I don’t regret one-night stands. I don’t regret sex.
But I regret not remembering.
It’s sloppy. It’s careless. It’s not me.
It doesn’t align with my one-night stand etiquette.
Andyet—
My gaze drifts to her again.
And the moment I do, the blank space in my mind flickers.
Fragments.
Her mouth on mine. Her laugh, bright and reckless. Her hands on my shoulders, her legs wrapped around my waist like she trusted me to hold her.
And then— her body beneath me. Bare. Unapologetic. Confident.
My pulse kicks harder.
Fuck.
The memories don’t come back all at once. They come in flashes. Heat. Movement. Skin. The sound she made when I—
I exhale slowly, forcing my thoughts back under control.
Because one thing is suddenly very clear.
The sex was spectacular.
Not good. Not decent. Not forgettable.
Spectacular.
The kind that lingers in your muscles the next morning. The kind that makes your body remember even when your mind doesn’t.
And seeing her naked now—
God.
She doesn’t even try to cover herself.
She isn’t embarrassed. She doesn’t apologize.
Her energy is bright. Confident.
She just stands there, completely unashamed, sunlight spilling over her creamy skin, flawless and warm.
It does dangerous things to my self-control.
When she gets up from the breakfast table I know what the paper is before she even picks it up.
Images from last night come to me in flashes.
The way she looked in her yellow dress.
The scotch. The tequila shots. A neon sign. The chapel. Gary, the Elvis.
