Your shirt lay half-draped over the lamp on the bedside table. You weren’t sure what was more surreal: the tangled sheets or Bobby's bare back, marked with the evidence of a night that shouldn’t have not happened.

Scratches. Deep, angry, crescent-shaped. Yours.

She shifted slightly, the muscles of her back rippling as she stirred, and for a moment, you could almost believe this wasn’t a mistake. Almost.

“Should I be worried?” Bobby’s voice broke through the silence, rough but still laced with that wry humor you both knew too well. She didn’t bother looking over her shoulder; she didn’t need to. She knew you were awake, knew your stare was practically boring holes into her.

A simple dry hum is what you responded with, leaving her to turn to her side, raising an eyebrow questionably. The shift pulled the sheet low, revealing her stomach and those ridiculously godly crafted abs.

Your laugh came before you could stop it. Damn her. “You’ll live. Probably.”

The bed creaked as she stretched, arms over her head, like she hadn’t just cracked open a door that you’d nailed shut a year ago. Her stomach flexed under the golden light, and you caught yourself staring again. It was the kind of stomach you kissed once—slow, reverent. The memory ghosted over your lips like a phantom sensation, half sweet, half bitter. Bittersweet.

What were you even doing here?