Jillian stirred before the room fully lightened with dawn, the pale glow of morning slipping through the curtains and casting faint streaks across the bed. Her first conscious thought was a peculiar disorientation—a sense of floating between the realms of wakefulness and dreams. For a fleeting moment, she clung to the hope that the events of the previous two nights were nothing more than a figment of her imagination, distorted fragments of a fevered nightmare. But the ache in her body, the sourness of her vagina, and the electric residue on her skin betrayed her. Reality weighed her down like a stone sinking in still water.
Turning her head slightly, she caught sight of Michael, his face serene, mouth slightly open in the unguarded vulnerability of deep sleep. She envied him in that instant—the oblivion he could retreat into, the innocence of his unawareness. She checked her watch: 7:07 AM. The precision of the numbers startled her, as if time itself had carved them out just for her to see, freezing her in place. She let the moment hang, staring at the time until it lost meaning.
Unlike the nausea that had assaulted her the previous morning, today brought an unsettling numbness. The memories of last night played faintly in her mind, muted and distant, as though they belonged to someone else—a film she had watched, not an experience she had lived. Yet there were moments when the detachment faltered when flashes of sensation returned unbidden: the warmth trailing down her body, the electric hum that settled into her very bones. A shiver danced up her spine, its unexpected pleasure almost causing her to gasp aloud. She bolted upright, her movements brisk and mechanical. She couldn't stay in this bed, this room, this house—not right now.
Moving with deliberate quiet, she slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. The splash of cold water on her face was a weak balm against the absence of emotion, but she savored its grounding chill. She brushed her teeth methodically, as if performing the ritual might purge her thoughts as easily as it did last night's remnants of morality. Returning to the bedroom, she rummaged through her belongings as soundlessly as possible, pulling out a black string bikini and a towel. She hesitated, glancing at Michael's still form, and decided against changing there. She couldn't risk the intimacy of waking him, of facing his inevitable questions, however benign they might be.
Downstairs, the air felt cooler, the tiles beneath her feet like polished stone. She entered the ground-floor bathroom and locked the door, her movements rushed yet precise. She changed quickly, averting her gaze from her reflection in the mirror. The sight of her own body felt foreign, like looking at a stranger clothed in her skin. Once ready, she stepped out into the morning, the heat of the sun a stark contrast to the chill that clung to her.
The world outside felt achingly serene. The sky stretched wide and blue, unmarred by clouds, and the sea sparkled as if studded with diamonds. The path to the secluded beach was familiar, its twists and turns guiding her to a place that promised solace. When she arrived, the beach was silent, save for the soft lapping of waves and the occasional cry of gulls. She found a shaded spot beneath a tree, its leaves casting dappled patterns on the sand. Spreading out her towel, she lowered herself onto it, her body sinking into the earth as if seeking refuge.
For a moment, she simply sat, letting the sounds of the ocean envelop her. But the stillness was deceptive. Inside her, a torrent of emotions churned, each wave crashing harder than the last. The peace she sought was elusive, slipping through her grasp as easily as grains of sand.
The gentle warmth of the sun pressed against Jillian's skin as she lay on the soft towel, the salty air filling her lungs in rhythmic waves. She closed her eyes, but her mind betrayed her attempt at stillness. The events of the previous night looped in fragmented flashes—Jonathan's face, her mouth over his cock, the surreal intimacy that was born out of a perverted experience. It felt both distant and searingly immediate like a dream slipping through her fingers only to reappear as a jarring reality.
Disgust came first, a sharp sting in her chest. How could I? The words scalded her as they formed in her mind, a self-condemnation that carried the weight of her upbringing, her morals, and the fragile identity she had built over decades. But just as quickly, a shiver of arousal coursed through her, unwanted and alien, leaving her breath uneven, her clitoris pulsating. She opened her eyes, staring at the blue sky as if it could absorb the storm inside her.
The juxtaposition of emotions was unbearable. Disgust gave way to fleeting moments of surrender, of acknowledgment—of desire. Then came destitution, a hollow emptiness that left her feeling like a stranger in her own skin. She had crossed a line two nights ago and doubled down last night, even as the peaceful morning around her remained indifferent.
Yet there was no nausea, no overwhelming urge to purge herself of what had happened. That, more than anything, terrified her. She had expected to feel crushed beneath the weight of shame forever. Instead, she felt… almost normal. That was the most unnerving part: the creeping sense of acceptance. Am I broken? she thought, her fingers tracing patterns in the sand as if it might reveal some answer.
