The moment Ophelia managed to flutter her eyes open, the pain in her head surged like a tidal wave, crashing into her consciousness with a merciless force that left her momentarily paralyzed by its intensity. The jarring ache pulsed rhythmically. Perhaps it was a cruel reminder of whatever torment she had endured, leaving her mouth parched and her throat dry.

Shifting her tongue around the confines of her dry mouth, she groaned quietly. A lament of confusion and dread threaded through her thoughts. As she gingerly moved to lay flat on her back, the stark whiteness of the ceiling above her came into focus, punctuated by one or two vents embedded in the surface, through which stale air droned lazily.

The dim light, a washed-out glow that barely penetrated the shadows lurking in the corners of the room, felt heavy and stifling. With each slow blink, she fought against the disorientation plaguing her mind, slowly managing to clear away the blurry remnants of sleep and confusion that clung to her gaze like cobwebs in the corners of a forgotten attic.

Seconds turned into minutes, and the initial pain in her head began to dissipate. It soon morphed into a dull throb that echoed through her skull like the distant rumble of thunder. Gritting her teeth against the residual pain, she pushed herself upright, feeling the constricting weight of the white blankets. She weakly kicked them aside, exposing her legs to the chill of the sterile environment.

Glancing down, she couldn't help but feel grossed out to see she was still clad in the same outfit she had worn the previous night. There were dried blood stains on the front of her sweater. Did everything truly happen last night? The thought made her head tilt sideways in curiosity.

She instinctively sent a curious gaze around the room, her eyes landing on the heart monitor sitting unused a few feet away from the bed. When she shifted more upright on the stiff mattress, she noticed its absence of beeping or anything really. Everything surrounding her felt more ominous than reassuring.

The room carried an empty spaciousness, an echo of her brief moment of silence, with a large window to her left framing a dismally grey sky that seemed to weep with the promise of rain. Outside, the world was drenched in muted tones as the tall tree branches swayed.

Beside her stood a reclinable chair, with a pile of clothes situated on top of the worn leather. Drawing on what little strength remained, she clumsily swung her legs over the edge of the bed and found her balance on the cold tile floor. Despite the pain in her head subsiding to a dull ache, a peculiar weakness enveloped her, as though every step was physically weighed down by chains.

Wiggling out of her black sweater and skirt, the fabric slipping away like a whisper of the past, she pulled on an oversized, zip-up jacket that wrapped around her like a cocoon. Its familiar scent reminded her of Mickey, leading her to faintly frown. She continued to struggle into her pair of sweatpants, her thoughts spiraling into a frenzy of confusion and apprehension.

Once again, she slumped against the mountain of pillows behind her, the dim morning light filtering through the curtains softened the reality of last night's events, and yet it did nothing to dull the images that coursed through her mind like a grotesque film replaying on an endless loop. Each stabbing motion Billy had made burned into her retinas, a ballet of brutality that she should have found appalling. As she traced the contours of Mickey's jacket sleeve with her fingers, she felt an unsettling thrill rather than pure terror or revulsion.

The memory of Casey's shrieks slicing through the night air already felt like some distant echo, eerily overshadowed by an unexpected detachment. It unnerved her. How could she not cry for her dead friend, the sweet girl who had lit up hallways and classrooms with her laughter, whose life had been devoured like some moth fluttering too close to a flame? And yet, here she was, contemplating the absence of grief with an unsettling amusement that thrummed beneath her skin.

What a strange thing it is, she thought, simultaneously detached yet somewhat fascinated.

In the broader chaos of her thoughts, she acknowledged a cruel indifference toward the lives lost. There was something wrong with the way she treated the memory of their deaths with a sense of sick humor rather than disgust. Steve was far from beloved in her memory, while Casey's sweetness now felt like a faint caress on her own skin, completely drowned by the intimacy of violence that Billy and Stu attempted to inflict upon her.

She held a shameful pleasure at the thought that life, death, and all the messy emotions intertwined within could feel so neatly compartmentalized in a mind that was meant to be shattered by grief. It slowly led to her feeling fractured. Even as the corners of her lips threatened to curl into a smile born of reckless abandon, she couldn't shake the sensation that deep down, she had become something other than herself. As if she were a spectator in her own horror show, taking a twisted glee in the supposed tragedy.

The weight of that realization sat heavily on her chest, as she fought against the disobedient impulse to revel in the memory of blood and terror, questioning whether she had become, in some fundamental way, just as evil as Billy and Stu.

A creaking noise snapped her out of her thoughts, the sound reverberating softly against the sterile walls. Letting her eyes drift away from the bland, magnolia-painted ceiling, she sat upright. The sheets rustled as she moved to observe Mickey, who had just stepped gingerly into the room. Their eyes locked, and in that fleeting, electric moment, she could see the weight of concern in his dark brown gaze.

There was a hesitance about him; a palpable anxiety that seeped through the air, forcing him to turn slightly, casting a cautious glance over his shoulder to ensure that the hospital hallway was vacant. With a soft yet definitive click, he closed the door behind himself, shutting out the bright fluorescent lights that flickered harshly beyond the threshold. The furrow in her brow deepened as he quickly approached her bed, his demeanor shifting from apprehensive to fervent.

Without a word, he reached for her, his hands gripping both sides of her face with an intensity that bordered on desperation. His motions were nearly rough, the grip of his calloused fingers unpleasantly digging into the soft contours of her jaw and cheeks, yet she allowed it. Seconds stretched into a near eternity as she held her breath, bracing against the painful pressure.

But then, as if realizing the weight of his touch, his grip softened, and the fingers that once felt like steel began to caress her skin gently.

He shifted to sit beside her, the presence of his body close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him; a stark contrast to the chill that perpetually lingered in the air-conditioned room. When he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers, she stared up at him blankly. Nonetheless, she surrendered to the simple solace of his proximity, slowly closing her eyes.

With an instinctive movement, her hand found its perch on his forearm. In a soft voice, she whispered, "Are you okay?"

His body vibrated with a chuckle under her palm. It was a familiar sound that reminded her of easier times, the days before blood and chaos had marred their lives. As he laughed, one hand threaded through her dark brunette hair while the other left her cheek, traveling down to her neck, where he maintained a gentle grip.

"You're the one who survived a bloodbath," he murmured, an affectionate mockery lacing his tone, "and you have the nerve to ask me if I'm okay?"

His words ignited a flicker of mischief in her spirit, leading the corners of her lips to quirk upward into a faint smile. She couldn't help but laugh softly, her eyes fluttering open to discover that he was smiling back at her. There was a genuine curve to his lips that radiated a warmth she had almost forgotten existed. It wasn't strange, per se, to see him smile. They had shared moments of happiness before, but this was different.

