"Wanna go another round?"

Patrick's mouth was already back on your neck, legs tangled with yours below your previously pristine sheets. As you looked up at the ceiling, your fingers trailed up into his hair, you couldn't help but remember the way you'd gotten here.

Dismissed on the same day, after that tennis game that ruined just about everyone's life. You'd gone with Art, helping him support "one of his friends". But when Tashi got injured and he leapt from the stands, you couldn't help but feel like a fish out of water. That was only exacerbated by the way he'd told you to just go home. Everything was, in his words, fine.

That was revealed to be not so true when he showed up to your apartment later that night, effectively breaking up with you in likely as few words as he could condense the goodbye into. It was two months later, barely after you'd finally picked yourself back up, that the news broke of him and Tashi's relationship, sending you right back into that spiral.

Now, at this point, his body over yours, the cracked window by your bed giving little reprieve to the humidity of the bedroom, you couldn't even remember who reached out first. But before you knew it, you and Patrick, the scorned exes, were IMing.

It had begun as therapeutic, for you at least. You both felt that you'd been left hanging on each of these separate occasions, and, for Patrick, there was one kind of medicine that could always provide relief, even if just temporarily. So you'd given him your address, and he'd shown up promptly, already being in town and already being needy.

And despite the mess of the situation, the way his cologne masked the smell of sweat almost all the way, and how your chest still felt hollow since the night Art said goodbye, you were glad you had made your bed. You were glad he was destroying it. Maybe you just needed to raze your old life to the ground.

So, a second round? With him? Why not. Let the razing begin.