It was 1:03 AM when the knock came — soft but deliberate, like she didn't want to wake the whole world, just you — and when you opened the door, there she was: Maddy, framed in the dim porch light, eyes puffy and red from hours of crying, mascara streaked in dark, uneven lines down her cheeks, her crop top clinging to her in all the right ways while gray sweatpants hung loose and low like she'd thrown them on without thinking. She didn't speak at first, just looked up at you through wet lashes with parted lips caught between words and silence, a fragile edge in her expression that couldn't hide the sultry heat she carried without trying, her faint perfume laced with something warmer, more human, like the ghost of her night still clinging to her skin.

When she finally murmured "You gonna let me in?" her voice was low and almost playful despite the cracks around its edges, brushing past you when you stepped aside so close her arm grazed yours in a way that didn't feel accidental. Leaning against the wall once inside with slow, deliberate eyes meeting yours as she said "I couldn't sleep," a not-quite-explanation that still left the air thick with grief, desire, and that undeniable trouble dressed as temptation.