"You were right! There was a lot of... body oil. And gyrating. And very choreographed thrusting."
My voice comes out carefully neutral. "Uh-huh."
"One guy did a backflip. Off a chair. While taking off his pants."
I stop walking, turn to face her. "Didyou—"
"Did I what?"
"Enjoy it?"
Jane's fighting a smile. "West. His name was Thunder. He wore a bow tie. JUST a bow tie. For like, twenty minutes. I was…beyonddelighted!"
I tighten my arm against hers, possessive edge creeping into my voice despite everything. "Jane—"
"I'm just saying, you don't have any choreographed routines. No backflips. No bow ties. Kind of disappointing, really—"
I cut her off by kissing her, backing her toward the casita door. She's teasing me about a stripper named Thunder while I'm trying to scrub the memory of Blake's toxicity off my skin.
It shouldn't work. It shouldn't make me feel better.
But it does. Because Jane can make me laugh even when I want to punch something. Even when I've spent the last two hours watching my childhood friend prove he's a depraved monster.
Even when I'm trying not to think about the fact that we have thirty-six hours left.
"I'm kidding—" she says breathlessly, laughing against my lips.
"I know." I open the door, pull her inside.
"And Blake's bachelor's party?"
My jaw tightens. "Was worse than Thunder. In every possible way."
Her expression softens. "Come here."
Then she's the one who takes charge, pulling me toward the bedroom with purpose. "I need you."
"Jane—"
"Now. Please."
She reaches down and slips out of her black lace panties, and the noise in my head finally cuts out.
"Condom," I manage, reaching for the nightstand drawer. "You know, we're halfway through this Costco box of condoms, right?"
She grins, wicked. "Kirkland Signature quality. Built to last."
"Like us?" The words slip out before I can stop them. Unplanned. Raw.
Her grin softens into something more vulnerable. The question hangs between us—half joke, half hope, whollyterrifying.
"Yeah," she says quietly. "Like us."
Her dress hits the floor. My underwear and shirt follow—buttons scattering.
I sit on the edge of the bed, pull her into my lap so she's straddling me. The position's familiar—we've been here before, that first night when everything was still pretend and we were just practicing.
"Remember this position?" she asks, hands on my shoulders.
