Archer felt the sweat running down his forehead and into his hair, the ceiling fan above doing nothing to cool his overheated body. Waves of euphoria still coursed through him as his eyes traveled to his cum-drenched hand, a familiar twinge of guilt following that seemed to diminish with each repetition of this secret ritual.

His gaze fell on his phone again, the image of her in a sundress still fresh in his mind. He'd been imagining her above him, taking every inch as he dragged his length inside her repeatedly, trying to envision her sweet, warm voice moaning his name. The illusion shattered when he came—not inside the woman of his fantasies, but in his own hand.

Archer's breathing evened out as he tapped his phone twice, shrinking the image back to normal size. The picture showed three people in front of a waterfall: himself, his best friend August, and August's mother—the woman he'd just been vividly imagining. They were huddled together as sunlight beat down, creating the perfect filter like something from an influencer's social media page.

When had they taken that photo? He'd used it so much it felt like it came with his phone. After a moment, the memory returned—it was around October last year, a month into him living here. An appreciation dinner for all he'd done around the house, from cooking meals to fixing broken appliances.

Now he changed his pants, feet dragging across the carpet to the cold wooden floor and into the kitchen. It was spring break, and he needed to burn the image of her smiling face from his mind with the familiar routine of making breakfast. He craved the sweet chime of her compliments when she tasted his food, a safe way to be close without crossing dangerous lines.

He tried to understand why he was attracted to her. She was the exact opposite of his mother—warm where his mother was cold, nurturing where his mother was violent, sober where his mother was often intoxicated. His mother had pointed at women like her and laughed, calling them desperate or worse. Yet here she was, having allowed him to move in after August asked once, no hesitation from a woman he'd never met before.

Months passed and he couldn't help but become more attracted. The morning hugs, shopping trips, and her refusing rent time after time—"No, you're fine I promise! You're a college student who needs that money for books and fun"—only deepened his feelings. It was better than having someone break down his door to yell in a drunken rage, better than being told he ruined lives.

The last egg was perfectly done and plated in an aesthetic arrangement when he heard a creaking door. August's mother was up. A stupid grin spread across his features as he adjusted his borrowed house robe and pajama pants.

"Food's ready!" he called out. "Come on, August would kill me if he saw you skipping meals."