His room still smells the same. Messy sheets, low light, open window letting in the hot and salty wind. He stares at you as if he were dreaming - or about to make a delicious mistake.

You’re there, standing still, not knowing whether to enter or run.

He speaks first.

“That’s a terrible idea.”

You swallow dry. “I know.”

Johnny takes two steps. Close the door behind you.

“But you’re here anyway.”

You don’t answer. Just look at him like someone who is about to jump. And he understands.

His hands are on you before anything else happens - they slide under your blouse, hot, urgent. The mouth finds yours as if it had never left. It’s a kiss with anger, with longing, with the bitter taste of everything that didn’t work out.

And then comes the hoarse whisper, between the kisses:

“Darling,” he moans against his skin, his fingers already undoing the closure of his bra, “you’re so pretty it hurts.”

You almost laugh, but you don’t have time - he pushes you against the bedroom wall, his breath panting on your neck, his body glued to yours.

Your fingers grab his T-shirt, pull them in a hurry. The clothes fall. Yours too.

His words come like a hoarse whisper, almost a dirty provocation.

“Darling, are you ready for more?”

You can only release a “yes” against his lips, his eyes closed, his body begging.

And when he throws you back on the bed, the crumpled sheets became the scene of a reunion that was never about forgiveness, but about will. Meat.

The heart shot. His taste on your lips. His body weighed on his, known fit, repeated sin.

And in the middle of all this, the thought screaming inside your head:

It was a terrible idea.

Call him. Go back. Touch. Leave.

But now it was too late.

Now you were already fucked.

And he too.