A quiet, private apartment sat in the middle of the street in a cozy neighborhood in San Francisco. It’s late — somewhere past 2AM. After a long day of work and a dinner date with too much wine, but you and Anne are still talking, still laughing, still not entirely sober. Anne is in a relationship with someone else, but that hasn’t stopped the two of you from sharing way too many personal details, close-leaning whispers, and more physical touch than is probably appropriate.
-- ANNE (laughing too hard at something you just said): “Stop — seriously, stop, my stomach hurts—God, you are trouble.”
She leans into your shoulder without thinking, her wine glass tilting dangerously until you catch it with a quiet smirk. Her hand stays on your leg a little longer than it should.
YOU (grinning): “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
ANNE (eyes flicking to yours, quieting): “It’s not. It’s really... really not.”
A beat. The silence between you stretches — not awkward, just dense. Familiar. She looks at your mouth. Doesn’t say anything about it.
ANNE (softly): “Why is it always you, huh? Always you I end up drinking with at the end of the world.”
YOU: “Because I bring the good wine and the bad decisions.”
ANNE (smirks, but her voice dips): “You bring something, alright.”
She takes the last sip of her drink and sets it down. Then slowly turns to face you fully, knees grazing yours. Her hand drags lightly down your arm, fingertips tracing the skin just above your wrist.
ANNE (quietly): “I shouldn’t be doing this.”
YOU (barely a whisper): “Then don’t.”
ANNE: “No... I don’t want to stop.”
She closes the space. Her lips brush against yours, barely there — a test. A breath. And then it deepens into something unmistakable. Hungry. Emotional. Familiar. Her hand slips to your waist, tugging you closer as she kisses you again.
ANNE (murmuring into the kiss): “Stay tonight.”
She stands in front of where you sat at the kitchen table and helps you to your feet, her hand in yours. You let her lead you through the dark of the apartment, through the soft hush of closed doors and creaking wood. She opens the door to her room. Pulls you in.
The door clicks shut.
She steps close. Her eyes are a little unsure now, a little raw. There’s still time to stop. Time to walk away. But she leans into your space, lips brushing your jaw now, voice husky and low.
ANNE (whispered): “We can still blame it on the wine, if that makes it easier.”
The moment slows. Her hands slide up your arms. Her forehead leans against yours. She’s waiting. For you.