that night

You lie in your bed, staring at the ceiling, listening.

The house has settled into nighttime rhythms. David's in his room with headphones on, music loud enough you can hear the bass through the wall. Tabitha went to bed an hour ago. And downstairs, you heard Dad and Allison talking—low voices, the clink of dishes being put away, the comfortable sounds of domesticity.

Then footsteps on the stairs. Both sets. Moving down the hall together.

Past your door.

Toward Mom's room.

Your hands clench into fists under the covers.

The door closes. Muffled voices—too low to make out words, but you recognize the cadence. Dad saying something. Allison's softer reply. A laugh.

Then silence.

You should put on headphones. Blast music. Do anything to drown out what's about to happen.

But you can't move.

Because less than two hours ago, Allison was in your arms. Gasping your name. Telling you she loved you. Her body wrapped around yours, her nails in your shoulders, that **** sound she made when she came.

And now she's in there with him.

The first sound is faint—a creak of bedsprings, barely audible. You strain to hear, hating yourself for it, unable to stop.

More creaking. Rhythmic. Getting louder.

Then her voice. Muffled by the wall, but unmistakable.

A moan.

Your stomach drops. You roll onto your side, pull the pillow over your head, but it doesn't help. The sounds seep through anyway—the bed, her gasps, Dad's lower grunts.

She's letting him touch her. Less than two hours after you touched her. After she whispered promises and gave you hope.

She's in his bed, doing exactly what she did with you, maybe more.

The moaning gets louder. More frequent. And you recognize the pattern now—the way her breath hitches, the small cries that mean she's close. You heard those same sounds when she was beneath you, when she was yours.

Except she's not yours.

She never really was.

"Don—oh god, Don—"

Her voice carries through the wall, clearer now, and the name—his name, not yours—is like a knife between your ribs.

The bed creaks faster. Harder. You hear Dad's voice, too low to make out words but the tone is clear. Encouraging. Commanding. And she responds, her moans building to that familiar crescendo.

You know what's coming. You heard it upstairs, felt it, lived it.

But this time, you're not the one making her sound like that.

"Yes—fuck, yes—don't stop—"

The bed slams against the wall—once, twice, three times—and then she cries out. Long and loud and utterly wrecked. The same way she sounded with you, maybe louder, and you squeeze your eyes shut so hard you see stars.

She's coming. On your father's cock. In your mother's bed.

Hours after promising you another chance.

The sounds taper off. Murmured voices. The creak of someone getting up—bathroom, probably. Water running. Then both of them settling back into bed.

Quiet conversation you can't make out.

Then silence.

You lie there in the dark, pillow clenched over your head, and try to process what just happened.

________________________________________

Around three AM, you hear the bedroom door open. Footsteps padding down the hall—light, barefoot. They pause outside your door.

A soft knock.

Your heart stops.

Another knock, quieter. Then: "Tim?" Barely a whisper. "Please. I know you're awake."

You could ignore her. Let her stand there in the dark, feeling the rejection you've been drowning in for weeks.

But you can't.

You get up, unlock the door, pull it open.

She's standing there in one of Mom's robes—pale blue, tied at the waist—her hair mussed from his hands, her lips still swollen from his kisses. She smells like sex and his cologne, and the sight of her makes you want to slam the door in her face.

Instead, you step aside.

She slips in quickly, quietly, and you close the door behind her. Lock it.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. She stands in the middle of your room, arms wrapped around herself, and you lean against the door, watching her.

"I'm sorry," she says finally. "I'm so sorry you had to hear that."

"But you did it anyway."

"I had to." Her voice cracks. "Tim, he thinks we're getting back together. He spent the whole weekend planning our future. I can't just—I can't cut him off without explanation. He'd know something was wrong."

"So you fucked him."

"Yes." She doesn't flinch from it. "I did what I've been doing. What I have to do. For now."

"For now." You push off the door, close the distance between you. "How long is 'for now,' Allison? A week? A month? Until he moves in? Until you remarry him?"

"I don't know!" The words burst out of her, raw and ****. "I don't know what I'm doing, okay? This afternoon with you—that was real. That mattered. But Don is real too. He wants me. He's offering me stability, a future, everything I lost when I died. And I—I can't just throw that away because we had one good moment."

"One good moment." The words taste bitter. "Is that all it was to you?"

"No." She reaches for you, but you step back. "Tim, no. It was everything. You finally saw me. You finally touched me without flinching. But that doesn't change the situation. I still have to be Jennifer. I still have to live this life. And right now, that life includes Don."

"So what am I? The side piece? The secret you keep while you play house with my father?"

