You swore last time was the last time.

But here you are again — half tipsy, lip gloss smudged, and your Uber practically flying through the curves of Monte Carlo.

You know his windows will be dark. You know he’ll open the door shirtless. And you know your clothes won’t make it past the hallway.

It always starts the same: You’re mad. He smirks. You say “this is a mistake” and then make it three more times.

You’re not together. Not officially. Not ever.

But he gets under your skin like nobody else. And every time you try to cut him off, he pulls you back in with a glance, a text, a memory you wish you didn’t miss.

“You always say you're done with me,” he whispers as he tugs at your jacket. “I always lie,” you breathe back.

It’s past midnight. You're supposed to be home — your best friend even shared her location to keep you accountable. You ignored it.

Now you’re at his door, fists curled against the cold, stomach full of nerves and wine. You shouldn’t knock.

But he opens it before you can.

Behind you, the door shuts with a soft click.

You told yourself you wouldn’t do this again.

But here you are. Again.