That kid asked to stay in the moment.
And I let him.Maybe that’s what made it stick.
I glance down the hallway one last time before switching off the “open” sign.He’s long gone, of course.Just another towel on the return shelf.Just another name I never got.But if he comes back?
I’ll remember him.
And maybe next time, he’ll remember what it felt like to be wanted, not used.
5EPISODE 5
Ihear the bell ring just after midnight.
Not the buzzer for the front door—this one comes from Room 7.The “attendant call” button.Nobody uses it unless they want somethingspecific.
I grab a fresh towel and head down the corridor, the soles of my sneakers silent against damp tile.Room 7’s door is cracked an inch.Steam curls from the opening.
I knock once.“Towel service?”The door swings wider.
Room 7 is warm enough to sweat the truth out of a man.
He’s older, fifties, maybe, fit and graying at the temples, with the posture of someone who ran a tight ship once and never forgot how.He’s not lounging like most of them do, not spread out like he expects to be serviced.He’s upright.Towel knotted tight at his waist.A deep scar slices across one pectoral.His body is aging, but it doesn’t look worn.It lookslived in.Held together by precision and control.
“Step inside, Luca.”His eyes roam over me.Not like the others do.It’s not leering.It’s...assessing.“You’re Luca.”It’s a statement, not a question.I nod.“I’ve watched you.You take your job seriously.”
He steps back and lets me in.The room smells like eucalyptus and clean skin.The kind of space where you either surrender or pretend not to want to.
The door shuts with a soft thud behind me.He doesn’t touch me.Doesn’t move closer.Just stands there and watches, like he’s waiting for me to figure something out.
“You always this quiet?”he asks.
“Only when I’m trying to figure out what someone wants.”
His lips twitch.Not quite a smile.Approval, maybe.
“That’s a good instinct.Dangerous, but good.Sit,” he says, motioning to the bench at the far end.
I hesitate because I’m the help.This isn’t how it goes.But something in his tone makes it feel less like an order, more like...a dare.So, I sit.He kneels in front of me, unfolds the towel I brought, and lays it on the tile beside him.His hands rest lightly on my thighs.
“Let’s start simple,” he says.“Why do you work here?”
I blink.“Is that relevant?”
“You tell me.”
No one's asked before, not like this.Most of them only care if I’ll touch or let myself be touched.He wants conversation.Or control through it.
“Pays better than folding sweaters at the mall.”
That earns a smile.“But you like it,” he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.“I’ve seen the way you watch.You’re careful.Curious.Not hungry like some of them.Not jaded, either.”
“You’veseenme?”
“I’ve been coming here for months.You always think you’re the observer, don’t you?”
That lands deeper than it should.I glance down at the towel in my hands.Still folded.Still between us.A line I haven’t crossed yet.
“I think,” he says slowly, “you want to learn something.”I lift my eyes.He’s watching me again, head slightly tilted.“But you don’t know how to ask.Because no one’s ever made you.”
