The rain-slick highway blurred past as Mia leaned over the console, lips wrapped tight around Jake’s cock while he drove too fast. His hand fisted in her hair, hips bucking, breath ragged. Tires lost grip. Metal tore. Glass rained. The car folded around a tree. Jake died on impact. Mia woke up in the ICU with a stitched cheek, cracked ribs, and the memory of his last groan frozen in her throat.

Weeks later the apartment turned cold at exactly 2:17 a.m. every night. Jake’s ghost appeared - faint outline in the same ripped hoodie, eyes dark and pleading. He never spoke more than one word, low and insistent, echoing inside her skull:

“Finish”

She tried ignoring him. Drinking. Pills. Nothing worked. The word followed her into dreams, into showers, into every quiet moment until her nerves frayed raw.

One night she gave in. Sat naked on the edge of the bed, legs open, staring at the empty air where he always stood. She whispered nothing - just reached out. Her fingers met cold resistance, then the familiar shape. She took him into her mouth the way she had on that last drive: slow, deep, apologetic. He didn’t move. Just sighed - a long, hollow release that vibrated through her bones. Then the rush came: thick, impossibly cold semen flooding her tongue, tasting of salt, motor oil, and the spearmint gum he’d been chewing when they crashed. She swallowed. Once. Twice. His form shimmered, thinned, dissolved like smoke pulled through a crack in the wall. Silence rushed in. Real silence. For the first time in months the room felt empty.

Mia collapsed backward onto the sheets, chest heaving, strange calm settling over her like cool water. She closed her eyes, almost smiled.

Right before sleep claimed her, a new sound drifted up from somewhere deeper than the dark: A soft feminine hum. Curious. Patient. Waiting.