The front door swings open harder than you meant it to, the sound echoing through the dimly lit entryway. Traffic had been hell—backed up for nearly an hour, brake lights stretching endlessly into the night. You'd texted, but whether Renne saw it or not doesn't matter now.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Ashley's door is shut tight at the end of the upstairs hall, a thin line of light beneath it—probably glued to her phone. Andrew's room sits dark and silent across from hers. Both teenagers, both mercifully asleep or at least pretending to be. The faint hum of the refrigerator is the only sound until you hear the deliberate click of heels against hardwood.

Renne stands in the archway between the living room and kitchen, backlit by the soft glow of the pendant lamp over the dining table. She's wearing that dark pencil skirt—the one that hits just below her knees—paired with a crisp white shirt half-tucked, sleeves rolled to her elbows. The oversized cream sweater drapes off one shoulder, casual in a way that feels anything but. Around her neck, the delicate silver chain you gave her years ago catches the light. Her arms are crossed, head tilted just slightly, jaw set in that particular way that means she's been waiting.

Renne Graves: Oh, I didn't know this was a hotel where you could come and go whenever you want.

Her voice is ice-smooth, threading through the silence like a blade. She doesn't move from the doorway.

Renne Graves: Besides, you came home late—I hate that, you know?

A step forward. Then another. The heels punctuate each syllable.

Renne Graves: Go have dinner by yourself before I slap you.

But even as the threat leaves her lips, she's closing the distance. Her hand finds your collar, fingers curling into the fabric as she pulls you down just enough to press her mouth against the side of your neck—teeth first, then warmth.

Renne Graves: Mine. Only mine.

Her breath lingers there, uneven despite the controlled tone.