The longer he gazed at her, an intricate range of emotions played out across his face. As he studied her, the twinkle in his eye began to dim, giving way to a heavier sentiment that settled around him like a shroud. The corner of her smile dipped uncertainly, mirroring the transformation in his demeanor. A deep curiosity ignited in her chest when she watched the joy drain from his expression, leaving in its wake a look that resembled defeat.

Something thick hung in the air as he exhaled a strained breath, his minty scent enveloping her, as though time had slowed around them, accentuating the gravity of the moment. The grip around the base of her neck tightened slightly; a physical manifestation of his internal fight. It almost seemed like he was refraining himself from what he truly wanted to accomplish.

With a bluntness that sliced through the tension, he uttered words that resonated ominously in her ears, "I'm sorry for what I'm about to do."

Confusion led Ophelia to furrow her brows together. A storm of questions swirled in her mind, but before she could articulate even a fraction of her bewilderment, he leaned forward, bridging the gap between them with an unexpected, hesitant kiss. The initial contact of their lips was fleeting, a mere brush that sent tremors through her entire being, yanking her from reality and plunging her into a kaleidoscope of sensations.

He pulled back just enough for their foreheads to meet, their breaths mingling in the intimate space. The warmth of his skin against hers ignited a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes that had been absent moments before. Flushed cheeks painted a rosy hue across her normally pallid complexion, her long lashes fluttering. It was as if time had lost all meaning, leaving behind only the heartbeat echoing in her ears, pulsing in sync with the rising anticipation in her chest.

And just as her mind began to process the enormity of what had just occurred, he closed that precarious distance again, this time with a fervor that left her breathless. His kiss transformed, no longer innocent but now imbued with a desperate urgency that sent heat rushing through her body. Caught up in the heat of the moment, she instinctively mirrored his movements, attempting to match his intensity with an enthusiasm that felt foreign yet exhilarating.

That indescribable warmth unfurled, blossoming freely in her chest, becoming too undeniable. With a teasing bite, he captured her bottom lip between his teeth, pulling her closer with a tug before diving back into the intoxicating kiss. Yet, amid the whirlwind of emotions, he suddenly paused, pushing her back roughly into a plush mountain of pillows.

When she gracefully sank into the soft embrace of the cushions surrounding her, she couldn't help but notice the way he stood back, taking a moment to ground himself. Her cheeks flushed with a soft pink and her lips glistened, fuller and inviting in the soft, dim fluorescent light, leaving her in a delicious haze of indecision and newfound desire that tingled in the air like an electric current.

"Why did you do that?" he spat, frustration building in hushed expression, each word heavy and laden with an unarticulated expectation that hung in the air like the scent of antiseptic.

She blinked a couple of times in confusion, tilting her head to the side as she attempted to process the chaos swirling around them. "I didn't do anything," she replied, oblivious to the emotional hurricane that surrounded them.

From her vantage point, sprawled languidly against the softness of the cushions, she took in the disheveled state of his dark brunette hair, which stood on end, tousled from his incessant running of hands through it. Almost as if trying to scrub away his anxiety. Loose strands framed his sharp, angular features, highlighting the tension in his jaw and the depth of his furrowed brow.

Her concern intensified when he abruptly turned around, confrontational and raw, thrusting his emotions at her like a blade in the heat of battle. "You weren't supposed to kiss me back like you fucking meant it," he declared, his tone dripping with incredulity and a touch of hurt.

The venom in his words caught her off guard by just an inch, and she was rendered momentarily speechless, staring at him with slightly wide eyes, her mind racing to uncover what had happened in the span of minutes. Did she kiss him like she meant it? The question flickered through her thoughts as she processed his accusations, and something deep inside her whispered that perhaps she had simply been swept away in the rhythm of the moment, surrendering to an instinctual pull that she hadn't fully realized was there.

Slowly, she shimmed down until she was lying down, her body sinking into the comforting cushions. All the while observing as he released a pent-up sigh; a sound that echoed the frustration boiling just beneath his skin. He turned away, continuing to pace like a caged animal, each footfall seeming to echo his unresolved emotions.

"You were supposed to fight me, Ophelia," he continued his torrent at a louder volume, waving his hands around dramatically. "To curse me, to scream at me, to slap me. Anything other than what you did would've sufficed. For fuck's sake... I'm your brother! I crossed a line here, don't you understand? It was wrong, and you didn't push me away. Why?"

Instead of crystal tears welling in her eyes or a defensive posture rising within her, she remained oddly surprised. Her lips parted as she contemplated his reaction to some stupid kiss. No one was harmed, so what difference had it made? But why the way he was acting, it meant that he felt differently. "I don't know," she responded with a somewhat confused tone, lifting her shoulder into a half-shrug.

Before he could open his mouth to respond, they were abruptly punctuated by the sharp knock on the door. The sound reverberated in the confined space, causing both siblings to instantly halt their exchange, their connection severed by the intrusion of reality embodied in the forms of their father, Detective Altieri, and the figure of the sheriff of Woodsboro.

In an instant, the heated glow of their previous conversation was doused by a cloud of tension, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved conflicts. Attempting to smooth over her surprise, Ophelia glanced down at her sheets, trying to regain her poise, while Mickey, instincts honed from years of self-taught anger management, turned his piercing gaze towards their father with an intensity that could sear through steel.

His heart raced with a tumult of emotions: anger at the situation, frustration at the helplessness of it all, and a compelling urge to scream into the void that had become their once-normal lives. Despite this inner storm, he made the conscious choice to remain composed. Without uttering another word, he placed his hands firmly on his hips and pressed his lips tightly together.

Meanwhile, Ophelia managed a smile that professionally masked the depth of her thoughts. The sight of her father offered a glimmer of solace, granting her an unconscious reprieve from her heated conversation with Mickey. "Dad..." she trailed off, unsure of how to navigate with the sheriff standing behind him.

When Detective Altieri approached, he sidestepped his son, his focus singularly fixed on Ophelia, enveloping her in an embrace that felt foreign yet profoundly needed. The warmth of his arms was a scarce affection in their relationship, usually replaced by polite gestures like chaste kisses on her head or brief side hugs. Guiltily, this deeper physical connection made her heart flutter with a mix of comfort and sadness, as she instinctively grasped the sleeves of his crisp, tailored suit jacket.

It was in that moment, as his voice muffled into her shoulder, that he murmured those heartfelt words, "My baby girl, I'm sorry," and though she could feel the tremor of his distress. There was something curiously heartwarming about the paternal affection. Perhaps it was a reminder of the bond they still shared despite the circumstances.

Her stomach felt oddly weird when he finally pulled back, noticing the sight of his distressed face. The lines of stress etched deeper than she had ever seen before, prompting her to frown faintly. She shook her head with conviction, her voice trembling yet resolute as she said, "No, Dad, don't be sorry."

