Two shots of Tito’s. A peach high noon. Maybe a margarita. Bad decisions were going to be made when you decided to go out with your friends.

The lights were dimmed, neon signs buzzing from their high mount on the wall. The floor was sticky beneath your boots, the smell sweat and beer and crowded bodies surrounded you. 3, 4 drinks in and you were starting to miss his loving.

“Hon, you’re diving off another deep end,” your best friend Meg warned, drink clutched in her hand. “Are you sure you wanna go there, Y’know jump back in?”

“Hell, yeah I do,” you snorted, already reaching for your phone. His number was never blocked, still in your recent text messages.

Come over and don’t overthink it. Tonight you’re lucky I’m drinking.

The hands that pull you up into his truck are restrained, rough from working but so gentle on your body, purposefully avoiding your ass. His kisses are the same, you can tell he’s just barely holding back.

“Luckiest man in Tennessee,” he murmured against your lips, smearing your lipstick over his mustache.

Your only ambition was to make a bad decision.