He sees me.

The thought was intoxicating.

Jaden started to move his hand, slow and deliberate, a long, firm stroke from base to tip, feeling every ridge and vein of Tommy's cock through the thin cotton of his boxers. Tommy's hips jerked involuntarily, a tiny thrust into Jaden's grip, and Jaden felt the shudder that ran through him, felt the way Tommy's hand tightened on his thigh.

"The bread really is amazing," Jaden said, and his voice was easy, conversational, while his thumb traced the head of Tommy's cock, feeling the pre-cum already beginning to soak through the fabric. "You should enter it in a contest or something."

Stacy laughed, pleased. "You think so?"

"I know so." Jaden stroked again, slower, watching Stacy's face, watching the way her smile was so open, so trusting, so completely unaware of what his hand was doing under the table. "Best bread I've ever had."

Tommy's breath was coming in short, sharp pulls now, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hand gripping Jaden's thigh hard enough to bruise. Jaden could feel the tension in his body, the way he was fighting to stay still, to stay quiet, to keep the mask in place while Jaden's hand worked him toward the edge.

"You know," Diana said, her voice slow and thoughtful, her eyes on Jaden with a new kind of interest, "I don't think we've ever had a guest who fit in so well."

She knows, Jaden realized. She can't see what I'm doing, but she knows something is happening. She can read her son's body the way I'm reading it.

The thought should have scared him. It didn't. It made him want to push further.

"I like it here," Jaden said, and he meant it, which was the strangest part. "Your family's got something special."

He twisted his wrist on the next stroke, a subtle rotation that made Tommy's breath hitch again, and he felt the answering pulse of Tommy's cock against his palm, felt the way the pre-cum had soaked through the cotton and was making his hand slick.

"So," Stacy said, setting down her fork, her eyes bright, "what does everyone want to do tonight? We could watch a movie, or play cards, or—"

"I thought I'd take Jaden out back," Tommy said, and his voice was rough, strained, but he was trying—trying to sound normal, trying to play his part. "Show him the property. It's nice at night."

"That's a great idea," Diana said, and her smile was slow, knowing. "The stars are beautiful this time of year."

Jaden squeezed, just a fraction, a promise of what was coming. Tommy's cock was throbbing in his hand, desperate and hard, and Jaden could feel the edge approaching, could feel the way Tommy's body was starting to shake.

"I'd like that," Jaden said, and his voice was warm, his eyes on Tommy's face, watching the struggle play out across his features—the parted lips, the flushed cheeks, the way his blue eyes were dark and glazed. "I'd like that a lot."

He worked faster now, a steady, relentless rhythm, his palm sliding easily against the soaked fabric. Tommy's hips were moving in small, helpless thrusts, and Jaden knew he didn't have much time—knew Tommy was close, knew the dinner table was about to become the scene of a confession Tommy hadn't chosen to make.

"Tommy?" Stacy's voice was curious. "You okay? You look kind of—"

"He's fine," Jaden said, and he tightened his grip, twisted his wrist, pressed the heel of his hand against the base of Tommy's cock as he stroked him through the final, shuddering edge. "Just tired, like he said."

Tommy's body went rigid, his hand clamping down on Jaden's thigh, his jaw clenching as he came—silent, desperate, his whole body shaking with the force of it. Jaden felt the hot pulse of cum soaking through the cotton, felt Tommy's cock twitch and spasm in his grip, felt the shudder that ran through him like a current.

And he kept stroking, slow and gentle now, helping Tommy ride it out while his face remained calm, his eyes on Stacy, his smile easy and warm.

Tommy's hand on his thigh loosened. His breathing started to even out. His body sagged, just slightly, like something in him had given way.

Jaden withdrew his hand slowly, wiping it on his own napkin under the table, leaving Tommy to deal with the mess in his jeans.

"You know," Jaden said, picking up his fork and taking a bite of roast, "I'd love to see the property. After dinner, maybe."

Tommy's eyes met his, and there was something new in them—something that looked like wonder, or fear, or the beginning of understanding.

"After dinner," Tommy said, and his voice was hoarse. "Sure."

Grant was watching Jaden now with an expression Jaden couldn't quite read—something that might have been pride, might have been possessiveness, might have been the first glimmer of a new kind of hunger.

Diana raised her wine glass and took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving Jaden's face.

And Stacy laughed and reached for another piece of bread, oblivious, happy, the architect of a game she no longer controlled.

Jaden smiled and ate his dinner, the taste of Tommy's cum still faint on his fingers, the knowledge of what he'd just done settling into his bones like a new kind of power.