The days blurred into a haze of stolen moments after that fateful Christmas night. Derek and Stiles couldn’t get enough of each other—texts flying back and forth at all hours, voice notes whispered in secret, photos exchanged like forbidden treasures. “Miss your pretty lips wrapped around my cock, baby,” he’d message with a selfie of his hard bulge in his sweats. She’d reply with a mirror pic of her fingers teasing her bare pussy under her skirt: “Wish it was you inside me instead… leaking your cum all day.” Calls were even hotter—late nights when Jackson was asleep, Stiles muffling her moans as Derek talked her through fingering herself to orgasm. “That’s it, sweetheart, rub that clit like I would… imagine my tongue on your pink little hole.”

And every time Jackson tried to initiate sex—groping her in the kitchen, pressing her against the wall after dinner—Stiles shut it down with excuses. “Baby, I’m on my period… feels off.” Or “Headache tonight, sorry.” He grumbled but bought it, too hungover or distracted to push. Stiles’s body burned for Derek alone now; the thought of Jackson touching her made her skin crawl.