The fear of permanence settled in her chest. Yesterday, she had been certain that she would never recover, that her life would spiral into a dark void from which there was no escape. But today, the absence of that all-consuming despair was more terrifying than its presence. If she could adapt to this—if she could carry on—what did that say about her? Was she so malleable, so innately flawed, that even something as unspeakable as this could become just another memory to bury?
Her thoughts circled back to questions she had no answers for. Who am I? she wondered, not as a rhetorical lament but as a genuine inquiry. She stared at the waves lapping at the shore, their ceaseless rhythm an indifferent echo of her spiraling thoughts. Who was I before this? Who am I now?
At one moment, an incredulous laugh escaped Jillian's lips, startling even herself with its bitter edge. The absurdity of the situation was almost poetic: twenty-three years by Michael's side, eighteen of them as his wife, and never once had she strayed. Not during those late nights with her girlfriends when cocktails and camaraderie blurred boundaries, not even in the face of Michael's betrayal, which she had desired to avenge. She had been steadfast, her fidelity a quiet protest against the chaos of their shared life. And yet, here, on this family vacation of all places—an enclave meant for togetherness and renewal—it had happened, slipping past her defenses like a thief in the night. She had started a sexual relationship — with her son. Her laugh curdled into a grimace of dread at the mere whisper of the word relationship. She knew it was nothing of the sort. If it deserved any label at all, it was a situationship at best—a tenuous, ambiguous arrangement teetering on the brink of absurdity. At worst, it was a surreal, fragmented aberration—a two-night dalliance that should have never happened. They had agreed, unequivocally, to bury it in silence. He had given her his word.
A peculiar Russian saying flitted through her mind: humans are built in pairs—two hands, two legs, two eyes—so experiences, if shared, are best kept in pairs. Perhaps, in some twisted way, that explained the second night. It had been his need for closure, his way of reclaiming agency over a narrative that had unraveled too chaotically the first time. And now, she reassured herself, it was over. Whatever this was—this aberration—it wasn't a relationship. It wasn't even a situationship. It was a grotesque mistake, an act of folly they had both emerged from intact.
Strangely, she felt a disquieting sense of relief, an ease she hadn't thought possible. Things had spiraled far enough for her to trust that Jonathan would never speak of it. Yesterday, she'd harbored doubts, imagining the weight of guilt might compel him to confession. But after last night—after the way he had seized control, leading them into further uncharted territory—she was certain he would carry it silently as if it were an unmarked stone in his pocket, a secret destined for the grave.
Yes, she assured herself with a fragile conviction. The delicate facade of normalcy surrounding her family, her marriage, and the very foundation of her identity would remain unshaken. No one would dare to question it—not now, not ever. Half the vacation had passed; only ten more days stretched before them like a final act to perform. Then, they would return home, to their lives, to routines, and Jonathan would leave for college, where time and distance would dissolve all that had transpired.
She clung to one particular truth as her anchor: Jonathan's behavior the previous night—his sharp questioning, his defiance, his insistence that she reveal her sex toy, and the incendiary events that followed—ensured his silence. His outburst, while unsettling, had crystallized into a perverse pact of secrecy. She felt certain of it. His agency, his complicity, his moment of reckoning were her guarantee.
For now, all that remained was to navigate the coming days. Ten days to play the role of the doting mother, the devoted albeit scorned wife, the figure of composure amidst the sunlit backdrop of their holiday. Ten days to perfect the veneer of ease, to ensure that the carefully constructed illusion never cracked, even as her thoughts swirled beneath it like an undertow. Yes, she thought, we are safe. All she had to do now was endure.
But for her carefully laid plans to work—for the threads of normalcy she clung to so desperately to hold—the events of the past two nights could never be repeated. It was a line she could not cross again, a boundary that had already swallowed her whole twice. Lying there on the beach, the gentle rustle of the waves in her ears, Jillian tried to cement her resolve. She rationalized, compartmentalized, built walls around the thoughts threatening to escape. She gave herself pep talk after pep talk, stacking them like stones to keep her composure intact.
Yet, even as she strategized, even as she talked herself into believing her own fragile assurances, a sudden, piercing realization broke through the haze: she wasn't truly confronting what had happened. She was tiptoeing around it, skirting its edges, never daring to look it in the eye.