"I don't know what you are!" Tears streak down her face now. "I don't know what any of this is. I just know that I love you, and I love that you finally tried, but I also can't walk away from Don. Not yet. Not when I don't know if you can really handle this long-term."

The accusation stings because it's fair.

"You're scared I'll freeze again."

"Yes." She wipes her eyes. "This afternoon was amazing. But what about tomorrow? Next week? When the novelty wears off and you're left with the reality that I look like your mother and I'm sleeping with your father? Can you handle that, Tim? Really handle it?"

You don't have an answer.

"That's what I thought." Her voice is hollow. "So yes. I'm keeping my options open. I'm seeing where this goes with Don because he's a sure thing. He wants Jennifer, and I have to be Jennifer. But I'm also hoping—" Her voice breaks. "I'm hoping you can prove me wrong. That you can show me you're in this for real."

"I am in this."

"Then prove it." She steps closer, and this time when she reaches for you, you don't pull away. "Don't make me choose right now. Let me figure this out. Let me see if you can really do this, and if Don is really what I want. Just—give me time."

"While you sleep with him."

"Yes." She doesn't sugarcoat it. "I have to. For now. But Tim—" Her hands frame your face. "What I have with you is different. It's us. It's real. What I have with him is—it's survival. It's practicality. It's this body responding to familiarity. But it's not you."

"It sounded pretty real through the wall."

"The body responds." Her voice drops. "Jennifer's body remembers him. I can't control that. But my mind—my heart—that's still yours. If you want it."

You want to push her away. Want to tell her she can't have it both ways, can't keep you on a string while she fucks your father.

But the truth is, you'll take whatever she'll give you.

Because losing her completely is worse than sharing her.

"This is fucked up," you whisper.

"I know."

"I heard you say his name. Heard you come for him."

"I know." She presses her forehead to yours. "And I'm sorry. But Tim—you need to understand. I'm trapped. I have to be Jennifer. I have to let Don believe we're reconciling. But when I'm with you—" Her breath hitches. "When I'm with you, I get to be Allison again. Even just for a moment."

"Is that what you need right now?" Your hands find her waist, pull her closer. "To be Allison?"

"Yes." The word is barely a breath. "Please."

You kiss her, and she melts into it with a **** sound. Your hands work at the robe's belt, yanking it open, and she's naked underneath—still slick from him, still smelling like sex, and the wrongness of it should stop you.

But it doesn't.

You walk her backward to the bed, and she goes willingly, pulling you down with her. There's no gentleness this time, no slow exploration. It's raw, urgent, both of you trying to erase what just happened down the hall.

You don't bother undressing fully. Just shove your boxers down and sink into her, and she gasps, back arching.

"Tim—yes—"

She's wet—too wet, and you know it's not all from you, but you don't care. You fuck her hard, claiming her, trying to overwrite the memory of him touching her. She meets you thrust for thrust, nails raking down your back, and when you bite down on her shoulder—marking her—she cries out.

"Mine," you growl against her skin. "You're mine."

"Yours," she gasps. "I'm yours, Tim, always yours—"

The lie is comforting even if neither of you believes it.

You flip her over, pull her hips up, and take her from behind. The angle lets you go deeper, and she buries her face in your pillow to muffle her sounds. Your hands grip her hips—the same hips Dad held hours ago—and you drive into her with single-minded intensity.

"Don't—don't stop—" Her voice is muffled but ****. "Please, Tim, I need—"

You reach around, find her clit, and rub in tight circles. She shatters within seconds, clenching around you, and the sensation drags you over with her. You come deep inside her—mixing with him, the thought both disgusting and possessive—and collapse forward, both of you shaking.

For long moments, the only sound is ragged breathing.

Then she turns her head, finds your mouth, and kisses you soft and sweet.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"For what?"

"For not giving up on me."

You roll to the side, pull her against your chest. She fits perfectly despite everything, and you bury your face in her hair.

"I won't give up," you promise. "But Allison—this can't go on forever. Eventually, you have to choose."

"I know." Her voice is small. "But not tonight. Tonight, can we just—can we just be us?"

You tighten your arms around her. "Yeah. We can be us."

She relaxes against you, and within minutes, her breathing evens out. Asleep, or pretending to be.

You lie there holding her, knowing she'll have to sneak back to Dad's bed before dawn. Knowing tomorrow she'll make him breakfast and kiss him goodbye and play the perfect wife-to-be.

And knowing that despite everything—despite the lies, the deception, the fact that you're sharing her with your own father—you'll take it.

Because having some of her is better than none of her.

Even if it destroys you both.