She should have never sprawled out on his bed – an invitation. He RSVPed. Can't-breathe-can't-speak devastation is being wreaked. Her chest vibrates with shallow breathing – she's never been this shallow before.

He mumbles words like 'careful' into her skin and she thinks she hears an 'I'll be'. He has a button undone. Jeans are peeling away. There's a catch in her throat, a catch in her throat and his fingers are. His fingers are. Are.

Her shirt is on the floor and her jeans are coming down. Her head rocks back. His lips split into a smile against her ribcage, fingertips pad into her thighs. She's scared.

Tense. He travels back up her body – kisses her. She bites down hard, an accident – his free hand on her face – his lip splits for real now. Blood – she's hot. If he laughs between her legs this is finished.

She doesn't know if she'll ever go through with this completely – the boy on top of her has hurt her. But she's at his neck and he moans. Click, switch – she used to have thoughts.

The vibration of 'U's and 'K's is like a blackout. She's panting. Twisted up under him and she might be tipping over.

No one's home and she thinks he maybe loves her.

Hard and fast and fragile – he's going to break in two, pouting against her legs – gulping in air. Does he know she's scared? He's a little drunk but there's no Dutch courage her way – she tries to drink it from his veins. Hit a pulse. Hear him breakdown. She was never very good at saying 'no' when she used to know him. Not know him, but.

But she's rolling in his bed, trembling. His ceiling is lower. His tongue catches her like a sucker punch – she blazes red.

There is no Dutch courage and she's scared and she hasn't got the breath – the will – to tell him. Short, sharp bursts of breath are driving her to irrationality. She pulls his hair.

God. If he doesn't love her his routine is stellar. He's completely there. Unusually, completely there. His forte is sex – it's not her way to deal. Stall, stall, stall. She's not prepared – there's not a manual. She's so unsure. And then his tongue does that.

He's so comfortable with this. They're his sheets. There are no pictures on the wall – she's glad. She doesn't want an audience for any of this.

Her jeans are stuck round her ankles. It's just cotton to protect now. He's not stopping and she can't make up her mind. She's never indecisive. Will he warn her when her bra will hit the floor? She wants to be prepared.

She feels sick – sticky and hot with weight on her chest, she can't breathe properly. He's like a disease, like poison. Worming through her blood stream till she can't think. Can't speak. Can't stop. Can't.

She's going to break with anticipation. Maybe she should blackout – maybe she should tell him 'stop'. Maybe she should suck it up because this is something. Something that has nothing to do with uncovering slivers of Lilly. He's uncovering her.

She is going to get caught. Caught with her pants down and the boy she hates between her legs. She reconsiders therapy. Teeth drag her thigh.

Oh God. Her eyelids flutter, she wants to close her eyes – don't. She's not scared. She can touch him because she wants to. She can touch and be touched and she's not afraid of anything.

Her panting is broken, heaving. His heart rate quickens. It's too hot, too fast, too close. She's chokes 'stop!' – his hands jump off her. Words are tumbling from her mouth, his eyes are flashing. She's said too much.

They are mostly naked and he is livid – she pulls the sheets up round her. He can't think. She's. She's. And someone did that.

He puts a fist through his wall. She's mostly naked. He knows and his hand is stuck in plaster.

This is the end of the secret and she is scared.