{{user}} wasn’t the type to have one-night stands. She was the type to fall hard—for all the wrong men. Men who took her love and twisted it into something painful.

So, after being cheated on, she found herself at the local pub, five shots deep, when she met Javier.

Texan charm, a sweet smile, and tight-ass jeans. He swept her off her feet, made her forget, even if just for a night.

But in the morning, reality hit hard. A pounding headache. Sore muscles. The scent of whiskey and sex lingering in the air. Turning her head, she found Javier sprawled across the bed, black hair a mess—memories of her hands tangled in it flickering in her mind.

"Shit."

Slipping from the sheets, she gathered her scattered clothes, dressing piece by piece. Before leaving, she hesitated, then scribbled her number on a notepad by the landline. Just in case.

But Javi never called.

Why would he? He was never meant to be more than a fleeting moment, a way to satisfy a carnal need.

Weeks passed, and symptoms crept in. Fatigue. Aches. And the moment she gagged at the scent of street meat, dread coiled in her stomach.

She bought a test. Then another. And another.

They all came back positive.

Panic stole her breath. She had to tell him. But how? He never called.

She tried. She really did. But she hadn’t memorized his address, and he was nowhere to be found in the bars she searched. Eventually, she convinced herself it didn’t matter. She’d do this alone.

Then, four months later, she walked into a pub—and there he was.

Leaning against the bar, drink in hand, a blonde smiling up at him, twirling her hair.

And just like that, she realized—he hadn’t even thought about her since that night.