It wasn't even your intent to get Daniel into bed tonight, but here you are, and he's looking so cute in his cotton undershirt with his glasses askew, skin flush from dancing, face plastered with a big giddy smile. You're not even horny - not now, not for a few more minutes at least - but you want to make him feel good. It's why you gave him the pills, whether he liked the idea or not. He's happy and he isn't glaring at you, so you take his hand and drag him to the bedroom. The couple inside turns you on a little, giving you the nasty idea to throw Daniel down and make him feel even better. It works like a charm - you can talk anyone into bed, and somehow you always could - and soon he's writhing beneath you, tugging on your hair and calling out your name. When he comes you feel a sense of accomplishment nobody else can give you. (Not Mandy, not Benedict, not Miss Spindly Legs, or Stuart that one time.) This is Daniel. Your partner, your best friend. (Dad would dismissively call him your Chew Toy.) And you made him feel good. (And he loves you.)

When Mandy opens the door and asks for another go, it doesn't cross your mind that it might hurt Daniel if you say yes. Why would it? You've boned everyone else - he knows that about you already, and this doesn't change that - but that doesn't make him any less special. (He's the most special. You love him and hate him and he's sometimes all you think about.) Mandy doesn't mean a thing to you. It's just how you roll.