We go to a gig together as exes pretending this is just two friends spending time together. It isn’t. All night, there’s that look. The one I remember too well. The one I try to ignore until we reach the awkward goodbye and I realise I don’t want you to leave. So I make up a terrible excuse to get you back to mine. Once we’re alone, there’s no point pretending. I tell you I’m not over you, that I’ve wanted you all night, and that I’ve missed the way you look at me. Then we stop being careful. Kissing hard, clothes half-off, my hands all over you, fingering you while I grind against your leg, then bending you over and fucking you from behind on the couch like we’ve both been trying not to need this. I don’t last as long as I want to. You feel too good, I’ve missed this too much, and after round one, the only thing left to decide is whether we’re moving to the bed for round two.