That night the cabin was quiet except for Allison’s soft, rhythmic snoring. Derek lay awake for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling, the small brass key burning a hole in his palm. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Stiles—bent over, moaning, dripping, begging. The guilt was there, sharp and familiar, but the want was louder.

When the clock hit 1:17 a.m. he slipped out of bed. Allison didn’t stir. He pulled on sweatpants and a hoodie, no shoes—quiet steps down the wooden stairs, out the front door into the cool night air. The path between cabins was lit only by moonlight filtering through the pines. His heart hammered as he reached the small standalone cabin Stiles had booked. The door was unlocked.