And then, the memory surged up with brutal clarity, unbidden and undeniable. She had sex with Jonathan.
Her heart raced as the words rephrased themselves in her mind, each time louder, sharper, more accusatory. She had sex with her son! The phrase echoed in her head like a siren, stripping away her carefully constructed delusions. She felt as if the sea and sky were mocking her, the elements conspiring to amplify the shame she had buried. It wasn't a vulgar euphemism; it was a raw, guttural truth she could no longer suppress. Just last night, he came down her throat!
The words were almost absurd in their simplicity, but they encapsulated everything: her guilt, her bewilderment, the impossibility of her situation. As the waves lapped at the shore, Jillian felt as though they were carving her very soul, over and over again.
The murmur of voices pulled Jillian from her spiraling thoughts, snapping her back to the present. She turned her head, shielding her eyes from the morning sun, and saw Michael and Jonathan approaching from the distance. Michael was waving, his stride easy and casual, while Jonathan walked beside him, hands in his pockets, gaze forward. Jillian's stomach churned. A part of her wanted to run, to hide, but instead, she plastered a smile on her face and raised a hand in greeting, hoping the distance would mask her trembling fingers.
As they drew closer, Jillian's eyes darted to Jonathan. He met her gaze briefly—an unreadable flicker—and then looked away, his face a mask of calm that belied the storm she had been expecting. He was oddly normal, with no trace of the awkwardness or discomfort he had displayed the day before. For a fleeting moment, Jillian felt a pang of envy at his composure. Was he really so unaffected?
"Good morning, sunshine!" Michael called as they reached her. He dropped a tote bag onto the sand with a flourish and began rummaging through it. "Look at this weather! We should bottle it and bring it back home. Don't you think?"
"Perfect morning," Jillian said, her voice steadier than she'd anticipated. She shifted her towel slightly, busying herself with nothing in particular.
Michael knelt to unpack towels and sunscreen, his usual chit-chat filling the space. "Jonathan and I took a walk up the trail. Found this great little lookout point—you'd love it, Jill. It's got the most stunning view. Maybe we can all go tomorrow."
"Sounds nice," she replied, her tone light, her focus fixed on Michael, avoiding Jonathan's direction.
Jonathan settled down a few feet away, pulling out his phone. His silence wasn't unusual, and Michael, accustomed to his son's quiet demeanor, didn't seem to notice. Jillian glanced at him again, her heart pounding. He caught her looking and, for a fleeting second, his eyes locked on hers. But then, as casually as he'd arrived, he turned back to his phone, scrolling through some feed, as though nothing in the world were out of place.
"I hope you brought enough sunscreen," Michael went on, oblivious to the tension Jillian felt radiating like the sun overhead. "Jonathan's back is red as a lobster from yesterday!"
"I told you it was fine," Jonathan muttered, but his voice was so neutral, so devoid of the charged undertones she'd braced herself for, that it caught her off guard.
"Lobsters have their charm," Jillian said, forcing a laugh. "But maybe let's keep the sunscreen handy this time."
Jonathan shrugged and set his phone aside, leaning back on his elbows. "Yeah, sure."
The exchange was banal, almost absurdly so. The small talk hummed along, Michael's cheerful chatter punctuated by the occasional neutral response from Jonathan, and Jillian played her part, nodding, smiling, laughing in all the right places.
But beneath the surface, her mind raced, analyzing every flicker of Jonathan's expression, every word that passed his lips. Was he truly this unbothered, or was it an act? And if it was, whose act was better—his, or hers?
The sun was now high, casting its golden beams over the water, and the beach had grown warmer, the sand almost hot to the touch. For a time, they all fell silent, lulled by the rhythm of the waves. Jillian reclined on her towel, her sunglasses shielding her eyes but not her thoughts, which tumbled over each other in a frantic, restless dance. Michael was stretched out beside her, his arm thrown over his face to block the sun, while Jonathan, slightly apart, lounged with his phone in hand, scrolling with a practiced indifference.
The quiet was broken by the ping of a message. Jillian flinched imperceptibly, her ears sharp to Jonathan's every movement, even when she wished they weren't.
"They're on their way," Jonathan said suddenly, his voice flat but carrying just enough energy to suggest he was pleased.
Jillian's stomach clenched. The prospect of more people—outsiders—invading this fragile charade she was desperately trying to maintain felt overwhelming. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay calm.
