Morning light sliced through the curtains like an accusation. Derek sat stiffly at the breakfast table, his coffee untouched, his collar buttoned too high. Every muscle in his body screamed run, but his traitorous eyes kept flicking to the hallway—waiting, dreading—

Stiles swept in like nothing had happened, her satin robe fluttering open to reveal a lace bralette barely containing her tits. Her nipples pebbled against the fabric, and Derek's fork clattered onto his plate. Lydia didn't notice, too busy scrolling through her phone, but Scott chuckled, leaning in to kiss his wife's throat. "Someone's energetic this morning," he murmured, patting her ass.