She wasn’t glad to see him. He knew that, but he stood there anyway.

“I don’t need anything.”

It was tempting to lie, and say I know. To humour her and let her think she could hide from him like she was hiding from the rest of the world. To give her that false sense of security. Fuck, he knew she needed it in this moment. Would feel fragile, being seen by him.

But the truth was, she was barely hanging on, and although she wasn’t open to help, not yet, she needed a lot. Money. A strong shoulder to cry on. Probably a good fuck, if Malcolm’s stories about their sex life were to be believed.

I go to him in a feverish panic. Climb into his lap and grab his hands, pulling them to my belly.

“It aches," I whine in the soft, needy voice that he’s told me he loves. I imagine my begging words wrapping around his brain stem and squeezing tight. Flipping that Daddy switch.

God damn it. He hadn’t meant to finish inside her. One minute they were wrestling, a playful tussle because he’d been gone for two weeks and they’d missed each other desperately, and then they were kissing—roommates aren’t for kissing, but her lips were sweet magic against his, he couldn’t help it—and then her sundress slipped up her curvy thighs and that first brush of his hand against her cotton panties...

"Remember when we had all the time in the world?"

"Off."

She giggled. "And we'd just make out for--"

"I said off. Get these off. Now."