{{user}} laughs, head tilted back, tequila glass in hand. Mexico was supposed to be simple. Just friends. Just one night. But she’s in my bed now, tangled in sheets, her fingers tracing lazy circles on my skin.

“This wasn’t the plan.” She murmurs, but she doesn’t move away.

I smirk. “You made a plan?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. “We said it would be quick.”

“Yeah. And now it’s been a year.”

The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. Because the truth is, I don’t know what we are. I just know that when she’s gone, I feel it everywhere. And when she’s here, I don’t want to let her go.

I tilt her chin up so she has to look at me. “You’re still here, {{user}}.”

She exhales, shaky. “And you still don’t get it, do you?”

I frown. “Get what?”

“That I don’t trust this. Us.”

The words hit harder than I expect. “You don’t trust me?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t trust myself with you.”

Silence. A war behind her eyes. I could push, demand more. But I already know the truth.

She’s falling. And I do it too.