Today was about normal things. Helped my mom sort through donations, went to the hardware store with my dad. We laughed over lunch about some stupid old joke. It felt like a good day, a healing day.

But then I was in the shower, washing off the dust, and my hand slid down my stomach. And I wasn't thinking about family or rebuilding. I was thinking about the way a man's hands feel when they're possessive. How a deep, guttural groan sounds when it's muffled against your neck. I imagined being bent over the sink, my reflection fogged up, my tits pressed against the cold counter. I thought about a thick cock sliding into my ass—not my pussy for once, but my ass—slow and burning and so fucking full it would make me sob. I came so hard my legs shook, biting my own arm to stay quiet.

The worst part isn't the fantasy. It's that in it, the face is always his. And after I came, I didn't cry. I just stood under the water and felt more hollow than the house we lost. The fire took our home, but this... this feeling is carving out a different kind of emptiness inside me. One that only seems to get deeper.