Nate
The cabin is quiet that night.
Too quiet.
I've got the feeds running across two screens, audio low, lights off. The lake outside my window reflects nothing but darkness.
Wren's living room camera shows her curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, blanket pulled over her knees. The television glow flickers across her face.
The Vampire Diaries again.
"Of course," I chuckle to myself.
Her phone rings.
She checks it, smiles immediately, and answers.
"Tif," she says, and puts it on speaker before tossing the phone onto the cushion beside her.
Their voices fill the room — distorted slightly through my speakers but clear enough.
Tiffany wastes no time.
"So," she says, far too innocently. "Have you used Bob yet?"
Wren groans.
"Shut up."
Bob!!!
I frown slightly, replaying the word in my head. No one in her contact list goes by that name. Not male. Not local.
"Don't act shy now," Tif continues. "You marched into that shop like a woman on a mission."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
I open a new tab automatically, fingers moving before I consciously decide to.
Battery-operated boyfriend.
"Of course," I say with a grin.
I sit back in my chair.
Interesting. My index finger taps on the table.
They laugh about it. Wren tries to deflect, but there's something different in her voice tonight — less defensive, more… considering.
They talk for another fifteen minutes. Tif teases. Wren deflects. Eventually, the call ends with a dramatic "I expect a full review tomorrow."
The house goes quiet again.
After the call ends, the house settles into quiet, and Wren lingers on the couch a while longer, staring at the TV without really watching it. Then she stands and heads down the hallway.
Bedroom feed.
She moves more slowly now. Thoughtful. She changes into a soft, worn T-shirt. No bra. The fabric drapes against her skin, barely covering her ass in a way that feels intimate even through a screen.
She turns off the main light. The room drops into shadow.
Wren's bedroom is dim, washed in moonlight and soft shadows. She slips beneath the covers, turning onto her back, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment.
She looks almost nervous.
Her hand reaches under the cover and—
Is she?
Oh my God.
She is.
She's touching herself.
I move to close the feed. I should. I know I should.
But I don't.
My fingers curl around the edge of the table instead, knuckles whitening.
A soft sound slips from her mouth — not loud, not dramatic. Just a breath that catches halfway out, like she didn't mean for it to escape.
She shifts, leaning over the side of the bed. The bedside drawer opens.
I swallow.
When she sits back up, there's something small in her hand. Sleek. Innocent-looking.
She studies it for a second, almost shyly.
"Okay," she whispers to herself. "Relax. It's just… me."
The words hit harder than they should.
Just me.
Her hand disappears beneath the covers again.
At first, nothing changes. She lies still, staring at the ceiling like she's trying to talk herself out of it.
Then—
A slow inhale.
Her lips part.
The faintest tremor moves through her shoulders.
And then the hum starts.
It's subtle through the audio feed, but I see the shift immediately. Her thighs tense beneath the blanket. Her head tips back against the pillow.
Another sound — softer this time. Unsteady.
My grip tightens on the table.
She moves slowly at first. Testing. Adjusting. Learning.
And then she whispers, barely audible:
"Oh…God"
I shouldn't be watching this.
But I can't look away.
Because she looks undone. Vulnerable. Like, this is something she's never allowed herself to do before.
And something dark twists low in my chest at the thought that she thinks she's alone.
Her breathing grows uneven. A quiet, breathless "oh" slips out before she can stop it. Her brows pull together — not in embarrassment now, but in need.
It's like something inside her has finally been permitted to wake up.
She shifts beneath the covers, the movement less tentative now. Less careful.
Faster.
A soft, frustrated sound leaves her throat.
"Come on…" she whispers to herself, almost pleading.
The words hit me like a punch.
She presses deeper into the pillow, hips lifting slightly under the blanket, like she's chasing something that keeps slipping just out of reach.
Another breath — sharper this time.
And then her voice breaks around a quiet confession:
"Why does it feel like this…?"
There's something raw in it.
No surprise.
Relief.
Like she hasn't felt this in a very long time.
Not even with him.
Her movements grow more urgent. Less exploratory. The hum of the device becomes background to the rhythm of her breathing — quick, shallow pulls of air that turn into soft, helpless sounds she can't swallow back.
She bites her lip.
It doesn't help.
A broken moan escapes anyway.
Her free hand twists into the sheets.
"Please," she breathes, barely audible.
The word isn't for anyone.
It's just desperation.
Her body arches beneath the covers, chasing the build now, needing it. Like she's starving and finally remembered what hunger feels like.
I shouldn't know this.
I shouldn't be witnessing this — the way she's coming undone because no one has ever taken the time to make her feel like this before.
Not him.
Not anyone.
Her breathing turns ragged. The tension gathers visibly — in her neck, her stomach, the way her thighs press tight beneath the blanket.
And then—
She gasps.
Not loud.
But shattered.
Her back bows off the mattress. A soft cry escapes her, unguarded, completely unaware that anyone could hear it.
She clutches the sheets like she's holding on to something breaking open inside her.
And then she comes undone, chest rising and falling hard.
Eyes closed and completely wrecked by something she gave herself.
Silence fills the cabin around me.
But inside my chest, something dark and possessive coils tight.
She lies there for a long moment, breathing slowly, fingers still tangled in the sheets like she's afraid to let go of what just happened.
A small, almost embarrassed smile flickers across her lips.
Like she surprised herself.
Like she finally gave herself something she'd been denying for years.
My jaw tightens.
She shouldn't look that relieved.
She shouldn't look that soft.
Not after what he reduced her to.
Her hand drifts lazily across her stomach, the faintest satisfied sigh leaving her mouth before she rolls onto her side, curling into the pillow.
Content.
That word settles heavily in my chest.
Content.
Because she thinks that was enough.
She thinks that small device — that quiet, lonely release — is what she's been missing.
But I saw the way she whispered "please."
I saw the way her body arched, as if it were reaching for something more.
For someone.
A slow, deliberate breath leaves me.
She doesn't know what she needs yet.
But I do.
My fingers finally loosen from the edge of the table, though the imprint of my grip still burns into my palms.
No one else will ever see her like that again.
No one else will hear her break apart.
Not Daniel.
Not anyone.
My hand moves across the keyboard before I think about it.
The recording rewinds.
Back to the moment her voice broke on the word "please."
I let it play again.
Slow.
Careful.
Memorising.
If she's going to fall apart like that—
It will be because of me.
And next time…
She won't be whispering to herself.