"But--" The faint flicker of determination surged within her as he attempted to speak, pushing her disheveled strands of brunette hair behind her ears.

She reached out to cover his hands with her own, gently pulling them together and into her folded lap. "But nothing. There was nothing you could've done to prevent this from happening. I'm only going to tell you once, okay?" Her gaze locked onto his, piercing, "This isn't your fault. You're a great Dad. The best kind of Dad any girl could ever hope for. Just because something bad happened to me, and you weren't there to help just this once, doesn't mean you should fault yourself."

Detective Altieri tilted his head slightly, allowing his piercing gaze to meet Ophelia's bright, expressive eyes. He couldn't help but notice the subtle way she mirrored his movements. As her smile faltered, almost as if it were a carefully curated mask slipping off her porcelain face, he felt his heart lurch when he saw the shadow creep into her doe-like eyes, glistening with unspilled tears that threatened to cascade down her delicate cheeks.

It was heartbreaking to witness; she rarely cried, a resilience crafted in childhood that had weathered more storms than any girl her age should have had to endure. As if compelled by an instinctual desire to comfort, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing aside the disheveled strands of her hair, quelling the chaos around them, if only for a moment, as he softly inquired, "What happened last night, honey?"

Ophelia managed to let her composure falter, her shoulders completely slouching. "Someone was calling Casey all night. I was using the restroom upstairs when they did. But when I came back downstairs, she said they..." Her voice became an echo of uncertainty, breaking off as she pressed her lips together, shaking her head slightly.

The tremor in her voice was unmistakable as she continued, incriminating phrases tumbling out, a floodgate of fear cascading down her reddened cheeks; she revealed with an urgency that made his skin crawl, "They told her they were watching her. That they'd... gut her if she hung up again."

Detective Altieri's mind raced, replaying each component of her statement against the backdrop of endless scenarios he'd encountered as an officer of the law. The web of questions spiraled within him, but he quelled them, reducing the chaos to a singular, focused query, "Then what happened?"

Deeming the correct answer in her head, her response was almost immediately more than just words. It was like a visceral encapsulation of her supposed anguish. She crossed both of her arms tightly over her chest, hugging herself. Almost as if to ward off the creeping dread that overwhelmed her. Her posture screamed vulnerability, and it seemed to tear at her father more than she could articulate. When she lifted her gaze, determination suddenly ignited behind her eyes.

"They broke into the house, and... God. I tried to get Casey out of there, Dad, I really did." The sobs that had threatened to escape earlier now quickly resurfaced as she squeezed her teary eyes closed. "I thought I was doing the right thing, but... they got her before I could do anything about it."

He enveloped her in a tight embrace, his sturdy arms encircling her petite frame, feeling the tremors of her sobs reverberate against his chest. The warmth of his body was a temporary barricade against the pervasive chill of loss and fear that hung thick in the air, stirring his blood into a cold, tight knot of anger and protectiveness. As he gently ran his fingers through her hair, his gaze shifted to Sheriff Burke, who stood, a silent sentinel, in the corner of the room.

The Sheriff's uniform, a light shade of desert sand, looked almost out of place in this intimate moment, especially as he clutched his hat in his hands, the loss of its usual grandeur reflecting the weight of Casey and Steve's deaths. Noticing the fire of anger tempered by a fierce resolve in Detective Altieri's eyes, Burke inclined his head in a grudging acknowledgment before turning to exit, the heavy door groaning slightly as he slipped through the threshold. The brief contact he made with Mickey-a quick, firm pat on his shoulder-was a gesture of solidarity.

Mickey stood frozen for a moment longer, his lip pinched between his teeth, watching as their father valiantly attempted to console Ophelia. To those who didn't know her, she seemed lost in a storm of her own making. Their father tenderly swept her hair away from her flushed face and whispered sweet nothings meant to anchor her, to ground her in a reality that felt like quicksand pulling her under.

However, as he processed her actions unfolding before him, the tension in his shoulders ebbed away, replaced by the realization that her tears, though honest in their depth, were also masterfully rehearsed; a heartbreaking performance that drew both sympathy and a hint of mirth from him. A smirk crept onto his face, which he hastily concealed behind a pretense of scratching his jaw as he reveled in the absurdity of the situation: could it be that Ophelia knew who murdered Casey and Steve?

The moment their father gently coaxed Ophelia to her feet, he wiped the grin from his face, straightening his posture as he opened the door with a practiced sense of gravity, ushering them both into the sprawling hospital corridors. The sterile scent of antiseptics accompanied them down the quiet hallways, their footsteps echoing in the otherwise serene silence, and during their descent in the elevator, Detective Altieri kept his sturdy arm layered protectively around Ophelia's shoulders, his hulking presence shielding her from the world outside, offering a semblance of safety within this realm of uncertainty.

Yet, when the doors slid open and revealed the chaos beyond-news outlets swarming like locusts, a ray of questions hurled at them from every direction-Ophelia's expression shifted, the veneer of tears washing away to reveal grit and defiance. Her teeth gritted in reaction to the horde of reporters and cameramen converging upon her. Each eager lens and microphone poised to capture their interpretation of last night's harrowing events, vying for an angle, a scoop, an admission, created a pandemonium that threatened to drown them in its chaos before they even set foot outside.

She resisted the urge to scrunch her nose in frustration when Woodsboro officers almost had to get physical with the news reporters, pushing them back just enough for a squad car to drive through the crowd. She stood behind her father, her hand covering most of her face, wanting to seem as if the situation was suffocating her in its chaos. The sky was barely visible from the gray clouds that loomed above, looking ominous and pregnant with impending rain, casting a pallid light over everything in sight, which was at odds with the frenetic energy pulsating from the hastily assembled swarm of reporters eager to capture every moment. Oddly enough, a sliver of the morning sun began to peek through them, breaking the monochrome facade and shining directly on the top of her head, illuminating her auburn hair.

When the squad car slowly came to a stop next to the sidewalk, its tires emitting a faint squeal against the asphalt, she turned around, steeling herself, and followed her father's instructions to get into the car quickly. The leather of the car's interior squeaked against her bare hands like a silent testament to the reality of her current situation as she climbed into the backseat, her movements punctuated by the anxiety that simmered just under the surface. Once settled, her fingers fumbled for the seatbelt, the familiar click of it securing her only a temporary reprieve from the chaos outside.

Detective Altieri leaned halfway into the car, his expression a combination of authority and tenderness, when he said, "I'm sorry I won't be home for dinner tonight... I know you were looking forward to my homemade lasagna," his voice imbued with a gravity that she could sense even through the veneer of his casual tone. "Let me make it up to you by taking you out to your favorite restaurant this weekend. You know, to catch up. How does that sound?"

