Allison's POV: the weekend pt 1

FRIDAY EVENING

The hotel room is obscenely nice.

You stand in the doorway while Don carries your suitcase inside, taking in the king bed with its pristine white linens, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the valley, the bottle of champagne already chilling in a silver bucket. Everything is elegant, expensive, adult in a way that makes your chest tight.

"What do you think?" Don sets your bag by the closet, turns to face you with that boyish grin that probably charmed Jennifer twenty years ago. "Worth the drive?"

"It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful." He crosses to you, slides his hands around your waist, and you let him because that's what Jennifer would do. That's what you're here to do. "I'm so glad you said yes."

His mouth finds yours—warm, confident, tasting faintly of the coffee he drank during the drive. You kiss him back, let your hands come up to rest on his chest, and try not to think about Tim standing frozen in the entryway, watching you leave.

Tim, who couldn't even say goodbye.

Tim, who let you walk out the door without a fight.

Don's hands slide lower, cupping your ass through your jeans, and you make a small sound that he interprets as encouragement. He deepens the kiss, walks you backward toward the bed, and alarm spikes through you.

"Wait—" You break away, breathless. "Don, I—we should get dinner first. You said there was a restaurant?"

He blinks, then laughs. "Right. Sorry. Got carried away." His hands release you, though he steals one more quick kiss. "You're right. Dinner first. Romance before—" He waggles his eyebrows, and it's so dorky that despite everything, you smile.

"Romance first," you agree.

"Go on, get changed. I made reservations for seven." He checks his watch. "That gives you about forty-five minutes to make yourself even more gorgeous, which I'm pretty sure is impossible, but I'm willing to be proven wrong."

He disappears into the bathroom, and you're left alone with your suitcase and the enormous bed and the creeping certainty that you're in way over your head.

________________________________________

The restaurant is the kind of place where they fold your napkin for you and the wine list has more pages than the menu. Don orders a bottle of something French and expensive, and when the sommelier pours, he raises his glass.

"To second chances."

You clink glasses. The wine tastes like velvet and regret.

"I can't stop thinking about the other night," Don says once the first course arrives—some kind of delicate salad you're not hungry for. "About us. How right it felt. Like coming home."

"It was nice," you manage.

"Nice?" He reaches across the table, captures your hand. "Jen, it was more than nice. It was—God, I forgot what we had. How good we were together. And I know I screwed up. The affair, the divorce, all of it. But being with you again—it feels like I'm getting a second chance to do it right."

His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and you feel Jennifer's body respond—a warmth low in your belly, a softening you can't control. Muscle memory. Nerve pathways that remember this touch, this man, eighteen years of intimacy you never experienced but your body lived through.

"I've missed you," Don continues. "Every day. And I know you probably don't believe me, but it's true. Leaving was the biggest mistake of my life."

He looks so earnest. So genuine. And some traitorous part of you—eighteen years old and **** to be wanted—whispers that maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe Don is the answer. Not Tim, who can't even look at you. But Don, who sees Jennifer and loves what he sees.

Who doesn't know you're a lie.

"I missed you too," you hear yourself say, and you're not sure if it's performance or truth.

Dinner passes in a blur of courses you barely taste. Don tells stories—vacations they took, anniversaries, the time Jennifer got food poisoning in Cancun and he stayed up all night holding her hair—and you laugh in the right places, nod, pretend to remember. It gets easier as the wine flows. By dessert, you've almost forgotten you're not actually the woman he's talking about.

Almost.

"Ready to head back?" Don's voice has dropped, gone intimate, and you know what he's really asking.

Your pulse kicks up. "Yes."

________________________________________

He's on you the moment the hotel room door closes.

His mouth finds yours, hungry and insistent, and his hands are everywhere—sliding up your sides, tangling in your hair, pulling you against him. You gasp into the kiss, startled by the intensity, and he takes advantage, deepening it, his tongue sliding against yours with practiced ease.

"God, I've wanted this all night," he murmurs against your lips. "Wanted you."

He walks you backward toward the bed, hands already working at the buttons of your blouse. You should slow him down, should say something, but your brain has gone fuzzy with wine and want and the terrifying realization that your body is responding.

