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Kenna sits at the kitchen counter pushing a sandwich around her plate. London asks if she'll miss them once she's gone. Kenna rolls her eyes and says no. London tries again, saying the house will feel empty, and Kenna snaps that it's a good thing her dad will still be around to keep her company. She slides off the stool and leaves before London can answer. Later, London climbs the stairs and passes Kenna's open door. The room is a disaster. She steps inside to straighten the mess and spots the laptop on the bed. Curious, she lifts the lid. The search history fills with clips of older women and younger girls, all tagged "mommy." London's pulse jumps. She shuts the laptop fast, the word "fetish" ringing in her head. Hours pass. When she finally climbs the stairs again, Kenna is sitting cross-legged on her bed, headphones in. London knocks once and walks straight in. "I saw what you watch," she says. Kenna stares. London continues, voice low, telling her that people her own age are safer, that older women can be dangerous. Kenna shuts the laptop. "Then teach me," she says. "Show me how it's done before I go off and make mistakes with someone who isn't you." The words hang there. London should refuse, should leave the room. Instead she moves closer, the space between them disappearing in one slow step. Her hand finds Kenna's cheek. Their mouths meet—soft at first, then hungry. London's tongue parts Kenna's lips and Kenna answers with a small, eager sound. Clothes are pushed aside, skin revealed inch by inch. London guides Kenna onto her back, spreads her legs, and lowers her mouth between them, tasting the heat she's forbidden herself to want. Kenna's fingers twist in her hair, pulling her deeper, and the lesson begins.