The toaster popped, launching the bread onto the counter. A single cockroach skittered away from the sudden movement.

Stiles stood in the kitchen, her tiny satin shorts riding up as she stretched to reach the top shelf. The fabric strained against her hips, barely covering the curve of her ass. Jackson didn’t look up from his phone. "You’re wearing that shit again?" he muttered, scrolling through emails.

She froze, her fingers brushing the cereal box. "It’s hot outside," she said softly, pulling it down. The straps of her camisole slid off one shoulder, revealing the swell of her breast.

Jackson scoffed. "Yeah, real hot for the whole fucking neighborhood to see." He stood abruptly, chair scraping back. His hand tangled in her hair, yanking just enough to make her gasp. "You think I don’t notice how you parade around? Huh?"

Stiles’s eyes watered, but she didn’t make a sound. The cereal box crumpled in her grip.

Jackson leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Clean this dump while I’m gone," he spat, shoving her away. The front door slammed shut behind him, rattling the framed wedding photo on the wall—her smile too bright, his grip too tight on her waist.

Alone, she sank to the linoleum, legs folding beneath her. A tear splashed onto her bare thigh. The apartment was silent except for the hum of the broken fridge.

Then—a knock. Soft. Hesitant.

Stiles wiped her face with the back of her hand, the satin shorts riding higher as she stood. Through the peephole, Grandpa Derek’s wrinkled face blinked back.

"Stiles?" His voice was raspy through the door. "I... I brought pickles."

Her fingers trembled on the latch. The door creaked open. Grandpa Derek’s gaze flickered over her—the smudged mascara, the way her camisole clung—before settling on her swollen eyes.

"Oh, sweetheart..." He stepped inside without waiting, setting the jar on the counter. His large, veined hands hovered awkwardly before he pulled her into a hug. Her breasts pressed against his thin cotton shirt, warm and heavy.

She didn’t resist. His palm slid down her spine, lingering at the small of her back. "Shhh," he murmured, though she wasn’t crying anymore. Just breathing hard. His other hand cupped her ass through the thin fabric, kneading gently.

Stiles stiffened. But his touch was... kind. Unlike Jackson’s.

"You deserve better," Grandpa Derek whispered into her hair. His hold tightened. Behind them, the fridge groaned like it might give out.

She let him steer her backward until her thighs bumped the kitchen counter. His fingers traced her hipbones where the shorts cut in. "Look at you," he said roughly, thumbs dipping beneath the elastic. "Like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked."

Stiles shuddered when his nails scraped her inner thigh. "Sir—"

"Grandpa Derek," he corrected, tilting her chin up. His eyes were wet, pupils blown. "Call me that."

The pickles jar sweated condensation onto the laminate. Somewhere outside, a bicycle bell rang. Stiles's pulse jumped under his fingers.

His mouth found her neck, sucking slow. Every drag pulled a soft noise from her throat. His knee nudged between her legs, the rough denim catching her lace panties. She gasped.

"You're soaked," he chuckled against her skin, hand sliding up her camisole. Her nipple peaked against his palm. "Poor thing. How long since someone touched you right?"

Jackson's aftershave still clung to the dishrag crumpled by the sink. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Grandpa Derek's fingers hooked into her waistband. "Look at me."

When she did, he smirked—the expression oddly boyish on his creased face. "That bastard doesn't know what he's got." The shorts slid down with a whisper.

Her panties were sheer pink, damp at the center. He groaned, pressing two fingers hard against the fabric. Stiles's knees buckled.

"Thought about this," he confessed, mouth wet on her collarbone. "Every time you bent over that raggedy balcony." His teeth grazed her earlobe. "Your tits bouncing while you hung laundry."

The toaster clock blinked 11:07. Jackson wouldn't be back till six.

Grandpa Derek's thumb circled her clit through the lace. "Gonna make you cum," he promised. The fridge chose that moment to shudder into silence.

Stiles's breath hitched. His knuckles brushed her bare stomach.

"Or should I stop?" he teased, fingernail scraping lower.

She bit her lip. His laugh was hot in her ear.

"Answer me," Grandpa Derek urged, fingers dipping beneath the lace now. "Or I walk out that door."

Stiles's thighs trembled. The words stuck in her throat—half guilt, half want. She grabbed his wrist, but didn't push him away. His knuckles pressed against her heat.

"That's my girl," he rasped. The panties snapped to the floor. His calloused fingers parted her folds with a wet sound that made her face burn. "Christ, you're pretty here."

He traced her swollen pussy lips, circling the entrance but never pushing in. Each stroke drew another shaky exhale. "Skin like rose petals," he muttered. "Sweet girl—too sweet for that bastard." His thumb pressed down lightly, dragging moisture up to her clit. Stiles whimpered, gripping the counter edge.

Tears dripped onto his wrist. "Shh," Grandpa Derek crooned, kissing her temple. His fingers kept moving—slow, reverent. "You cook for him, clean for him, let him fuck you dry while he yanks your hair like some alley cat." His voice cracked. "And still you smile when he comes home. Why?"

Stiles shook her head, thighs quivering around his hand. "H-he's—"

"Leave him." The words hissed between his teeth. His thumb pressed harder. "Pack a bag tonight. My door's always open."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "I can't."

His fingers stilled. The disappointment in his sigh made her chest ache. "Then come to me," he murmured, resuming those torturous circles. "When you're ready to be worshipped. Fucked properly." His lips brushed her ear. "I'll make you scream into my pillows so loud, the whole complex will know who owns this cunt."

Stiles's gasp bounced off the tiles. Her hips jerked against his palm.

Grandpa Derek pulled back suddenly, wiping his wet fingers on his slacks. "Not today," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're trembling like a spooked fawn." He stepped away, adjusting his belt with a grimace. "I want you begging for it. Not crying."

The cold air rushed between them. Stiles swayed, her bare feet sticking to the linoleum.

He paused at the threshold, glancing back. "Wash your face," he said softly. Then, with a wink that didn't reach his eyes: "And throw out those shorts before he gets home." The door clicked shut behind him.

Stiles stared at her reflection in the microwave—flushed cheeks, swollen pussy lips, pink lace pooled around her ankles. The pickles jar sweated beside her. She touched her neck where his stubble had scraped.

Outside, a car door slammed. Her heart leapt—but it was only Mrs. Peterson from 3B, lugging grocery bags. Stiles bent to grab her panties just as the old woman looked up. Their eyes locked through the window.

Mrs. Peterson's gaze dropped to the lace in Stiles's hand, then back to her face. She smirked.

Stiles slammed the blinds shut, panties still dangling from her fingers.