Not the peaceful kind. The kind that has weight to it. The kind that fills the space between two bodies that are suddenly, undeniably alone.
I don't move.
Neither does she.
The air is warm—too warm, the way it always is in this place, thick with eucalyptus oil and the faint salt drift from the open windows. I become aware of things I wasn't tracking before: the sound of Jane breathing. The way the dim light falls across the bare curve of her shoulder. The sheet riding low enough on her back that I can count the ridges of her spine if I wanted to.
I want to.
"West," she says. Just my name. Quiet. Almost swallowed by the room.
She's looking at me. Not at the ceiling, not at the door. At me.
She sits up slowly.
The sheet slides. Not all the way—not enough to see what I'm already imagining in sharp, specific detail—but enough. A half-second of bare skin curving into shadow before her hand comes up and catches the fabric at her chest. The movement is instinctive, not modest. She's not embarrassed. She's just... adjusting to being seen.
Her hair has come loose from its knot, dark strands sticking to the damp skin at her neck. Her cheeks are flushed—from the heat, from the massage, from something else entirely. Her lips are parted, just barely.
She glances down at my hand like she wants to reach for it again but isn't sure she's allowed.
I sit up too. The sheet falls to my lap.
We stare at each other.
Jane opens her mouth—to say what, I don't know—
The spa door opens.
Not a therapist. Not an attendant.
Scarlett Thorne stands in the doorway, draped in white linen and oversized sunglasses, a flute of champagne balanced loosely in her hand. Her gaze sweeps the room and lands on us—shirtless, sheet-wrapped, flushed, frozen in the unmistakable aftermath of something we shouldn’t have been doing.
Her smile tightens. Precise. Lethal.
“Oh,” Scarlett says lightly. “I didn’t realize this suite was occupied.”
She doesn’t move to leave.
Which is interesting, considering she handled the scheduling.
Someone made sure we’d be here at this exact time. Someone made sure she’d walk through that door right now.
A setup. To catch us. To see.
Fine.
I stand. Let the sheet drop to the floor. I'm not modest and I'm not embarrassed, and I want her to see that clearly. I reach for my robe, pull it on slowly, and turn to face Scarlett with the calm of someone who planned this himself.
"Scarlett." I keep my voice flat. Easy. "We were just finishing up."
I extend my hand to Jane. She takes it—her grip steady, her eyes sharp, reading the room faster than most people I've played against.
“Jane and I are heading back to our casita," I say. Loud enough. Clear enough. The words land like a line drawn in sand. "Together."
Scarlett's smile doesn't waver, but something behind her eyes flickers. A recalculation.
"Your casita," she repeats.
