You’re both still sitting where it happened.

Same room. Same couch. Her lips are still a little parted, like she hasn’t figured out how to speak yet. And you — you’re staring at the wine glass, as if it’s the reason everything spiraled.

“It’s not my fault you don’t like guys,” you say, trying to fill the silence with something sharp, something real.

But it comes out wrong. Too loud. Too quick.

Dakota flinches — barely — but it’s enough.

“Don’t say that,” she whispers.

You finally look at her.

Her hair’s a mess. Her shirt’s wrinkled. Her fingers keep tugging at the hem of it, like she’s trying to erase what just happened between them — between you.

“We were drunk,” you add, because it’s easier. “We didn’t mean to—”

“You kissed me,” she interrupts, voice thin, quiet. “You kissed me, and I—”

She stops herself, eyes flickering toward the floor.

She shifts, just slightly, her knee still touching yours. Still not pulling away.

And all you can do is sit there, still tasting her lip gloss, still feeling her hands — the way they gripped your hips until you moaned.

It was only minutes ago. But everything’s different now.