"Oh, great!" Michael sat up, running a hand through his hair. "Can't wait to meet your friends, Jon. Finally, get to see who you've been hanging out with."
Jonathan shrugged, his eyes still on his screen. Jillian forced herself to sit upright, adjusting her position on the towel and pretending to fix her hair. She murmured something noncommittal, barely registering the conversation around her.
Not long after, the boys arrived. Jillian heard them before she saw them—an eruption of laughter and loud, youthful voices carried on the sea breeze. She looked up briefly as they approached, a quartet of energy and exuberance against the serene backdrop of the beach. Jonathan rose to greet them, exchanging fist bumps and half-hugs with a casual ease that momentarily softened his usual reserve.
The introductions came in a flurry of names that Jillian didn't catch, her mind too preoccupied to process them. All she could manage was a polite smile and a half-hearted nod as they greeted her and Michael. But one boy stood out—significantly younger than the others, perhaps no older than fifteen. His golden curls caught the sunlight like a halo, and his manners were strikingly polished for someone his age. He offered her a shy, almost courtly smile, his voice soft and careful as he spoke.
"Hi," he said, inclining his head slightly, and Jillian was struck by the incongruity of such gentleness in the midst of the rowdy group.
The boys were quick to invite Jonathan and Michael into the water for a game of volleyball.
"Three on three," one of them suggested, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "Come on, Mr. Beckett, we need you to even the teams!"
Michael laughed, clearly flattered to be included. "All right, but don't expect any pro moves from me," he joked, getting up off his towel.
Jonathan joined the others without hesitation, wading into the water with the ease of someone who had been waiting for this distraction.
Jillian remained on the towel, watching from beneath her sunglasses as they began the game. The boys splashed and shouted, their laughter ringing out over the gentle roar of the waves. Michael, to her surprise, held his own, his competitive streak shining through as he dove for the ball and sent it flying with unexpected precision.
She watched Jonathan too, noting how he seemed to shed some of his usual guardedness, his movements fluid and unrestrained in the water. But even as she observed, she felt disconnected, as though she were watching a scene from a distant, unfamiliar life.
The golden-haired boy caught her attention again, his grace in the water matching the quiet poise he'd shown on land. He moved with a natural ease, his laughter carrying a musical quality that contrasted with the boisterous energy of his friends.
Jillian's gaze wandered back to Michael, then to Jonathan, and finally to the horizon. She tried to anchor herself in the mundane details of the moment—the texture of the sand beneath her fingers, the warmth of the sun on her skin—but her thoughts refused to settle, still spiraling in the recesses of her mind.
The golden-haired boy emerged from the water, his skin shimmering with droplets that clung to him like diamonds under the sun. He jogged toward the towels with an effortless grace, his curls bouncing lightly with each step. Reaching his backpack, he knelt in the sand, rummaging through its contents before pulling out a blue Gatorade. Twisting off the cap, he tilted his head back, taking long, deliberate sips as if savoring the refreshment. When he noticed Jillian watching, he lowered the bottle and smiled, his face boyishly earnest.
"Yo, what are you doing?" one of the boys shouted from the water, waving an arm to get his attention.
"Taking a breather!" he yelled back, his voice breaking with a slight laugh as he waved them off. The game continued without him, the boys and Michael now absorbed in their playful rivalry.
Jillian adjusted her sunglasses and sat up slightly, her curiosity piqued by his self-assuredness. "Tired already?" she teased, the words slipping out more warmly than she intended.
He turned toward her, shrugging lightly. "I guess I'm not as athletic as my brother," he said with a grin, motioning toward one of the boys still splashing in the water.
"Your brother?" Jillian asked, tilting her head.
"Yeah, he's the loud one," the boy replied, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. "You've probably noticed."
Jillian laughed softly, the sound feeling foreign to her but pleasant nonetheless. "I have," she said. "So, how old are you? You look… younger than the rest of them."
"Sixteen," he answered quickly, almost defensively.
She studied him for a moment, noting the soft roundness of his features, the innocence that clung to him despite his attempts at bravado. He looks younger than that, she thought, but didn't voice it.
"What about you?" he asked, a sudden boldness lighting his gaze. "Do you like it here? The town, I mean."
"It's beautiful," Jillian replied, leaning back on her elbows. "The beaches, the people… It's all very charming."
The boy nodded, his expression serious. "We've lived here our whole lives. I guess you kind of take it for granted when it's all you know."
