One week had stretched into a tense, repetitive purgatory.
Every night, without fail, the same ritual played out behind the thin partition wall that separated everyone's bunk from Sebastian and Bella's quarters.
It began quietly enough—murmurs, soft laughter, the rustle of sheets—then built steadily into something primal and unapologetic.
The bedframe would start its steady, rhythmic thumping against the shared wall, slow at first, then faster, harder, like a heartbeat accelerating toward collapse.
Bella's voice followed: breathy gasps turning into sharp cries, then full-throated moans that climbed higher with every passing hour.
Ross never spoke much—his answers came in low, guttural sounds, satisfied rumbles, the occasional growled command that made the air feel thicker.
Sometimes Bella laughed through it, delirious, sometimes she begged, sometimes she simply shattered into wordless sound.
