Chapter Seven | Room 428
The elevator ride up was silent.
Not awkward—just… full.
That kind of silence where everything unsaid presses against the walls, hanging in the air like ghosts. I stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the glowing floor numbers. One by one. Slow and deliberate.
He didn’t move. Not close enough to touch me, but not far enough to feel separate, either.
And still—I could feel him. The heat of him. The weight of his presence. That strange awareness I always had when we were near, like gravity itself had something more to say than either of us was willing to speak aloud.
Room 428.
He slid the key card in with this casual flick of his wrist—like it was nothing. But I noticed the way his hand paused, just for a second, before he opened the door.
He didn’t look at me when we stepped inside.
The room was nothing special. Beige walls. Crisp white sheets. A sad little window overlooking the parking lot and a stretch of freeway. Ordinary, bland. The kind of place meant to be forgotten.
He dropped his bag onto the chair and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck like something was trying to escape through his skin. I stayed near the door, hand still resting on the handle like maybe I was supposed to leave. Like maybe this wasn’t supposed to happen.
What are we doing?
I didn’t ask. I didn’t need to.
We both knew the answer.
Instead, I made a dumb joke about the sad little coffee maker by the TV. Something light, because the air between us was anything but. He smirked—barely—but I could see the tension in his shoulders. I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or exhaustion. Probably both.
I sat on the other bed. Cross-legged. Like a kid. It was the only thing that felt normal.
He looked up at me then, and my whole body felt it. That face. God, I missed it. Not in some idealized, perfect way—because he wasn’t perfect. He was frustrating and avoidant and good at disappearing when it mattered. But he was familiar. And that counted for more than I ever wanted to admit.
“So,” I said softly, “Hotel.”
He let out a dry little laugh. “Yeah. That.”
There was a pause. Just long enough for something to happen. A reach. A confession. A decision.
Instead, he leaned back on his elbows and stared at the ceiling.
“Thanks for coming to get me.”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak for a second. I had to swallow it all down just to stay steady.
“You always say that like I wouldn’t.”
He looked at me again. And this time—this time it was different.
Softer.
Like something cracked open behind his eyes, just enough to let me see through.
“You shouldn’t,” he said.
There it was.
The closest he’d ever come to saying he needed me.
I blinked hard, trying not to cry. My emotions had this way of living too close to the surface around him. He didn’t even have to try. One quiet sentence and I was already coming undone.
“I know,” I whispered. “But I do.”
He sat up slowly, like every inch of movement mattered. And then he reached out.
His hand found mine.
I froze—not out of shock, but because of how gentle it was. How completely unsexual. How deeply intentional.
His thumb brushed across the inside of my wrist, and it felt like a whole paragraph.
“I’m not good at this,” he said quietly.
I nodded. “Neither am I.”
And that was it.
We sat like that, across from each other on separate beds in a quiet hotel room, holding hands. Not kissing. Not confessing. Just existing in the soft, silent space between restraint and longing.
Eventually, I’d leave.
Eventually, we’d both return to our separate lives and pretend this never happened. Pretend we were fine. That this didn’t matter.
But right now—just for tonight—I didn’t move.
And neither did he.
We stayed there, in that small, suspended moment.
And for once, that was enough.