As they talked, Jillian reached for her sunscreen, uncapping it and squeezing a dollop into her palm. She rubbed it over her thighs, the lotion glistening against her skin as she worked it in. When she glanced up, she caught him staring, his gaze fixed intently on her movements.
She paused, her hand hovering mid-gesture. His eyes darted away quickly, a blush creeping over his cheeks, but the moment lingered, heavy and unspoken. Jillian shifted her position, feigning nonchalance, but her mind buzzed with awareness.
"Do you play volleyball a lot?" she asked, steering the conversation back to safer ground.
"Sometimes," he replied, his voice quieter now. "Not really my thing, though. I like basketball more."
From the water, Jonathan's voice cut through the air. "Come on, Dylan, stop slacking!"
The boy—Dylan—sighed, standing up and brushing the sand from his legs. "Guess I better get back," he said, throwing her a lopsided grin before jogging toward the water.
Jillian watched him go, her gaze following his golden curls as he rejoined the others. She leaned back again, adjusting her sunglasses, and tried to still the unease curling in her chest, as she kept her eyes locked on Dylan.
The sun bore down on Jillian as she lay on her back, the heat wrapping around her like a heavy blanket. Her exhaustion from the restless night prior—spent in Jonathan's room—combined with the early morning start, had her drifting off in no time. She wasn't sure how long she had been asleep when the boisterous voices jolted her awake.
Michael and the boys returned from their game, their wet skin glistening as they flopped onto the sand. They were loud, their conversation punctuated with laughter as they rehashed the highlights of the match.
"Who won?" Jillian asked, sitting up and stretching. She forced a smile, casting a brief glance at Jonathan. He avoided her gaze, looking pointedly at the water instead.
One of the boys grinned and pointed at Michael. "Team Nobel Prize, of course!"
Jillian raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Team Nobel Prize?"
The boy laughed. "Yeah, that's what we called his team. You know, 'cause he's a novelist and all."
Michael chuckled, shaking his head modestly. "They're giving me way too much credit."
Jillian smiled indulgently. "You do know that the Nobel Prize isn't just a literary award, right? It covers all sorts of fields—peace, physics, chemistry, medicine…" She trailed off, slipping into lecture mode almost unconsciously. "It was established by Alfred Nobel, the guy who invented dynamite. He wanted to leave a legacy beyond explosives, so he set up the prize fund."
She noticed a few of the boys exchanging blank looks, clearly uninterested, but the golden-haired boy's eyes lit up.
"Yeah, and he specifically said in his will that it should go to people who bring the greatest benefit to humanity," Dylan interjected. "He was super specific about the categories too, like literature for idealistic works."
Jillian blinked, taken aback. The boy had spoken with such confidence and precision, as though he'd studied Nobel's biography in depth. His knowledge stood out starkly against the casual indifference of the others.
"That's right," she said, her tone softening, impressed despite herself. "Not many people know the details."
Dylan shrugged, his golden curls catching the sunlight. "I read about it once. Thought it was interesting."
Jillian found herself watching him more closely. His intellect seemed incongruous with his youthful appearance, and for a brief moment, she wondered what lay beneath his polite demeanor.
As she lingered on these observations, Jillian became acutely aware of another gaze on her—Jonathan's. He wasn't participating in the conversation; instead, his eyes had zeroed in on her, catching the subtle direction of her focus. A flicker of recognition passed between them, unspoken but heavy with implication.
Jillian's stomach tightened. She forced herself to look away, letting her face soften into an expression of idle amusement. "Well, sounds like Michael's the MVP of the day," she said lightly, redirecting the conversation. Her smile was wide, perhaps too wide, as she gestured toward her husband, whose cheeks flushed with modest pride at the compliment.
Dylan's brother, Mack, suddenly reached into his backpack, pulling out his phone with a flourish. "Alright, team pic time!" he announced, grinning as he waved everyone over. The boys and Michael shuffled into a tight group, laughter rippling through them as they attempted to squeeze together. Mack held his phone at arm's length, angling it this way and that, but it quickly became clear that the shot was impossible.
"Ugh, we're not fitting," Mack groaned, his voice tinged with mock exasperation. He turned to Jillian, who had been sitting a little apart, observing the group with a soft smile. "Would you mind taking the photo for us?" he asked, holding out the phone.
"Of course," Jillian replied, brushing the sand from her hands as she rose to her feet. She stepped closer, took the phone from him, and positioned herself a few feet away from the group. "Alright, everyone in. Big smiles!"
