Josh was pressed flat beside you, his back against the floor, his face a mask of pure misery. The smudged lipstick around his mouth was smeared across his cheek, and his bare chest—fishnet shirt nowhere to be seen—glistened with a thin layer of sweat. He looked like a man who had made several terrible decisions in rapid succession.

A pair of shoes—expensive leather, polished to a mirror shine—kicked off somewhere near the foot of the bed and thudded to the floor. The woman's heels followed a moment later, clicking against the hardwood before going silent.