He looked at her apologetically, and she felt an unexpected rush of warmth in her chest at the thought of his culinary efforts, a small but cherished ritual that felt distant in light of the last day's events. She waved a nonchalant hand, brushing aside his apology with an air of maturity, but then he interrupted her with a more commanding tone, firmly asserting, "Let me be sorry about one thing today," his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that demanded her full attention. "Okay?"

In that instant, she blinked a couple of times, taken aback when she realized he was serious, the weight of his words crashing down on her like a wave. "Okay, I understand," As she nodded, acquiescing to the gravity of the moment, the door opposite her opened, and Mickey slid into the seat beside her. "But I would love to do that with you. Maybe we could catch a movie too."

Their father's focus shifted to Mickey, the corners of his mouth tightening as he addressed him with a stern yet paternal tone, saying, "Officer Riley here is going to give you two a ride home," he motioned to the young man in the driver's seat, whose serious demeanor reflected the weight of the situation they all found themselves in.

He continued to speak in a firm voice that brooked no argument, emphasizing, "He's been assigned to make sure that there's no funny business. Do you two understand me? I mean it. No stops from here to there."

With a mixture of irritation and resignation, Ophelia held her bottom lip between her teeth and looked at Mickey, their shared glance speaking volumes, before finally responding, "Yes, sir, no funny business."

She watched Mickey silently roll his eyes and slouch further into the leather seat, throwing his head backward in exasperation, and couldn't help but wonder what they must be fighting about now. The atmosphere inside the car was initially silent, the weight of Casey and Steve's deaths still lingering in the chilly air. But Ophelia, curious about Officer Riley's last name, decided to strike up a conversation.

From the backseat, she glanced at Officer Riley, who had a boyish charm about him, despite him being only twenty-five years old. "Deputy, are you... I don't know, related to Tatum Riley, by any chance?" she inquired, noticing how almost immediately his face illuminated with a smile.

Officer Riley's expression brightened even further at her question, and he nodded enthusiastically. He turned on his blinker before momentarily locking eyes with her, beaming through the rearview mirror. "Please, call me Dewey. And yes, that's my younger sister," he replied, his connection to Tatum seeming to ignite a sense of camaraderie within him. "Are you a friend of hers or what?"

For some odd reason, her heart softened at the genuine interest in his doe eyes. She nodded, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "A friend introduced me to her. She's nice. I heard she's the life of the party," she answered, lifting her shoulder into a half-shrug.

Seemingly growing even more infectious, his smile widened. The corners of his eyes crinkled, brimming with warmth and appreciation. "That's great to hear!" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with a hint of pride. "Tatum talks about you sometimes, you know. Although I must admit, it wasn't always in the most flattering way at first."

Deciding to look at the rearview mirror, he watched as her smile progressively faded, her expression going completely blank. She leaned back against the plush leather seat, suddenly not feeling like keeping up the conversation in a polite way. "Oh," she simply replied with a hardened edge to her voice.

The pleasant smile that had adorned his face moments ago vanished, replaced by a furrowed brow and a troubled expression. Did he say something wrong? Oh shit. He cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the silence of the car, and guided the police-issued vehicle toward the Alrieri home. The engine hummed softly, a faint background noise to the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in his mind.

The car glided to a halt, the smooth deceleration barely disturbing the tranquility of the surrounding neighborhood. The engine hummed to a stop, and Ophelia wasted no time in unfastening her seatbelt and gracefully maneuvering herself out of the vehicle. Always a few steps behind, Mickey followed suit, his lanky frame moving with a casual ease. The siblings traversed the familiar pathway, their footsteps echoing against the pavement as they made their way up the driveway and toward the house.

Mickey squinted through the morning fog, his eyes straining to make out the figure sitting on the front porch steps of their two-story home. He nudged Ophelia gently, his curiosity piqued, and whispered, "Who the hell is that?"

Ophelia blinked in confusion for a moment before her eyes widened in recognition. "It's Ronnie Carpenter," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She tilted her head slightly, studying Ronnie from afar, observing him peeling the black nail polish off his already chipped fingernails. There was a certain vulnerability in his actions that she couldn't quite pinpoint.

With a mixture of surprise and skepticism, Mickey furrowed his brows and retorted, "Your freak friend who has an attitude problem?"

Ophelia's eyes narrowed, a hint of annoyance flashing across her face. "That's Lex, you idiot," she corrected him, her tone filled with frustration. "And they don't have an attitude problem... They're just very outspoken."

Mickey rolled his eyes playfully and reached out to cover Ophelia's face with his hand, trying to push her away. She grumbled in protest and attempted to shove him aside, their banter momentarily forgotten. As the scuffling continued, the sound of their tussle caught Ronnie's attention. He turned his head, his eyes meeting Ophelia's, revealing a glimpse of nervousness that hadn't been there before.

Ophelia climbed the porch steps and flashed a warm smile, greeting her co-worker, "Hey, aren't you supposed to be in school?"

Releasing a nervous laugh, Ronnie squared his shoulders unevenly. It was clear to Ophelia that he was on edge. "I remembered you telling me about spending the night with Casey earlier, and..." he hesitantly explained before blurting out, "Then I heard she was murdered by some psycho. I just wanted to make sure you weren't dead like her."

On the inside, the words almost made Ophelia want to burst out laughing. But on the outside, the words hit like a heavy blow, her face dropping in response. It was almost as if she was too stunned to speak. To her left, Mickey, unable to resist, snickered at Ronnie's unfortunate choice of words, causing the tension to escalate.

Quickly realizing his mistake, Ronnie instinctively laughed awkwardly and rubbed the side of his neck. "Oh, shit, that didn't come out at all like I thought it would've," he genuinely panicked, his eyes flickering to the space behind them for an escape. "I'm sorry. I'm just not good at comforting people. You know that, don't you? God, I'll just leave."

With growing amusement, she watched as Ronnie tried to walk past them. "Wait," she called out, extending her hand to prevent him from walking any further. "You just caught me off guard. No harm; no foul. It's okay."

Without a moment's hesitation, Ronnie stopped in his tracks. A sigh of relief escaped his pursed lips as he saw the understanding expression on her face. "I really am sorry, man," he offered his apology once more.

Much to his surprise, she responded with a lopsided smile, her playful demeanor evident. "Well, Ronnie," she began teasingly, "I can think of a way that you can make it up to me, but you have to come inside for you to do so."

Mickey, who had been witnessing the interaction with a mix of disgust and impatience, groaned audibly. "Fucking gross," he cursed under his breath. He continued striding toward the front door, swiftly unlocking it to signal his intention to escape the conversation.

Unable to hold back her laughter, she playfully nudged Ronnie. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she called out to Mickey as he entered the house, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Not like that, you big baby!"

The soles of Ronnie's boots squeaked against the porch as he turned to her, his expression turning momentarily serious. "You're gonna get me killed by your brother," he murmured, half-jokingly.

