The hotel corridor was too quiet for a place built on secrecy. Dim lights, thick carpet, the hum of an air conditioner that never slept. She walked slowly, the echo of her heels swallowed by the silence. She wasn't supposed to be here again, not with him, not after what the night before had almost revealed.
Yet she stopped in front of his door.
Room 812.
The place she swore she wouldn't return to.
She raised her hand, meaning only to hover, not to knock, but the moment her knuckles touched the wood, the door drifted inward, just slightly.
Not locked.
Not fully closed.
An invitation or a warning… she couldn't tell.
Her breath caught.
She pushed it open a few inches more.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft spill of city light through the curtains. The scent hit her first, his cologne and something warmer beneath it, something she had memorized without meaning to.
He was by the window, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, staring at the skyline like he was daring it to judge him.
"You came back," he said without turning.
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "Your door wasn't fully shut."
He finally faced her. "Maybe I was hoping it wouldn't be."
The tension slid between them instantly, familiar and dangerous. She set her purse on the table, pretending her hands were steadier than they felt.
"You shouldn't keep it open like that," she whispered. "Anyone could walk in."
"Only one person ever does."
Her heartbeat tripped. She hated how easily he could undo her resolve with a sentence.
She walked toward him slowly, each step punctuated by the quiet thud of her pulse in her ears. His eyes followed her like he was reading every movement, every hesitation.
"You didn't call," she murmured.
"You didn't answer the last time I did."
She stopped a foot away from him. The space between them was thin, crackling like something flammable.
"You said last night shouldn't happen again."
"It shouldn't," he agreed softly. "But it is."
He reached out, fingers brushing her wrist, barely there, but it was enough to unravel her. She hated the way she leaned into it, hated the way she needed it.
"You look tired," she said, searching his face. "Worried."
He let out a breath, long and quiet. "She asked if I was seeing someone."
Her stomach dropped.
"And you said…?"
"That I wasn't."
A beat. Two. Her throat tightened.
"That's the truth," he added. "I'm not seeing someone. I'm losing my mind over someone."
She didn't breathe. She couldn't.
He stepped closer, one hand lifting to her jaw, thumb grazing her cheek like he was memorizing her expression.
"But we don't… date," he whispered. "We don't have rules. We don't even have a name for whatever this is."
"It doesn't need a name," she said, though her voice trembled slightly.
"No," he said. "It doesn't. That's why it's dangerous."
The room felt smaller now, the night wrapped tight around them. She placed her hands on his chest, feeling the faint rise and fall beneath her palms.
"If it's so dangerous," she whispered, "why didn't you shut the door properly?"
His lips curved faintly, but there was nothing playful in his eyes.
"Because I knew if I shut it, I wouldn't open it again."
"And if I didn't push it open?"
"I would've come looking for you," he said, voice low, sincere, stripped of all the careful edges he usually wore. "You know that."
Her breath hitched, breaking just slightly.
He leaned in, his forehead brushing hers.
"You make me forget everything I'm supposed to protect."
"Then don't protect it tonight," she murmured.
He closed the distance, kissing her with a hunger that tasted like fear and longing tangled together. His hands pulled her closer, lifting her onto her toes, her fingers curling into the collar of his shirt.
She kissed him back, not gently, she was long past gentle with him. Every night like this felt like a confession neither of them were ready to speak.
When his lips left hers, he didn't move far.
"Stay," he whispered.
She almost said yes.
Almost.
But something in his voice, something raw, made her pull back slightly, searching his face.
"You're shaking," she said quietly.
"Because I know this won't end well."
"Then why"
"Because I can't stop," he breathed. "Not with you."
Her heart twisted in her chest.
She cupped his face, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "Then don't ask me to stay unless you mean it."
Silence stretched between them, weighted, trembling.
He opened his mouth, to confess, to promise, to break, but he froze.
A shadow moved under the door.
Someone was standing outside.
Both of them stilled.
The footsteps paused.
Then a quiet knock, soft, deliberate, broke through the silence.
Her blood turned to ice.
He whispered her name like a warning.
She stepped back, pulse racing.
The knock came again, firmer this time.
"Who is that?" she mouthed.
His jaw tightened.
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
She already knew.
The door…
the imperfectly closed door…
was no accident.
And someone had followed the gap straight to them.
His eyes locked on the shadow beneath the door, the shape shifting slightly as whoever stood outside leaned in, listening, waiting, deciding.
Her breath caught in her throat. The air in the room felt suddenly too tight, too warm, too loud with the sound of two hearts trying not to betray themselves.
He pressed a finger to his lips, urging her to stay silent, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away, this wasn't a stranger, not a guest in the wrong hallway. This was someone who had a right to knock. Someone who shouldn't be finding him here, at this hour, with her.
The knock came again, sharper this time. "I know you're in there."
A woman's voice.
Her stomach dropped.
He closed his eyes just briefly, a pained exhale shaking loose from his chest. Not denial. Not surprise. Just dread.
She stepped back instinctively, her body moving before her mind caught up. Her pulse raced as she reached for her purse, fingers trembling. The room felt suddenly foreign, as if their heat, their intimacy, had been wiped away by a single voice on the other side of a cracking secret.
He whispered, barely audible, "Don't move."
But the door handle had already begun to turn.