I think of the door — where it is, where he'll be standing when it opens. I position myself facing it, sitting on the edge of the bed, ankles crossed, hands folded in my lap. Composed. Almost innocent.
I tilt my head at the mirror.
No.
Too passive. Too much like I've been waiting on his terms.
I shift. One knee drawn up onto the bed, weight resting on one hand behind me, spine arching slightly. It opens my posture, lifts my chin. Confident. Like I'm the one doing him the favor.
Warmer.
I let the arch deepen. My free hand trails slowly up my own thigh, just to see — and the woman in the mirror watches with dark eyes, and something low and insistent tightens in my stomach.
Oh.
I hadn't expected that. The watching. The being watched — even by myself.
I shift again, fully onto the bed now, lying on my side, one leg drawn up, the lace at my hip pulling taut. My hair falls loose. I look at myself — reallylook— and my breath comes out slower than it went in.
The champion is going to walk through that door and findthis.
I feel the heat of it move through me like something spilled. My skin feels like it's been turned up a degree. I press my lips together — that careful red — and hold the pose and think about his hands, his voice when he's undone, the way he says my name when there's no one else around to hear it.
The door handle.
Any minute now.
I don't move. I justburn.
***
The lock clicks.
The sound slices clean through the thick, heated quiet in the room.
I don’t move.
The handle turns, slow, almost cautious—and then he steps inside.
He’s still in his race suit, half unzipped, the fabric hanging loose at his waist. Damp hair, flushed skin, the sharp edge of adrenaline not yet faded from his body. In one hand, he’s holding the small crystal globe, its surface catching the lamplight in fractured sparks.
The door shuts behind him with a quiet, final click.
For a second, he doesn’t see me.
Then he does.
And everything in him stills.
The globe lowers slightly in his hand, forgotten. His gaze drags over me—slow, deliberate, like he doesn’t trust himself to take it in all at once. When his eyes lift back to mine, they’ve gone darker. Hungrier. Not just desire—something tighter, sharper threaded through it.
“You’re here,” he says.
His voice is rough, like he hasn’t used it in a while.
I let one corner of my mouth lift. “You gave me the room number.”
A beat.