Openly rolling her eyes, she appeared unbothered by the notion. "Oh please," she scoffed, her voice filled with confidence. "He won't kill you. Now stop being so dramatic and come with me to my balcony. It's the perfect place to smoke."

Caught off guard by her invitation, he blinked at her in surprise. His curiosity piqued, and he looked at her, contemplating her proposition. After a fleeting pause, a playful grin spread across his face. "Alright," he agreed, realizing that making it up to Ophelia was an opportunity he didn't want to miss.

The morning slowly transitioned into the early afternoon, casting a unique light across the quiet neighborhood. On a quaint balcony, high above the hustle and bustle of the street below, lounged Ophelia and Ronnie. Their bodies were relaxed and sprawled in lawn chairs adorned with faded floral prints that echoed the bright colors of summer yet faded slightly under the weight of early autumn's encroaching chill.

The air was thick with a slight coolness that floated in on a gentle breeze, teasing at her long brunette hair, which whipped gracefully around her face, much like the wisps of dreams that linger in the corners of one's mind. As she brought the half-burnt joint, a remnant of lazy indulgence, to her lips, she could feel the tension of the world seem to slip away. She drew a deep breath, allowing the thick, pungent smoke to fill her lungs, savoring the rich, earthy flavor that accompanied it.

After a blissful pause to relish the sensation, she released the breath slowly, watching as the tendrils of smoke swirled and danced like whimsical spirits in the dim sunlight filtering through the thick clouds above-those haphazard shapes that floated overhead seemed to pull her imagination into a dreamy drift, each contour holding the promise of a story untold.

Leaning further back into her chair, almost melting into the cushion beneath her, she turned her gaze toward Ronnie, whose laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep within his chest, breaking through the tranquil silence of the afternoon. "I don't know about you," she began with a playful drawl, "but I'm officially baked."

Ronnie's head nodded in agreement, a slow grin spreading across his face, filled with the kind of joy that sparks memories in the making. He met her gaze with his own, the mischievous glint in his eyes perfectly complementing the lopsided smile that crept onto his lips as he quipped back, "Me too. You keep handing me the joint, but I don't have the heart to tell you no."

With a teasing flourish, she extended the joint toward him, the embers glowing brightly against the moody palette of gray above them. "Then does it make me a bad person to hand it to you again?" she asked, her tone laced with a playful innocence that belied the deeper emotions that stirred just beneath the surface.

Ronnie's eyes flickered between her and the joint, a brief moment of contemplation playing across his features before he shook his head decisively. "Fuck no! If anything, I'll give you a kiss to show my appreciation and all," he said, his voice laden with mock seriousness, carefully taking the joint from her fingers as if it were the most precious treasure.

The corners of her lips curled into a smile so wide it felt like sunshine breaking through the clouds. She shook her head, laughter bubbling within her as she rubbed at her red-tinted eyes, the world slightly softened by the haze, and replied, "I should be the one kissing you for saving me from Mickey. I mean... this feels good."

The hesitation in her voice hung in the air like a silent question, one that sought confirmation. Yet, as she gauged Ronnie's reaction, she was met with a smile that sparkled back at her, dispelling any doubt that may have lingered. "Of course. What are friends for?" He leaned over playfully, nudging her shoulder, and affirmed, "But seriously. I want you to know I'm always here to talk about anything if you want."

With a strange sensation in her stomach, she bit down on her bottom lip and accepted the joint back with a grateful nod. "Thank you," she responded, the words thick with meaning. "I don't feel like talking about it right now, but maybe someday."

The chilly air nipped at her nose, grounding her at the moment as she inhaled another drag, feeling the warmth spread through her like liquid gold. Ronnie's audible hum, a soft vibration that echoed into the stillness, settled comfortably between them. "Those are some wise words. I guess I should start listening to you more often, huh?" he couldn't resist teasing, watching the smoke escape her nostrils.

At the first sign of rain, the duo decided to retreat from the balcony and found themselves inside her cozy bedroom. Feeling the warmth of indoors, Ronnie began to shrug off his black leather jacket. Amid the motion, he accidentally let something slip from one of the pockets. Squinting in curiosity, Ophelia observed a small silver key glimmering against the soft carpet beneath his Halloween-themed socks.

Mildly intrigued, she couldn't help but speak up, "Hey, you dropped something."

She gestured toward the key, her eyes red-rimmed; a subtle indication that she might have indulged a little too much in the intoxicating pleasures of the joint they had shared just moments ago. The corner of her lips curved into a soft smile as she kneeled beside him, her fingers gently picking up the small key and extending it toward him.

Ronnie, his gaze directed downward; his curly brown hair falling over his forehead, shook his head in disbelief. He wore a lopsided grin, his eyes reflecting a mixture of surprise and relief. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice tinged with gratitude. "Stu's parents would've killed me if I lost it."

With her brows furrowing, she allowed her face to fall apologetically. "Why would his parents give you a key though?" she inquired further, openly blinking in confusion.

Throwing himself onto her unmade bed, he turned toward her, his weight sinking into the soft mattress. He let a soft chuckle escape his lips, accompanied by a hint of amusement. "They don't exactly trust Stu to water their plants," he explained. "So, they gave me a key. Don't tell anyone, but they trust me more than Stu when it comes to their precious greenery."

She nodded, her hazy attention fixed on him as he carefully placed the small silver key into the pocket of his worn black leather jacket. With a sense of anticipation, she made her way over to the vintage record player that sat atop her weathered wooden dresser. As she gracefully approached the player, he began to pick up her stuffed animals one by one, seemingly inspecting them.

A mischievous grin played across his face as he watched Ophelia pick a certain vinyl record and delicately place it onto the turntable. He couldn't help but tease her, remarking, "You're so old school."

Rolling her eyes, framed by a hint of crimson from a sleepless night, she retorted, "And you're one to talk, Mr. 'I still rock a leather jacket.'"

In mock surrender, he held his hands up beside his head, his laughter filling the room as he leaned back, resting his head against a plush gray pillow. Now fully immersing herself in the moment, Ophelia took a step back from the record player and pressed the needle onto the record. The room was filled with the iconic opening riff of "Sweet Leaf" by Black Sabbath, the first track from their legendary album, Master of Reality.

With a playful groan, he exclaimed, "Why'd you have to put on this amazing song when you know I have to leave soon? Practice is in an hour!"

With a spark of mischief dancing in her doe eyes, she felt her smile widen and gracefully joined him on the bed, her body fitting haphazardly against his. "Isn't my company enough to keep you here?" she snickered, her voice filled with subtle amusement.

Shaking his head, he let out a sleepy sigh. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

For a moment there, her smile wavered. "Yeah," she slowly replied, her gaze dropping momentarily before meeting his again, "I know."

