I’m halfway to the corner when I notice him leaning against a black car, suit open at the throat, tie gone.He must’ve left the bathhouse just before I did.He’s older than me by at least ten years, maybe fifteen, but he wears it well, like he knows exactly how many people watch him walk into a room.
“Rough night?”His voice is smooth, carrying easily over the quiet street.
“Not rough enough.”I shouldn’t answer, but I do.Something about his mouth makes it feel like a challenge.
He pushes off the car and comes closer.Not too close, just near enough for me to see the glint of something in his hand.A hotel key card.He holds it between two fingers like it’s nothing.
“Top floor,” he says, slipping it into the inside pocket of my jacket before I can react.“View’s worth it.”
I let out a low laugh, more a reflex than anything.“Is that your way of asking nicely?”
“That’s my way of not asking twice.”He steps back, giving me space, but his eyes don’t leave mine.“Room 1803.If you feel like seeing the view.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer.Just turns and walks off like he knows I’ll show up.
I stand there with my hands in my pockets, thumb brushing the edge of the key card.My heart’s still beating too fast, and I tell myself it’s from the cold, but I know I’m lying.
He didn’t touch me in the bathhouse.Didn’t even crowd me when I lingered too long near the tiled edge, watching him.That’s what made him dangerous.
It was the way he carried himself.Not flashing wealth or muscle, but something quieter, like power he didn’t have to announce.I’d caught him watching me watch everyone else.Caught the flicker of approval in his eyes when I didn’t look away.He leaned in close as he passed me, breath warm, voice low enough to be swallowed by the steam.
“Meet me outside in twenty.”
Then he walked away.Just like that.
Now I’m standing under a humming streetlamp, key biting into my palm, pulse hammering like I’m sixteen again.I don’t even know his name.Don’t know if this is reckless or brilliant or both.All I know is that he noticed me when I wasn’t performing for anyone, and that makes my chest tight, makes my mouth dry, and makes me move toward the hotel two blocks down without even meaning to.
The hotel isn’t much to look at.Just a narrow lobby, thick carpet that swallows sound, and lighting that illuminates without spotlighting.My wet hair drips on my collar as I walk past the front desk, past a clerk who doesn’t even glance up.
The elevator hums like it’s holding its breath.I catch my reflection in the dull metal doors.My eyes are too bright, mouth tugging into a grin I don’t mean to show.I press the button for the eighteenth floor, wondering if the stranger’s already up there, listening for the ding.
By the time the elevator opens, my pulse has gone from quick to stupid-fast.The hallway’s long and low-ceilinged, a run of beige doors with brass numbers.The air smells faintly of carpet cleaner and cigarette smoke that someone tried to cover with cheap floral spray.
1803.
I stop in front of it, key sweating in my fist.There’s no sound from inside.No movement.Just a sliver of light under the door and the thin taste of adrenaline in my mouth.
This is the part where I should turn around, laugh it off, or go home.Pretend I’m smarter than this.But my feet don’t move.My hand lifts like it belongs to someone else.I press my ear to the door.
Nothing.
The hall feels too quiet, like the whole floor’s holding still, waiting to see if I’ll do it.I slide the key into the lock.Pause.The metal clicks softly, and the door loosens against the frame.
Before I can push it open fully, I just stand there, breathing hard, every nerve strung tight and not sure if I’m about to walk into something incredible or something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.
I push the door.It swings in slow, weighted by the cheap hinge, and the smell hits first—leather, cologne, and something warm and sharp like cedar smoke.
The curtains are drawn.A single lamp glows gold by the bed, throwing shadows that reach too far.The air feels thick and still with anticipation.
He’s there.Not sitting, not standing, just leaning against the wall by the window like he’s been carved into it.His jeans and black T-shirt are nothing flashy, but his presence is heavy enough to tilt the floor.
For half a second, I can’t move.My throat goes dry, my heart still hammering from the hallway but quieter now, deeper.The kind of beat you feel in your chest instead of your ears.
“You’re late,” he says.Voice low, like he already owns the air in here.
I laugh because I don’t know what else to do.“Elevator’s slow.”I bite back the part about finding someone to cover the rest of my shift.
The door clicks shut behind me, and suddenly it feels like there’s no way back out.He doesn’t move much, just a tilt of his head, a glance down at the key still in my hand.Like he’s taking inventory, deciding what to do with me.
