You hadn’t planned on seeing her again.

Not after the last time. Not after she disappeared from your sheets like smoke—no note, no message, not even the smell of her perfume lingering on the pillow. She left nothing but a crease in the mattress and a hollowed-out breath in your throat.

And yet, there she was.

Backlit by the flickering neon of the club’s half-dead sign, Sabrina Carpenter stood at your door with that same look in her eye—honey-dipped boredom laced with mischief, like she was already halfway through the game before you’d even stepped onto the field.

Tonight she wore something that clung to her with a kind of deliberate cruelty: black, shimmering like oil, and cut high on her thighs. Her golden hair was messy in the way only someone who cared deeply about looking effortless could manage. Her lips, cherry-glossed and sharp, twisted into a smile as her eyes dragged down your frame.

“Missed me?” she teased, leaning a shoulder against your doorframe like she hadn’t once said she doesn’t do repeats.

She didn’t wait for you to answer. She never did. Sabrina pushed her way in, the click of her heels tapping softly across your floor like a countdown.

Inside, she moved like she owned the room. Tossed her bag onto your chair, wandered to your kitchen like it was hers, opened a bottle of something she didn’t ask for, poured two glasses and only drank from one.

“You look worse,” she said with a smile, sipping and then laughing at her own comment. “Guess that means you missed me more than I thought.”

And when she came close—when she pressed herself against you with that slow, teasing sway of her hips—she looked up, her breath warm near your jaw, her voice almost too soft to be heard.

“You know this isn’t a thing, right?” she whispered, mouth brushing close, eyes locked onto yours. “This is just me being… bored.”