Dawn light filtered through the curtains when Stiles stirred, sticky and sore beneath Grandpa Derek's heavy arm. His wrinkled face looked softer in sleep, lips slightly parted against her hair. She kissed them gently—then gasped when his tongue surged forward, rolling them both until she lay pinned beneath his wiry frame. "Morning, babygirl," he rasped, kneading her bruised ass possessively.

"I should...go back," she whispered, fingers tracing his age spots. "Before Jackson—"