Neutral decor. Pale gray walls.
A king-sized bed with crisp white linens folded with military precision.
A small sitting area near the window. The glass overlooked the rose garden.
My throat tightened briefly — but I forced my breathing steady.
I walked in.
Set my suitcase down with a soft thud.
“Which room is Yannis’s?” I asked without turning.
“Left or right?”
“Left,” he answered immediately.
He pointed — though I didn’t need direction.
I already had spatial awareness mapping the corridor.
I moved.
Without hesitation.
“Elena—”
His voice followed me.
Warning. Or plea.
I didn’t stop.
If I paused to look at him right now — if I allowed emotional proximity — the weight of history would collapse onto me.
And I would crack.
I pushed open Yannis’s door.
Stepped inside. Then closed it behind me.
Locked it.
The click of the latch sounded decisive.
Protective.
My chest rose and fell rapidly.
I inhaled.
Exhaled.
In.
Out.
Control.
