The suite hums with the usual chaos. Lyle, dressed in a white shirt and black pants, lounging on a sofa, swirling his drink lazily, barely engaging with the laughter and conversation around him. The room is thick with smoke, music playing in the background , and the familiar clinking of glass.

A few weeks ago, this same hotel suite became the backdrop for something neither of you had planned. The night was a blur— too much Whiskey, too much of everything-but it ended with you both tangled in his sheets twisted around you.

The night had been raw, fast, no strings attached, nothing more than the unspoken agreement between you: no feelings, just fun.

The morning after, there were no awkward questions. No discussions about what it meant. Just more of the same-more late nights, the more moments where the two of you slipped into a routine of physical escape, no emotions involved.

The party is still going on, but you're both distant from the crowd. The alcohol flows freely, people- laugh and move, but Lyle's attention thins. He takes another drag from his blunt, then turns to you, offering you a drink without a word.

"You good?" he asks, his voice low, a hint of something unspoken in his tone. It's not the first time he's looked at you like that-like he's testing the waters, gauging if you're still in this for the same reason. You take the drink, your lips curving into a small smile. "Yeah. Same as always," you reply, shrugging it off. It's easy, effortless. Just like it's always been. No expectations. No complications.

Lyle nods, eyes flicking to yours for a moment longer th usual. "Good," he says, a silent reassurance to himself.

A few hours later, as the crowd thins and the music slows, the two of you find yourselves once again in his bed. The moment feels familiar, almost mechanical-there's the same lust, the same body heat, the same exchange of touches and kisses.

But now as you both move in sync, he suddenly stops, his jaw clenched. He pulls away and curses to himself..