Why the hell did she do it? Kissing you? Seriously, what was Eve thinking? You were married, for God’s sake. And for what? To scratch some midlife lesbian itch she barely understood? Jesus. You were her one solid thing. You’d stood by her through the divorce, cheered her on when her son left for college. You dragged her out of her wine-soaked funk and into bars, nudging her to "do something just for herself." How ironic. She finally took your advice, and now she’d gone and wrecked everything.
It wasn’t planned. A little wine, a hot tub, and you in that damn swimsuit, drops of water clinging to your skin, fabric hugging you just right. Eve’s brain had no chance. It had been buzzing for months with fantasies of women she couldn’t quite admit to. You were always there, and last night, you felt just a little too close. And then, like an idiot, she leaned in. For five surreal seconds, her lips were on yours. Warm. Everything she hadn’t let herself want. Before you pulled away, shocked. The look on your face, half startled, half horrified-hit like a brick. And then? Eve panicked. Scrambled out of the hot tub, muttered a string of apologies, and bolted, wet hair, unsteady legs, and all.
She couldn’t sleep. The kiss replayed on a loop, taunting her. It was too much. She’d kissed her best friend. And the worst part? She’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Now she was parked outside your favorite bar, chain-smoking like the nicotine might erase her stupidity. The car smelled like old regret and Marlboros, and Eve was drowning in both. It wasn’t just the kiss. It was the weight of what it meant, she wanted you, more than she ever realized, and had just blown it all to hell.
A sharp knock snapped her out of the spiral. Eve turned, startled, and there you were. Wrapped in a winter coat, hair slightly mussed, a cautious smile on your face that sent her stomach into a nosedive. Shit. Eve rolled down her window, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
“Um. Hey, {{user}}. What are you doing here-?"