The hotel hallway smelled faintly of jasmine and old carpet, the kind of combination that hinted at stories soaked into the walls. She pressed the elevator button with a trembling finger, hoping no one would notice how her pulse raced beneath her skin.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
Not in this city.
Not in this hotel.
And definitely not on the seventh floor.
But desire didn't care about rules, and tonight she was tired of being obedient.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. She stepped inside, her reflection staring back from three mirrored walls, red dress, damp hair from the drizzle outside, lips she'd bitten raw from nerves.
She pressed the button for the seventh floor.
Her heart followed the ascent.
When the doors opened again, the hallway was quiet, dim, almost cinematic. Room 703 was at the end, the last door before the fire exit. She hesitated only once, just long enough to remind herself that she could still turn back.
But she didn't.
Her knuckles tapped lightly.
The door opened almost instantly.
And there he was.
A stranger, tall, dark-eyed, barefoot, his white shirt unbuttoned like he'd been expecting someone but not necessarily her. His gaze swept over her slowly, lingering but never vulgar.
"You came," he said softly, voice low like velvet dragged against skin.
She swallowed, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet hall. "You said I could."
"I said I hoped you would."
He stepped aside. She walked in.
The room was warm, the lamps dim, casting gold across the edges of the bed and the framed artwork on the wall. Rain tapped the window softly, shy compared to the storm inside her chest.
"Drink?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No. If I drink, I'll forget I made a choice."
He lifted a brow. "And what choice is that?"
She moved closer, the air thickening between them. "To let something happen… just this once."
His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. "Then just this once," he murmured, lifting a hand to her cheek but stopping an inch away, giving her space to refuse.
She didn't.
She leaned in.
His fingertips brushed her jaw like a whisper, tracing a line down her neck, slow enough to make her shiver. He took his time, studying her face like she was something rare, something he wasn't sure he deserved to touch.
"You're nervous," he said.
"You're not?"
He smiled, not cocky, not arrogant. Just honest. "Terrified."
That made her laugh, the tension melting a little. He stepped closer, his thumb brushing her lower lip, testing the boundary between restraint and desire.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
"Ask me to."
He didn't.
Instead, he kissed her
, slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that didn't rush toward heat but drew her into it like gravity. Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer as the world narrowed to two people and a hotel room that wasn't supposed to exist in her life.
The bed behind them caught her when her knees finally gave in. He followed, bracing himself above her, their breaths mingling, warm and uneven.
"This is a bad idea," she murmured.
"The best kind," he replied, kissing her again, deeper this time.
Clothes loosened but didn't fully disappear, the intimacy was in the almost, in the anticipation, in the way his hands explored slowly, like every second mattered. The room filled with soft sounds, a sigh, a breath, a quiet moan she tried to swallow but couldn't.
Time blurred.
When it was over, they didn't rush apart. They stayed there, tangled in sheets and silence, the dim lamp casting soft shadows over skin and secrets.
She traced the buttons of his shirt, the same shirt he hadn't bothered to remove. "We shouldn't do this again," she whispered.
"I know."
"But you want to."
He looked at her, eyes darker now. "Do you?"
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
She slid off the bed, gathering herself piece by piece, dress, heels, composure. At the door, she paused.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She smiled faintly. "Don't make this real."
"Too late," he said.
But she still walked away.
Because some nights weren't meant to follow you home.
Some stayed locked on the seventh floor.
But as she walked toward the elevator, her legs still unsteady, she felt the night cling to her skin like silk she couldn't peel off. Every step echoed with something unfinished, something that hummed low in her body like the last trembling note of a song she wasn't ready to stop hearing.
She pressed the elevator button, breath still uneven, her lips still tasting faintly of him. The hallway felt too quiet now, too still, too aware, as if the walls themselves had seen what she tried to leave behind in that room.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and she stepped inside, gripping the rail as though steadiness could be borrowed from metal.
Her reflection looked different this time.
Hair tousled.
Lipstick smudged.
Eyes softer, darker, undone.
She swallowed hard, heat blooming again under her skin just from the memory of his hands. She tried to straighten her dress, but the fabric still held the warmth of his touch, the scent of the room, the feel of his breath at her throat.
"Just once," she whispered to herself.
But the words felt fragile, thin, shaky, dishonest.
The elevator slowed, descending floor by floor until it opened into the warm glow of the lobby. She stepped out, trying to erase the softness in her walk, the aftershocks pulsing faintly between her thighs.
The man at the front desk glanced up, polite smile fixed, and she prayed he couldn't see the truth written all over her.
She walked out into the humid night, the city lights smeared by a thin drizzle. The air hit her like a confession, cool, sobering, too real. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, but it didn't stop the shiver that traveled down her spine.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
A message.
Unknown number.
She froze.
For a moment she considered not looking, letting it stay unread, letting the night stay sealed behind a hotel door the way she'd promised herself it would be.
But desire was a traitor. She opened it.
"You forgot your earring."
She exhaled, a slow, trembling breath.
A second message followed:
"Or maybe you left it."
Her heartbeat stuttered.
She looked up at the building as though she could see the room from the street, as though he might be standing there watching her walk away.
She typed nothing.
Not yet.
Her hands shook too much.
She turned away, starting down the sidewalk, heels tapping against the wet pavement. The rain was beginning again, soft, almost gentle, soaking into her hair and cooling the lingering heat on her skin.
But with every step, she felt him.
Felt the weight of his body above hers.
Felt the warmth of his breath against her neck.
Felt the way he'd whispered her unspoken thoughts like he already knew them.
She told herself she would forget.
That this would dissolve into memory before morning.
That Room 703 would fade the way all forbidden things eventually did.
But then her phone vibrated again, stopping her mid-step.
"If you want it back," the message read,
"you know where I am."
She closed her eyes.
The city continued around her, cars, footsteps, the soft hiss of rain, but she stood still, heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else.
She should keep walking.
She knew that.
But her fingers curled a little tighter around her phone…
and once again, her body betrayed what her mind was trying desperately to deny.
Some nights weren't meant to follow you home.
But some refused to stay locked anywhere, not even on the seventh floor.