You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t do this again. “We’re just going out for drinks” you said, “I’ll be sleeping at mine” you said. You lied.

You tried to recall the events of the evening, your memory was somewhat hazy, flashes of the club, the bar, your car, your jeans discarded on his bedroom floor, and now you’re here, staring blankly up at his ceiling with nothing but sheets to divide you.

You’d done it again.