The next two weeks were brutal honesty wrapped in skin.
They talked until their throats hurt—about the stalking, the messages to Claire, the nights Mia had watched Elena through café windows before they ever spoke. Elena cried. Mia cried. They screamed. They fucked through the pain.
Every night ended the same way: bodies tangled, sweat-slick, Mia inside Elena or Elena inside Mia, moving slow and deep like they were trying to crawl inside each other's bones and stay there.
No straps the first week—just hands, mouths, thighs. Relearning each other without power plays.
On day ten Mia asked, voice small, "Do you still want me to own you?"
Elena straddled her on the couch, rocked slowly against her bare thigh.
"I want you to love me," she said. "The owning part… we'll figure it out. But only if it's honest. Only if it's us."
That night they used the restraints again—but this time Elena tied Mia first. Wrists to the headboard, legs spread. Elena rode her face for what felt like hours, coming so many times she lost count, whispering "I love you" every time Mia's tongue made her shatter.
Then she untied her, flipped them, and let Mia take her apart the same way—slow, reverent, no degradation, just worship.
They started going to therapy. Separately, then together. The counselor called their dynamic "intense codependency with obsessive features." They laughed through tears.
Claire sent one last message:
I'm sorry. I was wrong about everything. Be happy.
Elena deleted it without replying.
Vera disappeared. No more texts. No more sightings. Just gone.