Jennifer's body knows this. Knows him. The way his hands move, the pressure of his mouth, the rhythm of his breathing—it's all familiar to nerve endings and muscle fibers even if your mind is screaming that this is wrong.

Your blouse falls open. Don's mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, and when his lips close over the sensitive spot just below your ear, you moan.

The sound shocks you. Shocks him too, because he pulls back, eyes dark and hungry.

"I love that sound," he says roughly. "I've missed that sound."

He eases you down onto the bed, follows you, his weight settling over you in a way that should feel suffocating but instead feels—safe? Grounding? You don't know. You can't think. His hands are on your jeans now, unbuttoning, unzipping, and you lift your hips to help because what else are you supposed to do?

This is what you came here for. This is what you chose.

Tim didn't stop you.

Don strips you efficiently, like he's done it a thousand times—because he has, with this body, even if you weren't inside it. Bra, panties, everything discarded until you're naked beneath him, and his gaze rakes over you with open appreciation.

"You're perfect," he breathes. "Still so fucking perfect."

Then his mouth is on your breast, tongue circling your nipple, and the sensation shoots straight between your legs. You arch up, hands fisting in his hair, and he makes a satisfied sound against your skin.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me make you feel good, baby."

His hand slides down your stomach, between your legs, and when his fingers find you wet and ready, he groans.

"Fuck, Jen. You're so ready for me."

You should be embarrassed. Should feel guilty. But all you can focus on is the way his fingers move—sure, confident, finding spots that make you gasp and writhe. He knows this body. Knows exactly how to touch it, where to apply pressure, when to speed up or slow down.

It's the most pleasure you've ever felt.

And you hate that. Hate that Tim never made you feel like this, because he was eighteen and fumbling and terrified of hurting you. Hate that Don can reduce you to trembling need within minutes because Jennifer's body is programmed to respond to him.

Hate that you're starting not to care.

"Please," you hear yourself gasp. "Don, please—"

"I've got you." He shifts, sheds his own clothes with quick efficiency, and then he's settling between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you. "Tell me you want this."

"I want it," you whisper, and it's not a lie.

He slides in slowly, giving you time to adjust, and the stretch is perfect and overwhelming and terrifyingly right. Jennifer's body welcomes him, clenches around him, and the groan that tears from Don's throat is pure satisfaction.

"God, Jen. Still feel like heaven."

He starts to move—long, slow strokes that hit something deep inside that makes you see stars. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, pulling him deeper, and he responds by picking up the pace.

"That's it, baby. Take it. Take all of me."

You're lost. Completely, utterly lost in sensation. Every thrust sends pleasure cascading through you, building and building until you're whimpering, nails digging into his shoulders, chasing something you've never felt before.

"Come for me," Don commands, voice ragged. "Want to feel you come."

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and that's all it takes.

You shatter.

The orgasm rips through you with devastating ****—so intense it's almost painful. You cry out, body arching, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that seem to last forever. Distantly, you hear Don curse, feel him drive in deep and hold, his own release shuddering through him.

For long moments, you can't move. Can't think. Can only lie there trembling as aftershocks roll through you and Don's weight presses you into the mattress.

This is what Jennifer felt. For eighteen years. This is what her body remembers, what it craves.

And now you've felt it too.

Don shifts, rolls to the side, pulling you with him so you're tucked against his chest. His hand strokes lazy patterns on your back, and his breathing gradually evens out.

"I love you," he murmurs into your hair. "God, Jen, I love you so much."

You lie there, staring at the darkened window, feeling his cum leaking out of you, and don't know how to answer.

Because you're not Jen.

You're Allison.

Except right now, you're not sure you remember what that means.

________________________________________

You wait until Don's breathing deepens into sleep before you slip out of bed.

The bathroom is marble and chrome, all sharp lines and luxury. You lock the door behind you, turn on the shower as hot as it will go, and step under the spray.

The water pounds against your skin—Jennifer's skin—and you brace your hands against the tile, trying to hold yourself together.

You just had sex with Don Connors. Tim's father. Your boyfriend's father.

Except Tim isn't your boyfriend anymore, is he? He couldn't even kiss you. He couldn't touch you. He let you leave.

