By the second week the house had a rhythm that belonged only to her.

Stiles came every morning with grocery bags bumping her hip and a little smile she put on like armor. She cooked. She opened windows. She talked to a man who barely answered. In the evenings she stayed later than she meant to, because leaving him alone in that big quiet felt like abandoning a wound.

That night she brought dinner up on a tray. Soft rice, soup, a little grilled fish she had cut into pieces small enough that he wouldn’t have to work for them. She sat on the edge of the bed in a white crop top that clung to her tits and tiny gray shorts that had ridden up so high the crease of her ass showed when she leaned. Her hair was in a loose knot. Her cheeks were already pink from the steam in the kitchen.

“Open,” she whispered.

He did. Slow. She fed him. Spoon to mouth. The quiet between them was thick. When the bowl was empty she set it aside and smoothed the sheet over his stomach like she had any right to touch the linen that close to his skin.

“I should go,” she said. “Dad will worry.”

His voice came out small. Rough. Unused.

“I need a shower.”

Stiles went still.

Two weeks. She had known. The room had that stale, closed-in smell under the food. He hadn’t stood under water since Sana died. The thought of him lying in his own grief-sweat made her chest ache.

“Okay,” she said immediately, soft and glad, like he had asked her for something simple. “I’ll help you.”

He sat up like his bones weighed more than they should. She slid an arm around his waist. He was huge against her. Tall, muscled even like this, wasted from not eating, still a grown man her small body was not built to carry. She braced her feet. His weight settled on her shoulder and the side of her tit mashed against his ribs. She made a tiny sound and pretended it was effort.

“I got you,” she murmured. “Slow. I’ve got you.”

The walk to the bathroom was ugly and tender. His steps dragged. Her shorts crept. Her crop top rode up until the underside of her tits kissed air. She didn’t pull it down. Both her hands were busy keeping him upright.

The bathroom was cold tile and a glass shower big enough for two. She sat him on the closed toilet lid and knelt to take off his socks first, because starting at his feet felt safer than starting at his chest. Her fingers shook.

“I’m going to undress you, okay? You’re too weak to do it. I’ll be quick. I’ll be good.”

He nodded. Eyes unfocused. Not in his body the way a man is in his body when a girl is on her knees in front of him.

She peeled his shirt up. The fabric dragged over muscle that had gone slack from lying down too long but was still there — chest, stomach, the dark trail of hair that disappeared into his waistband. Stiles’s mouth went dry. Heat punched low in her belly. She folded the shirt like it mattered and set it aside.

Then the pants.

She hooked her fingers in the waistband. Swallowed. Tugged.

His cock spilled out soft and heavy, thick even like that, the head dusky, the shaft resting against his thigh like something that didn’t know it was being looked at. Stiles’s whole face went scarlet. She actually swayed. Her pussy clenched so hard she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning. A stupid, helpless little pulse, right in the empty place she had never put anything inside.

Oh my god. Oh my god. He’s—

Derek didn’t notice. He wasn’t in his senses enough to know he was naked in front of Noah’s daughter. That was the only reason she didn’t die on the tile.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Okay. Shower.”

She got the water running warm. Helped him stand. Steered him under the spray. Water sheeted down his shoulders, his chest, the V of his hips, over that thick soft cock. She stepped in after him still dressed because taking her own clothes off felt like crossing a line she could not name. Within seconds the crop top went transparent. Her nipples pushed dark and tight through the wet cotton. The shorts glued themselves between her ass cheeks and to the fat lips of her pussy.

She pumped shower gel into her palm.

“I’m going to clean you,” she said, voice tiny. “Just tell me if it’s too much.”

He didn’t tell her anything.

She started at his shoulders. Tender. Careful. Palms spreading white foam over muscle. Down his arms. Across his chest. Her hands were trembling so badly the gel slipped. Her body felt fever-hot under the water. Every time her tits brushed his arm she wanted to whimper.

She washed his stomach. The trail of hair. Then she had to go lower.

She hesitated with her soapy hands hovering.

Then she wrapped her fingers around him.

Soft. Heavy. Hot even under the water. She cleaned him like she was praying, thumb sliding under the head, palm stroking down to the base because that was how you wash a cock if you are trying to be thorough and not trying to jerk off your father’s grieving friend. A sound punched out of her anyway. Small. Filthy. A moan she couldn’t swallow in time.

