It was just one night.
That’s what Tyler told himself when his best friend, Nate, asked if his girlfriend could crash at his place for the weekend. “Work trip,” Nate said. “She’s got an interview downtown. Thought it’d be easier than a hotel.”
He hadn’t seen Mia in months. Not since that barbecue where she wore a sundress that danced in the wind and laughed at Tyler’s jokes like they were more than just funny. That night, she hugged him a second too long. He didn’t forget.
She showed up late Friday, suitcase in hand, hair messy from the flight. He offered her a beer. She took two.
They talked for hours — about nothing and everything. About Nate, about life, about how weird it was that they’d never really hung out alone.
By midnight, the air had changed. The space between them on the couch shrank. Her foot brushed his.
“You always look at me like that,” she said, voice quiet.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to ruin something.”
Silence. Then, heat.
The kiss was slow — a warning, a question, an apology that came too late. Her lips were soft and hesitant, but she leaned in. He pulled her closer. Clothes gave way to bare skin, breath, need. The guest room door clicked shut behind them like a secret sealing itself.
She rode him with her eyes locked on his, her fingers gripping his wrists like she needed to anchor herself. They didn’t speak, but the guilt was there, thick and hot. And they didn’t stop — not when they should have.
In the morning, she made coffee. He stared at her, shirt draped off one shoulder.
“You gonna tell him?” he asked.
She didn’t look up.
“No.”
And Tyler didn’t know if he was relieved or destroyed.