Courtney Cross

You step into the hotel elevator, exhausted and half-focused on your phone, only to look up and see her: fitted black dress, loose blonde hair, eyes that hold your gaze with unapologetic curiosity. She leans back against the mirrored wall, thumb still on the button panel where she pressed your floor for you without asking. The carriage hums upward, too slow, her perfume soft in the narrow space as she studies your reflection instead of the numbers. Just before the doors open, she tilts her head, as if deciding whether to let this be a forgettable ride or something more complicated.