And Don—

Don made you feel things you've never felt. Made this body come alive in ways you didn't know were possible. Looked at you like you were the most important person in the world.

You slide down to sit on the shower floor, pull your knees to your chest, and let the water wash over you.

You're eighteen years old. You should be at home, scrolling through your phone, worrying about college applications and prom. Not in a luxury hotel in Napa Valley, freshly fucked by a man twice your age who thinks you're his ex-wife.

But you're not eighteen. Not in any way that matters. You're forty. You're Jennifer. You have to be Jennifer, because Allison is dead. Buried. Everyone you knew attended the funeral.

And maybe—maybe that's okay.

Maybe Jennifer's life isn't so bad. She has Don, who wants her. She has the kids, who accept her. She has stability, security, a future that doesn't involve navigating the world as an eighteen-year-old trapped in the wrong body.

Maybe you can just—become her.

Let Allison go.

The thought should terrify you. Instead, it feels almost like relief.

You stay in the shower until the water runs cold, then dry off and slip back into bed. Don stirs, pulls you against him automatically, and you let yourself be held.

Tomorrow, you'll think about what this means.

Tonight, you'll just pretend to be Jennifer and try not to feel grateful for the escape.

________________________________________

SATURDAY MORNING

You wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and Don's mouth on your shoulder.

"Morning, beautiful," he murmurs against your skin.

Your body responds before your brain catches up—arching into him, making a sleepy sound of contentment. He takes it as invitation, hand sliding down your stomach, between your legs, finding you already getting wet.

"Mmm, someone's eager." His fingers tease, circling but not giving you what you need. "Tell me what you want, Jen."

"You," you breathe, and it's not even a lie anymore.

He takes you slow this time, face-to-face, watching your expressions as he moves inside you. It's intimate in a way last night wasn't—deliberate, focused, like he's studying you. Relearning you.

When you come, it's softer but no less devastating. And when he follows, whispering your name—Jennifer's name—you hold him close and try not to think about how easy this is becoming.

________________________________________

Breakfast arrives via room service—fresh fruit, pastries, champagne. Don insists on feeding you strawberries in bed, and it's ridiculous and romantic and exactly the kind of thing you would've rolled your eyes at two weeks ago.

But now you just open your mouth and let him, and his smile could light up the whole valley.

"I have plans for us today," he announces, settling back against the headboard. "Vineyard tour, lunch at this amazing little place I found, maybe some shopping in town. Whatever you want."

"That sounds perfect."

"Yeah?" He pulls you against his side, drops a kiss on your head. "I want this weekend to be special. I want you to see how serious I am about us. About making this work."

Something tightens in your chest. "Don—"

"I know we should take it slow. I know." His arm tightens around you. "But Jen, I've wasted so much time. We've wasted so much time. I don't want to waste any more."

You tilt your head up to look at him. He's disheveled, relaxed in a way you've never seen before—hair mussed, eyes soft, no trace of the polished charm he wears like armor. He looks younger. ****.

Real.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want you back. Properly. Not just dating, not just seeing where this goes. I want us to be a family again. Me, you, the kids." He cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I want to remarry you, Jen."

Your heart stops.

"It's too soon," he adds quickly, seeing your expression. "I know it's too soon to actually propose. But I need you to know that's where I'm headed. That's what I want. And if you need time, I'll give you time. But please—please tell me you're at least open to the possibility."

You should say no. Should tell him this is insane, that you need space, that you can't possibly make that decision right now.

But what comes out is: "I'm open to it."

The joy on his face is blinding.

"Really?"

"Really." And the terrifying part is, you mean it.

Because what's the alternative? Go back to being alone, trapped in a body nobody wants, pining for a boy who can't even look at you? Or step fully into Jennifer's life, with a man who adores you, who makes your body sing, who's offering you everything you've lost?

Don kisses you—deep and thorough and full of promise—and you kiss him back with everything you have.

When he pulls away, you're both breathless.

"Come on," he says, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. "Let's get dressed. I want to show off my beautiful wife-to-be."

Wife-to-be.

The words should make you panic.

Instead, they settle over you like a warm blanket, and you realize with startling clarity that you're not scared.

You're relieved.