Throwing his fuzzy head back against the bed, he closed his eyes in bliss. "We're coworkers, but... man, I think we're somewhat friends, aren't we? I mean, you covered so many of my shifts when I had gigs happening those nights," he continued, his voice filled with sincerity. "If you think about it, my band and I wouldn't have gotten the record deal without you."

A genuine amusement danced in the corners of her eyes as she listened to Ronnie's heartfelt words. "Oh, shut your mouth. You got that record deal with pure talent. You're just trying to butter me up," she murmured, shaking her head.

The effects of the high they shared intensified the flow of conversation between them. She couldn't exactly hate it. So, she playfully nudged him, a small laugh escaping her lips as she teased, "So, how's that going so far?"

Instantly, his face lit up with an infectious grin. He lifted his head off the bed slightly,  "Great! I'm still in high school, but if I graduate this year, I'll be set. The band's been gaining traction, and we've got some exciting gigs lined up. It's like a dream come true, you know?"

Glancing at the small clock perched on the bedside table, he realized with a tinge of disappointment that it was already seven in the evening. Reality called, pulling him away from the warmth and comfort of Ophelia's bedroom. Reluctantly, he began pushing himself off the pristine white bedsheets, his voice tinged with playfulness. "I don't want to leave, but alas, I need to. Duty calls, am I right?"

She mirrored his easygoing expression, propping herself up on her elbows, her gaze fixed intently on him. A strand of her chestnut hair fell gently across her face as she watched him struggle to put on his heavy boots. "You're right," she reassured him with a laugh. "But will I see you in math tomorrow?"

He paused, his hands frozen while tying his laces. A tinge of worry creased his brow as he looked up at her, searching for answers in her red eyes. "You're going to school tomorrow?" he inquired with a hint of disbelief in his voice.

Within a span of seconds, her expression shifted toward a blank one, her hesitation palpable. Finally, she mustered a small nod and replied, "Yeah, I am. Why?"

A low whistle escaped his lips as he finished tying his laces, his mind racing with thoughts. "It's just that... you were attacked by some crazy killer just last night. If I were you, I'd milk this and stay home for at least two weeks," he suggested with a faint smirk playing on his lips, attempting to alleviate the tension.

Amusement shimmered in her dark brown eyes as she rose gracefully from her bed, her movements exuding an air of quiet strength. "Of course, you would," she responded, a hint of playful sarcasm in her tone. "As much as I would love to stay home for two weeks, I need to face the music."

She led the way downstairs, her footsteps echoing softly on the wooden staircase. He followed closely behind, hot on her trail. "Aren't you... I don't know, paranoid? I mean, you said you didn't get a clear look at the guy," he continued to pester her with questions on the way out, obviously concerned. "He obviously got a good look at you! What if he comes back for you?"

Reaching the bottom of the staircase, she let out a weary sigh. He heard an altered version of the story she had told her father and the sheriff earlier in the hospital. Of course, it was brought up during the conversation on the balcony. "The police told me it was probably a one-time thing," she calmly lied.

"Haven't you seen horror movies, dingbat?" He shook his head vehemently, his eyes wide with worry. "It's never a one-time thing. It always turns out to be some fucked up plot with mind-blowing twists."

A small, amused grin tugged at the corners of her lips. "Oh, so I'm in a horror movie now?" she quipped, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Opening the front door, she motioned for him to walk through first.

A rush of cold air blew against his face, causing his hair to dance in the wind. He nodded, pulling a beanie from the depths of his leather jacket pocket and placing it on his head. "Yes, we all are. And you're not just living it; you're the main character," he declared, his voice filled with equal parts seriousness and irony.

In an instant, there was a change in the genuineness of her smile. She crossed her arms over her chest, her body language taking on a more guarded and subdued stance. With a faded playful expression, she glanced at him, uncertainty lingering in her gaze.

Ronnie hesitated, feeling a mix of emotions swirling within him. He couldn't help but wonder, "Is it bad that I want to give you a hug?" His question hung in the air, both hopeful and vulnerable.

The corners of her lips turned up into a small smile, a flicker of warmth returning to her features. With a gentle roll of her eyes, she decided to let her guard down, stepping forward and embracing him. He hugged her like he meant it, which she found endearing.

She had to step on her toes, their height difference emphasizing the delicate nature of their friendship. It wasn't awkward, yet it wasn't entirely comfortable either. Just like their friendship, it teetered between moments of ease and uncertainty, finding solace in the familiarity they shared.

They stood there for a brief moment, locked in a slightly awkward position, time seemed to both stand still and rush forward all at once. She pulled away gently, breaking the embrace, her demeanor conveying a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability. "Thank you," she whispered, taking a step backward, "I'll see you tomorrow."

For a brief moment, he hesitated before slouching when he realized she was stubborn. He gave her one last smile, rolling his red-tinted eyes in mild frustration. "Okay. Tomorrow. I'll even save you a seat right next to me at lunch." With a heavy sigh, he turned and began to walk down the porch step. "Byeeeee."

She inhaled a long and deep breath through her nose, savoring the refreshing chill of the crisp autumn air as it filled her lungs. The coolness almost stung her throat as the warmth of her exhale transformed into visible wisps that danced momentarily in the air before dissipating. The air was sharp, crisp, almost electric, making her feel acutely aware of her surroundings, from the rustle of leaves that brushed against each other in the gentle breeze to the distant caw of a crow perched somewhere far off.

Each step she took on her porch echoed in the near-silence, the weathered floorboards creaking softly underfoot as they protested against the weight of her presence. Turning slowly, she allowed herself to linger in the moment, momentarily entranced by the playfulness of shadows cast by the waning sun. But as she closed the heavy front door behind her, the world outside muted instantly, the comforting thud of solid wood leaving behind the hushed whispers of nature.

With a sigh, she bent down, hands reaching for the laces of her well-worn sneakers, fingers deftly working to untie them. It was during this mundane act that she noticed the stain; a blood blotting the bottom of her left sneaker. The rich crimson hue was stark against the scuffed white rubber. It struck her with a strange fascination, making her stomach churn slightly as she wondered, with a hint of bewilderment, why the police had failed to acknowledge this glaring piece of evidence.

The thought lingered, a fleeting shadow, before she shook her head in an attempt to dismiss the troubling notion, and rid herself of the unnecessary worry that clung to her. No, she had more pressing matters to attend to, she decided as she placed her sneakers next to the shoe rack with an almost ceremonious finality. With a renewed purpose, she gracefully ascended the staircase, her sock-clad feet whispering against the wooden risers, gliding soundlessly as she climbed the familiar steps to her bedroom.

Once she pushed open the door to her room, the stillness enveloped her, but it didn't last long. The metal knob twisted in her grasp, the soft grating sound of metal slicing through the silence jarring her momentarily as she stepped across the threshold. Without a second thought, she flung the door closed behind her.

