The bathroom door swings open. Seven's knees have gone numb against the tile, the plug long gone but the ache still radiating through her stretched rim. Her cunt is a wet, sticky mess between her thighs—his load from the bedroom crawl has dried in tacky threads, but fresh slick keeps leaking out, slow and constant.

He stands in the doorway, arms crossed. Pajama pants hang low on his hips. The dark hair on his chest catches the morning light.