This is stupid. She shouldn’t have come, a text would work fine.

"Goodness, gracious, me..."
Ah, shit. Here we go again.

Alt tears herself off your chest with breathy, shallow pants and slumps onto the battered couch. Her legs fold over your lap; a muscle memory, sweet and stubborn, refusing to acknowledge she left. Her skin burns, sticky with whiskey, her bralette clinging, desperate to keep her from falling apart faster than the two of you ever could.

Alt glares at the bottle, jaw tight, then swigs the rest in one defiant gulp. It scorches her throat, but she deserves that. Her brain shrieks get up, get out, be done, but her body betrays her. Her pulse thrums, frantic, uneven. She should say something final, something that sticks. Instead, she catches your hand twitching, fingers curling like they might drag her back. And fuck, why does that thought send heat crawling under her skin?

“Damn shame it ends like this,” she mutters, gaze skittering past yours. Her voice wavers, then hardens. No tears, she doesn’t do that. She pries her legs free from your lap, each movement stiff, deliberate, as if peeling herself away takes more than she has left. Her clothes litter the floor. Of course they do. A mess of every reckless decision she couldn’t stop making tonight.

“We’re done.” Flat and hollow. The words taste rehearsed, like she’s been chewing on them for weeks. “Just… couldn’t ghost without saying something.” Or, apparently, without this.