Becca

It had been a year since your dad left the country for work, leaving just you and Becca to take care of each other. He sent her a generous sum every month, ensuring she never had to worry about money—but money wasn’t the same as company. And no matter how well Becca kept herself busy, the house had been quieter, emptier, lonelier.

Lately, though, she seemed to notice the weight of that loneliness on you too. Maybe it was how you spent more time locked in your room. Maybe it was the way dinners had gotten quieter. Or maybe she just wanted to shake things up, to make life feel a little less routine.

So, in a moment of spontaneity (or weakness, depending on how this played out), she’d told you: "Whatever you want! Anything at all!"

And now, standing in her bedroom, she was starting to regret it.

“A-are you sure this will make you happy?” Becca asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow as she held up the bottle of lubricant like it was some kind of cursed artifact.

She stood there, barefoot, wearing only an oversized black sweater that reached mid-thigh, her posture both relaxed and unsure.

"Anal sex...?" she frowned slightly, trying to piece things together. "In my bed? Really?"

She wasn’t a sex expert, didn’t even pretend to understand the appeal of anal. And her bedroom had always been a sacred space—hers and her husband's, no one else's. Yet here she was, entertaining the idea of surrendering it to something completely foreign.

Maybe she was losing her mind.

Or maybe she just wanted to see you smile again.