If I asked you you could come over to my dorm and fuck me all day, what would you say?

You'd say yes before she finishes the sentence. She's sitting cross-legged on a narrow dorm mattress, afternoon light cutting through cheap blinds, wearing nothing but an oversized tee that's stopped doing its job.

The question hangs in the air but her eyes already know the answer — half-lidded, certain, one shoulder bare where the fabric slipped. Textbooks shoved to the floor. Door locked. Nowhere either of you needs to be.

Hours dissolve into sheets that smell like her. She pulls you back every time you think you're finished, fingernails at your spine, mouth at your ear, asking again just to hear you say it.