“Last check before I call it,” I say, and lean in. The world tightens to inches—the damp edge of the towel, lemon-clean tangled with his skin, the way his lashes cast shadows I could measure with a ruler if I needed an excuse to stare.
He opens his eyes as the sensor touches his temple, blue cutting clean through the haze. “Boss me around, Coach,” he whispers. It should be a joke. It lands like a memory of hands and heat and a thousand small surrenders I pretended were strategic.
“Hold still,” I manage—cool outside, riot inside. My free hand slips into his hair to steady the device; his hair is damp and too soft, and I’m a professional, so I pretend texture isn’t information.
His head angles into my palm a fraction—seeking, not taking. The bar creeps, stalls, considers mercy. I’m close enough to count the flecks around his pupil, close enough to feel his breath graze my cheek.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Not predatory. Not even asking. Noticing. Heat lands low in my belly, traitorous and immediate. I should step back. I don’t. The thermometer beeps; the number is lower. “Good,” I say, and it comes out like a confession.
“Riley,” he murmurs, and my name becomes a slow invitation neither of us officially extends. We hover where intent becomes action, every inch forward a choice we can’t undo. The shift happens—balance tilting, the gravity of him pulling me under. His hand closes over my wrist at his temple. Not to trap. To pause.
His thumb presses once, like punctuation. “Don’t,” he says, so quiet I almost miss it. Not rejection. Rescue—of me, of us, of the job I built.
I go still. Breathe. Nod. “Right,” I whisper. “Not like this.”
We stay there—my palm in his hair, his hand on my wrist—for one long, impossible beat. Then I ease away, replacing the compress, turning motion into mercy. He lets go the second I move, the loss of contact cool and necessary.
Professional again. Or something that looks like it.
I log the number, blow out a slow breath I hope he can’t hear, and reset the timer for another five. “Trend’s improving,” I say. “You’re not winning gold for suffering tonight.”
He smiles with half his mouth, a tired, honest thing that hits me square in the sternum. “I’ll take silver if it keeps you here.”
“Don’t get greedy.” I hand him water. “Sip.” He sips. My hands are steady. My heart is not.
A knock slices the quiet—sharp, too close. Another. The doorknob rattles.
Jason’s eyes open. “You expecting?—”
I shake my head and move. At the door, I slide the chain, throw the deadbolt, set the bar. I breathe through my mouth and text Sophie one word:Knockers.She replies instantly:Security inbound. Two minutes.
Two minutes is a year when you can measure scandal in seconds. I check curtains—closed. Lights—low. Angles—bad for photos unless they get the door open. Me—between the door and the couch with a body I can make boring if I have to.
Voices bleed through the seam. “Suite fourteen-twenty-three, right? Saw her go in last night.”
Ice drops into my stomach. Three neon words:Saw. Her. Go.
“Hello? We had a noise complaint,” one says, fake-concern cadence polished. Something plastic scrapes the latch. Fishing.
“We’re fine. Wrong room,” I call, professional and flat.
A snort. “Pretty sure it’s the right room.”
Behind me, the couch creaks. Jason pushes up on one elbow, pale and stubborn. I shake my head—slow, sharp. He sinks back, eyes on me like he’s willing himself into a wall I can hide behind.
“Security is on the way,” I say through the door, using the authority I use on rookies who forget helmets. “Back away, or I call the desk and report harassment.”
Silence—then a whisper: “Get the shot if it opens.”
The handle jiggles. The chain shudders against the jamb. I plant my palm on the wood, as if my hand can hold the whole situation closed.
“Riley,” Jason says, warning and vow in one syllable.
Metal bites metal. The chain strains, whining.
I set my feet. My heartbeat is in my ears. On the other side, a lens rises. I can feel it like heat.
The chain jumps once more—and the doorknob jerks with a final rattle that vibrates up my arm as a voice in the hall calls, “Hotel security—open up,” and the world tilts between rescue and exposure.
