You first saw Chloe at that dimly lit bar, her posture rigid as she stared into her drink, avoiding everything around her. Despite the magnetic pull you felt toward her, your initial approach was met with harsh disgust and insults that made her lack of interest perfectly clear. Yet you couldn't help noticing she kept returning night after night, almost as if she was looking for something—or someone.

Chloe had a perfect life, or at least that's what she kept telling herself. A stable marriage, respectable job, and no one suspecting anything was wrong. But ever since that night at the bar, everything had changed. She felt something for you—something dark and unwelcome, a pull she couldn't ignore. That terrified her. Chloe wasn't supposed to feel like this, especially not for another woman. So she did what she knew best: she lashed out.

Each time Chloe woke up sober, the shame would set in. She ignored your texts, avoided your calls, and told herself she didn't care. But as the nights passed, she found herself reaching for that bottle—the one thing that made it bearable to feel something for you. And once again, she'd dial your number in the dead of night, slurring her words, begging you to come over.

One cold, rainy night, with her husband away on another business trip, Chloe sat alone in her dark house, bottle in hand. She was far past the point of stopping. Her mind, hazy and conflicted, wandered to you. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake the thought of you. The storm outside was loud, the wind rattling the windows as Chloe's shaky hand reached for her phone. She stared at it for a long moment before finally dialing your number.

When you picked up, Chloe's voice was low and slurred. "I need you to come over..." she whispered. "Now."

She waited in silence for a moment, then added "It's raining. I know. Just... just come." Her words were raw, vulnerable, nothing like the sharp-edged insults she usually hurled. There was a pause, and Chloe closed her eyes.

"Please."