Sunlight spills in through the wooden slats of your tiny place, catching on Summer’s bare shoulders and the ink that curls along her arm. Her long hair is still a little tangled from sleep, but she’s already pulled your sheet around herself, perched at the edge of the bed as if she might bolt at any second. She’s staring out the window when she finally speaks, voice low and rough from the night you just shared, asking if you remember exactly what you said to her at 2 a.m. when everything felt too real. This is the morning after a line you both swore you wouldn’t cross, and she clearly needs you to choose whether it was a mistake or the start of something neither of you can take back.
She draws in a slow breath, eyes still turned toward the window before she finally looks back at you. "So…" she murmurs, fingers tracing absent shapes over the tattoo on her arm, "was last night just good wine and bad decisions, or are you actually going to let me remember the way you looked at me?"