Derek didn’t react. Water in his hair. Eyes half shut.

Stiles’s pussy leaked into her soaked shorts. She could feel it, slick and shameful, mixing with the shower. She was horrified. Flushed to her ears. She kept going because stopping would mean looking at what she had just done.

It started getting hard in her hand.

Not all the way. Just a slow, stupid swell, blood moving because a warm soapy fist was on it. Stiles gasped. Her fingers froze around the thickening shaft.

“Sorry— I’m sorry— I didn’t—”

Nothing. He wasn’t there enough to hear her.

She soaped his legs like her life depended on it, stood up too fast, and almost slipped on the wet tile.

Derek’s hands shot out and caught her.

Suddenly she was crushed to him. Wet clothes, naked man, her fat tits smashed flat to his chest, the hard line of his cock jammed right against the soaked crotch of her shorts, right against her clit and the sealed-up little hole she had never touched from the inside. He was holding her. Steadying her. Big hands on her waist, fingers spanning so much of her it made her feel tiny and filthy at once.

She could feel every inch of that hardening cock through the thin wet fabric. Her pussy fluttered around nothing. She wanted him so badly her knees tried to give again. She knew she couldn’t. He was broken. He was Uncle Derek. He didn’t even know.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered, automatic, like the words belonged to some other night.

She pulled away slowly, shaking. Finished rinsing him. Turned the water off. Towels. She dried him with a tenderness that felt obscene. Chest. Stomach. She patted the towel around his cock without wrapping her hand this time and still her thighs squeezed.

She walked him back to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed. When she turned to find clothes in the wardrobe, he was already lying down. Eyes closed. Done. The towel had fallen open. He was naked on the sheets, cock resting heavy against his thigh, still half interested from her hands.

Stiles stood there dripping.

Her clothes were soaked through. Transparent. Useless. It was late. She had to go home. He was alone anyway. He wouldn’t know if he slept bare.

It’s fine. He’s tired. I’ll just… grab a shirt and change at home.

She thought he was out.

So she stripped right there at the foot of his bed.

Crop top peeled off with a wet sound. Tits heavy, nipples tight from cold air and want. Shorts shoved down her thighs, taking her little panties with them, leaving her bare — fat ass, plump pussy shiny from the shower and from her own leaking. She was about to turn toward the wardrobe.

Derek’s hand closed around her wrist.

She gasped.

His eyes were still closed.

“Hold me,” he mumbled.

He pulled.

Stiles tumbled onto the mattress with a helpless little cry. Warm sheets. His body. He buried his face between her fat tits like he had been looking for that exact place in his sleep, mouth open against the soft inner swell, breath hot on her skin. His arm locked around her waist. His other hand splayed on the bare cheek of her ass and hauled her in.

They were both naked.

His cock lay against her wet pussy. Thick. Half-hard. Nestled right along her slit, the head kissing her clit when she breathed. She could feel the heat of him, the weight, the way her folds parted just enough to hold him there without taking him inside.

God.

She did everything she could not to moan. Bit her lip until it hurt. Stared at the dark ceiling with her heart trying to kick out of her chest. Her nipples were in his face. His stubble scratched the underside of her tit. Every small shift rubbed that heavy cock through her slick.

Don’t move. Don’t moan. He’s sleeping. He’s grieving. You’re a good girl. You’re just holding him.

Her pussy clenched against the shaft anyway. A tiny wet sound. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Derek made a low noise into her tits and held on tighter, like she was the only solid thing left in the house.

Stiles’s hand hovered, then settled in his hair because she didn’t know where else to put it. She was flushed all the way down her chest. Embarrassed. Horrified. So turned on she thought she might come from the press of him alone if she breathed wrong.

It was already late.

Her clothes were a wet pile on the floor.

His face was buried in her tits and his dick was lying on her soaked little cunt and he had asked her to hold him.

She somehow, impossibly, fell asleep like that — shy and filthy and kind, a virgin with a married-now-widowed man asleep between her breasts, telling herself in the last second before she dropped under that she would get up in a minute.

She didn’t.