“He’s… being decent,” she says. The compliment fits like a shirt I don’t deserve. “But this is a mess.”
I want to tell her I can fix the mess. Buy the hotel, knock down a wall, build two rooms with a moat. I want to tell her I heardprofessionalismand didn’t argue because I’m trying to be the man who doesn’t make everything worse. I want to tell her I’m sorry I learned that too late the first time.
Instead I stare at my reflection in the black window—city lights sketching a blue outline around a guy who looks like he lost a fight to a couch. The phone buzzes with a news alert I don’topen. My name trends like weather; her career drowns when that storm rolls in. I turn the screen face-down and pretend that changes the tide.
Her laughter fades to a hush, to the cadence she saves for people she trusts. I wonder if I still make that cut, if I’m a name she dodges when Sophie asks the question nobody leaves alone. The wall answers with quiet. Then: “Goodnight,” she says—to Sophie, to herself, to the version of us that doesn’t exist. The call clicks.
I type one more thing before I can stop myself:I’m sorry—for tonight, for before, for the way I stood there while the door clicked shut on us.My thumb hovers over send like it’s a trigger. The cursor blinks. I see the headline. I see her badge blinking red because of me. I backspace every letter.
The phone goes dark. The wall stays thin. I shove my hands under my head, stare at the slice of light under her door, and tell myself it’s better if she sleeps. I don’t.
Steam ghosts the bathroom mirror in the morning; towels smell like cotton breeze and starch. We slot around each other on autopilot—her toothbrush clicks off as mine starts; her elbow skims my rib cage when we trade the sink. “Shoulder,” she says, palm skimming to check tension. It’s nothing more than contact, but my body reads it like scripture. “Range of motion?”
I lift, rotate. “Good.” My voice comes out rough. Her eyes flick to my mouth, then away like she’s mad at herself for looking.
We swap again—she reaches for the dryer, I dodge, shoulders brush. Heat licks down my spine more efficiently than any warm-up. I grunt, make space I don’t want to give. Professionalism chases me to the kitchenette where the coffee machine coughs to life like it smoked a pack during the blackout.
Her phone pings on the counter. Then again. Then a long vibrate that feels like a warning.
She steps out with damp hair twisted into a clip, eyes already scanning. The color drains. “Tell me you didn’t post anything,” she says—triage, not accusation.
“I was asleep.” Not completely a lie. “What’s?—”
My phone lights up with a siren chain of notifications: tags, mentions, three teammates, one ALL-CAPS from Julia. Riley curses—quiet, lethal. “Someone tagged the floor number.”
On her screen, a Story blinks: blurry hallway selfie with a stack of to-go coffees and the captionCrown level chaos—and, in the corner, the suite sign mirrored in gold:1423.
“Perfect.” My jaw locks. The math happens fast—time stamps, follower counts, who screenshotted before it was deleted. The part that matters most hits last and hardest: optics hit her first.
“Okay.” Her voice goes clinical. “We didn’t break policy. They had one room left. Document it.” She flips to Notes so fast her thumb is a metronome. “Clerk’s name, time of check-in, power-outage excuse—write it down.”
“I’ll call downstairs. Get a statement?—”
“No calls. No trail they can spin. Text Julia: need guidance. No wrongdoing. Temporary optics issue.”
Julia buzzes my phone:DO NOT ENGAGE. Cameras in lobby. Owner wants you invisible.
Riley exhales through her nose, steadying a shake most people wouldn’t see. “I’ll handle training room. You go out the service corridor and straight to skate.”
“And leave you to deal with this?” Heat spikes under my tongue.
“If someone has to take the hit for existing in a hallway, it won’t be you.”
“That’s not happening.” Too fast, too hard. I breathe. “We walk out together. No apologies for a roll of the hotel dice.”
She studies me, something soft and dangerous in her gaze. The phones keep vibrating like trapped bees. “Fine,” she says at last. “Together. Heads down. No comments.”
I grab a cap, shove it low. She shoulders her bag, checks mine like muscle memory. We move to the door, braced—then another ping hits, brighter, followed by a text from a burner number with a screenshot of the Story and a message that turns my stomach:Cute. 1423.
Riley’s face tightens. Something old and mean rises in my chest. “Change of plan,” I say, already toggling her app privacy. “We ghost the lobby. Service exit only.”
She doesn’t argue. She never does when rumors turn to risk. We turn toward the back hall, nerves wired tight as a trip line, the day already singed at the edges.
The service corridor smells like bleach and fryer oil. Fluorescents buzz. We move fast—caps low, bags high, Riley one step ahead like she can outpace the internet on foot. A housekeeper rounds the corner with a cart piled with towels; Riley thanks her, smile quick, then slides her badge over a gray door that spits us into the loading bay.
“Left,” she says, scanning for cameras. “Van loops the curb.”
I clock everything—dumpsters, a cameraman pretending to smoke across the alley, the gleam of a long lens using a car window as a mirror. I shift to block Riley. She swats my arm. “Don’t make yourself bigger,” she murmurs. “It’s a beacon.”