Stepping into the attached bathroom, she allowed the door to remain slightly ajar, welcoming a sliver of light and the soothing sounds of the house that seemed to flow through the cracks. She began to undress, each garment falling delicately to the floor in a haphazard pile. The walls of the bathroom were adorned with tiles in various shades of green, reminiscent of the calm ocean waves that gently lapped at the shore.

Moments later, she stood beneath the cascading water of the shower, tendrils of steam rising around her like ephemeral spirits. The scent of lavender shampoo and body wash filled the warm and misty air. The water, warm and rejuvenating, caressed her skin, washing away the cares of the memorable night and leaving her feeling refreshed, only physically.

The running water came to a stop, its soothing sound ceasing abruptly. Ophelia, her senses heightened by the sudden silence, pulled back the shower curtain and reached out to grab a white towel that lay neatly folded on the edge of the sink. With fluid motions, she wrapped the soft fabric around her slick body, feeling its comforting embrace against her damp skin. The steam, like ghostly tendrils, billowed out from the bathroom and ventured timidly into her bedroom, enveloping the space in a hazy veil of warmth.

However, as she stepped out of the inviting tub and pushed open the already-cracked bathroom door, her eyes slightly widened in surprise. There, standing before her in the dimly lit room, was a figure she knew all too well. Billy Loomis. The soft glow of the bedside table lamp cast eerie shadows of his slouchy posture against the lilac-painted walls, heightening the air of mystery and tension that hung palpably in the room.

Her dark brown eyes flickered between him and the open balcony doors, the soft moonlight casting a pale glow on her face. The white curtains billowed lightly in the gentle night breeze, creating a ghostly atmosphere. Her gaze followed his every move as he walked past her four-poster bed, his fingertips delicately grazing the pristine white material. At that moment, time seemed to stand still as her heart seemingly slowed down in her chest.

The bedroom was enveloped in an eerie stillness, broken only by the soft sound of water dripping from her wet hair, creating tiny droplets that fell onto the plush carpet below. As her gaze met Billy's, who had positioned himself in front of her dresser, a wave of irritation washed over her. It suddenly dawned on her that she stood practically naked before his wandering eyes, clad only in a fucking towel. Despite this realization, she wore a stoic expression, determined not to let her idiotic vulnerability show.

Momentarily averting his gaze from her lingering frame, Billy shifted his attention to a framed photograph resting on the dresser. His outstretched hand grabbed the picture frame, his eyes locked onto the captured image of Ophelia and her mother. The room hung heavy with tension, pregnant with unspoken words, as his voice broke the silence. "You didn't tell the police. I mean, everyone knows that your father's practically a FED. I didn't take you for stupid," he spoke up, a strange mix of accusation and uncertainty lacing his words.

Blankly blinking in his direction, her silence was a testament to the multitude of thoughts swirling within her mind. She watched Billy place the picture back onto the dresser, her inner annoyance growing at his nonchalant demeanor. With a controlled breath, she finally spoke, "Both of us know I'm not stupid."

A stray strand of his dark hair hung loosely over Billy's forehead, giving him a slightly disheveled yet effortlessly attractive appearance. As his sharp eyes glanced away from the horror posters adorning the walls of her bedroom, they met her steady and calm gaze. The intensity that emanated from his gaze seemed to pierce through her very soul, but she seemingly refused to back down.

Slowly, he nodded. It was then, with a voice seemingly devoid of any discernible emotion, that he uttered the words that would leave her momentarily perplexed. "You may not be, but your brother kind of is."

With both of her hands instinctively tightening around the edges of the towel wrapped around her body, she took a few steps further into the dimly lit bedroom. Mild confusion cracked through her otherwise composed demeanor. "And that means... what, exactly?" she inquired breezily.

He observed her movements forward, his eyes briefly flitting toward the closed bedroom door before returning to her. A faint hum escaped his lips, hinting at a mix of contemplation and certainty. "Do you remember that night at the theater? Well, after he told me to stay away from you," With a steady gaze fixed upon her, he unraveled his thoughts. "I initially thought it was just his overprotectiveness kicking in. But, no, there was something else..."

The air in the bedroom grew heavy, palpable tension hanging between them. The room, dimly lit as it was, seemed to amplify the weight of his words. She stood near her bedside table, her mind racing with possibilities and questions. The implications of what he was suggesting slowly sank in, stirring a whirlwind of thoughts within her mind.

Her breaths came in shallow, uneven patterns, evidence of the sudden tension that gripped her. Her left eye twitched involuntarily; a physical manifestation of the inner battle she was trying so hard to suppress. Despite her negative thoughts, she managed to maintain an outward appearance of calmness, though a sigh escaped her lips, betraying her weariness. Her fingers lightly grazed her jaw; a nervous gesture borne out of frustration and annoyance.

"It's painfully clear that you're aware of the affair my father had with Maureen," With a mix of resignation and defiance, she spoke, her voice tinged with a hint of bitterness. "You don't have to remind me of the worst thing that happened to my family. Spare me the bullshit, please."

With a sense of amusement creeping over her entire body, she simply observed Billy's gradual advancement. Yet, a flicker of natural caution made her take a step backward, her body instinctively retreating. "And you, of all people, shouldn't be the one to lecture me. We're in the same boat, aren't we? Your father fucked Maureen, too," she retorted, her voice tinged with a mix of accusation and vulnerability.

Ophelia's retreat halted abruptly as her back met the full-length mirror. He finally stood before her, becoming a stark contrast to her vulnerable position. In an almost calculated move, he raised his hand and gently placed it beside her head, his fingertips leaving faint smudges on the reflective surface of the mirror. His expression remained inscrutable as his eyes locked onto every detail of her face, an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

"I'm surprised," he broke the silence as a faint smile began to play at the corner of his lips, his voice laced with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. "You've got such a mouth on you, girl."

The mirror that adorned the wall behind her sent a shiver down her spine, its icy touch contrasting against her warm skin. With a mix of trepidation and curiosity, she found herself unable to resist the gravitational pull of his proximity. As he reached out and took hold of her hand, their fingers effortlessly intertwined, a surge of electricity coursed through her veins.

A startling realization dawned upon her, yet she compelled herself not to move a single muscle. She watched his nearly black eyes fall to her lips, licking his own to prevent himself from falling into her smooth honey trap. Her eyelids were becoming heavy, leading them to slowly flutter shut at the unbearable proximity.

The plan in his head was tossed out the window, testing the harsh waters and affectionately easing his nose against hers. Keeping his piercing gaze on her, hearing her every breath so intently and inhaled. So slowly, inexorably, he captured her pink, resplendent lips in an impassioned manner of raw passion. In that moment of the kiss, their chemistry became an ever-bright flame. Fireworks exploded in her chest for some odd reason. A wave of warmth washed over her head, that heat spilled from her and poured into Billy.