The boys jostled playfully for position, Mack and Dylan squaring off over who got to stand in the center until Michael, laughing, planted himself between them. Jillian brought the phone up, framing the shot, but as her finger hovered over the screen to capture the moment, her gaze snagged on Dylan. Through the lens, his golden hair glowed in the sunlight, as she noticed his slim physique. He wasn't looking directly at the camera but at something—or someone—just off to the side, his expression thoughtful, almost enigmatic. It was a fleeting moment, but it struck Jillian with an odd poignancy.
She blinked, focusing back on the task at hand. "Okay, ready? Three, two, one—say Nobel Prize!" she called out, eliciting a chorus of laughter and exaggerated grins from the group. She snapped a few more photos for good measure, adjusting the angle slightly each time, but her eyes kept flicking back to Dylan. Something about him seemed to pull at the edges of her awareness, a strange magnetism she couldn't quite name.
When she lowered the phone, Mack bounded over to check the shots. "Perfect!" he declared, showing the rest of the group. Jillian handed the phone back with a practiced smile, settling back onto her towel as the boys erupted into animated chatter again. But as she reclined, her thoughts lingered, a restless tide pulling her back to that brief, stolen glance through the lens.
After an hour or so, Jillian began gathering her belongings with deliberate care, her motions brisk yet tinged with an unspoken urgency. The sun blazed down mercilessly, its heat pressing against her skin, adding to the heavy, suffocating mix of emotions swirling within her. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she turned to Michael and the boys. "It's too hot for me, guys," she said, her voice light, betraying none of the turmoil beneath. "I'm heading back to the house."
"Okay, babe! See you later!" Michael called out, barely looking up as the boys echoed their goodbyes, already distracted by some new joke. Jonathan, however, didn't speak, his attention fixed on the ground as he absently kicked at the sand. Jillian hesitated for the briefest of moments, her eyes lingering on him. But when he finally glanced up, the look he gave her was unreadable—a flicker of something she couldn't grasp. She forced a smile and turned away, her heart beating uncomfortably fast.
As she walked along the narrow path back to the house, the sound of the waves receded, replaced by the hum of cicadas and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. Her thoughts darted unpredictably, oscillating between the visceral dread of what had unfolded the past two nights and an undeniable, shameful undercurrent of arousal that refused to dissipate. The memory of Jonathan's intensity, his questions, his demands, his cock—they unsettled her in ways she couldn't fully articulate. It wasn't just the act itself; it was the shift in their dynamic, a change of roles that left her grappling with who she was now in his eyes, and, perhaps worse, who he was in hers.
And then there was Dylan. The golden-haired boy with his soft-spoken intelligence, so unassuming yet strangely magnetic. Her thoughts snagged on the way his eyes had lingered on her thighs earlier, the hint of boyish curiosity mingled with something precocious, his angelic face and slim body bizarrely captivating her. It had unnerved her, yes, but it had also leached onto her new persona, a dangerous curiosity of her own. She shook her head as if to clear it, quickening her pace. This is madness, she thought. I need to rest.
The house was cool and quiet when she arrived, a welcome reprieve from the sun's relentless glare. She climbed the stairs to the bedroom, shedding her beachwear in the bathroom before stepping into the shower. The cold water sluiced over her, washing away the grit of sand and sweat, though it did little to quell the tumult in her mind. She thought about masturbating then and there, yet she was fearful of where her carnal thoughts might lead. Wrapping herself in a towel, she slipped into a light cotton dress, its airy fabric a comfort against her sun-kissed skin.
Jillian lay down on the bed, the ceiling fan whirring softly above her. Her phone buzzed faintly on the nightstand, and she reached for it out of habit. Scrolling idly, she found herself on Instagram, where Michael had shared the group photo she had taken earlier from Mack's story. She clicked on Mack's profile, scrolling through a series of snapshots that painted a picture of teenage exuberance—beach outings, late-night bonfires, and casual group selfies. Among them were several photos of him and Dylan.
Intrigued, Jillian tapped on Dylan's name, only to find his profile set to private. She hesitated for a moment, her finger hovering over the "Follow" button before she let the phone drop onto the mattress beside her. Her eyes drifted shut, the swirl of emotions and images from the day finally giving way to the pull of sleep. The last thought she registered before surrendering to unconsciousness was the memory of Dylan staring at her inner thighs.