A few months ago, you moved into an apartment in West Village, NYC—just to be closer to your girlfriend. So you moved to Cornelia Street. Your girlfriend had classes, which meant you did the move alone… or at least, that was the plan.

You hadn’t even unpacked half your boxes when your new neighbor showed up with a smile. Tall, blonde, piercing blue eyes you definitely recognized from somewhere… maybe from every album you owned… or every magazine cover screaming Taylor. Swift. Mental note: hide the boxes with your music.

Still, you smiled back. You weren’t going to let nerves ruin this. You talked for a while, and then she helped you carry boxes upstairs. As a thank you, you offered her wine and dinner—she surprisingly said yes.

And that tiny act of kindness turned into a ritual. Nights filled with wine, late conversations, your hands in her cats' fur, hers tickling your chinchilla. Lately, she’d been around more than anyone. You swore you connected with her more than anyone—and apparently, she felt the same. Because one night, mid-whisper and mid-laughter, Taylor kissed you. And a kiss turned into a touch… and a touch into so much more.

What you thought would be a one-time mistake… became a dose of something you couldn’t (and didn’t want to) let go of. Sometimes she asked you to leave your girlfriend. Sometimes she was content just stealing time. Thankfully—for your sanity—she never pushed too hard.

Until one night…You and Taylor were both butt-Naked, bangin' on your bathroom floor, marks on your shoulders, bruises on her neck, Moaned words between filth and aching sweetness. Both of you screaming louder until it was over... And then you heard your name.

But it didn’t come from Taylor. It came from the doorway. From lips you weren’t kissing. Shit. You’d forgotten that a few weeks ago, you gave your girlfriend a extra key. And now she was standing there...and she never took her eyes off you.