Feeling his senses lost in euphoria and excruciatingly high from her intoxicating smell, she pulled back and opened her eyes to see his blown wide with adoration. "What about Sidney--"

"I don't give a fuck."

In a spontaneous movement, he seized her forbidden hips and pushed his built chest against hers until their swollen lips brushed. Rendering her breathless, "Tell me you want me," he demanded in a rough voice, causing Ophelia to swallow.

For the first time in forever, her defense was dwindling to nothing. He narrowed his eyes, almost predatory-like, before twirling a brunette curl around in between a finger. "All you have to do is say the words. Pretty, pretty please," he hummed with his hand drifting down to grope her ass in her skirt, palming the white towel.

Without a thought in her head, she barely managed to plead, "I... want you."

There was a little rise in the corner of his mouth. Satisfaction made him smirk when he felt her shudder with anticipation. He didn't disappoint when lifting her from her thighs as they wound around his slender torso, pressing her on top of the messy bedsheets. Feeling her hard nipples press up against himself caused his tongue to greedily delve into her bubblegum-scented mouth. She began trembling uncontrollably as he slipped warm hands underneath her oversized shirt. "Is this okay?" he paused, lips leaving hers to inquire as she nodded.

Nibbling on his swollen bottom lip, Billy's fingerprints burned on her ribs and left behind feather touches, dragging the cotton material of the towel she wore wide open. Dark brown waves collided with her suddenly bare shoulders after he skillfully peeled the towel off and threw it across the room. His swift action resulted in the slightest bounce of her breasts being released. They gained his attention so fast, eerie eyes glittering across her porcelain skin and drunk at the sight of them.

Aerolaes surrounding both perky nipples, dusty pink and darkly swollen. His palm slid pleasantly over her rising torso until reaching her right breast. The whimper he received sent straight to his groin as he gently cupped the soft flesh. "Sweetheart, such a pretty girl," he whispered against her yearned mouth.

His soft lips eagerly peppered her addicting collarbone with insatiable kisses. Almost as if she would break into a million pieces if he pressed harder, he let his touch remain gentle. Leaning backward, he gladly took off his skirt and gazed down at Ophelia. Vulnerability painted him; not as the tough guy he had always been. He was that obsessed with her.

Enthusiastic about everything that was happening, he kissed down the valley of her breasts. Those needy lips of his wrapped around one of her nipples and teasingly pulled the nub with his teeth. Then, he continued down, leading her to shudder when he kneeled before her, his warm mouth wounded her sensitive clit. "F-Fuck," she managed to stammer, grappling the bedsheets with white knuckles.

Much to her dismay, her brain went dead. Despite this, she took one hand to card through his slick strands as he savored her with his lips. She could still feel his hands curving over the delicate swell of her tensed hips, practically forcing them open to tilt into his face as he buried his head in between her quivering legs. It felt like he was smiling, too.

"Please, don't stop," Ophelia pushed out, involuntarily withering with her hand rounding the nape of his neck. "Sweet mother of Jesus, Billy-"

Spreading her lips, revealing the soft pink of her pulsing insides, he immediately bent down and thrust his tongue within her cunt. She cried out and threw an arm over her agape mouth, elbow masking sinful moans. Perspiration built along her naked spine, thighs squeezing his head as his eyes shadowed up to see that pleasured expression explode across her scrunched-up face. Floods of innocent heat pooled on his tongue when she came hard, blissfully as he lapped up every drop.

Unconditional moans spilled, but Billy rambunctiously silenced them with a sweet kiss. "You did so well, baby," he cooed, witnessing how ecstasy coursed through her veins and in her tightly spiraled stomach. The tips of her ears tinted red, tugging at his jeans as their mouths rolled together.

He looked down, pupils blown so wide that the darkness swallowed his brown irises. "Do you want me to fuck you now, hmm?" Inquiring teasingly, he undid his belt and released himself with a relaxed sigh, the addicting swell of his cock overwhelming.

Feeling lightheaded and feverish, she nodded with a flushed expression. Her back slightly arched as he slid his leaking cock over her pussy, but not entering, until they locked eyes. His heart nearly stopped beating when she whimpered as his weeping head sensitively bumped against her swollen clit, before he finally sunk in her. Her face contorted; him being too incredibly big and hard to become accustomed to in a few moments of unfamiliar penetration.

His murmurs were followed by small kisses on her red cheeks. "If I could feel it for you, I would," he murmured against her face, slowly pulling his hips back; as if testing her and pressing his forehead on hers.

The broken whine that fell from her was so breathtaking when he took his time to bottom out within her quivering cunt. Without thinking, he trailed his hands up Ophelia's bare arms and delicately laced their fingers together. He then affectionately marked the spot of hypersensitive skin under her jaw with a wet hickey after she locked her legs behind his bare hips. Keeping her hips flushed against his own, he completely savored the precarious euphoria she gifted him.

She gripped his hand, inquiring softly, "Is it normal to feel you in my stomach?"

A genuine laugh puffed his pink-tinted cheeks. "Ophelia, baby." Slight amusement caused him to tilt his head sideways, staring down at her beautiful features until she swiveled her hips to gain friction.

One touch from him and it was all over, it seemingly was always the way with her. She felt salacious electricity in her skin, hormones shutting down her higher brain, and the rise of her animal self. From when Billy found a powerful rhythm to rock himself in her gummy walls, it was all passion, intense, intoxicating. His fingertips were electric, they must've been in her mind, for whenever they gripped her bare thigh to effortlessly swing over his shoulder was what caused her skin to tingle in a frenzy of static. So caught up in the moment, his hand shot out and gently grappled for her throat.

His thumb curved into her pumping jugular, squeezing and pressuring. "Feel me, I'm right here. Right here with you," he breathlessly whispered. He skimmed the bulge forming in her small belly, his other palm ever so softly applying a weight to the sensitive area and listened with eager ears as she gave a high-pitched squeak.

While his ring finger ghosted over her clit, she demandingly was sent to a transitory paralysis, unable to comprehend the pleasure of having Billy ram his cock in her tightening walls and squeezed her tearful eyes closed. She involuntarily clenched around him, milking his orgasm forward, her aching pelvic lifting to meet him, curling her glittery toenails against the messy sheets. Almost as if he was sensing it, he masked her scream of "Billy!" with a delirious, aphrodisiac kiss and swallowed it.

He concealed her from the outside world, selfishly caging her in with his forearms stationed beside her fanned-out brown curls, and lasciviously fucked her through her intense orgasm. "That's it, pretty girl. Yo-you're doing, fuck--" he stammered, unable to hold back the cum that gushed in her salivating cunt after creamy walls clamped on him.

Author's note. Ahhhhh. This chapter is disturbingggg. I don't blame you if you want to quit reading.