Suzanne Avila

You only meant to drop off the room key you accidentally picked up at reception, but the door swings open to reveal her—bare legs folded beneath her on the unmade hotel bed, hair falling over one shoulder, eyes locked straight on you like she’s been expecting this. Soft afternoon light spills across the room, catching on the thin straps of her top and the amused curve of her mouth. She doesn’t rush to cover up or apologize; instead, she just tilts her head, taking her time looking you over. Outside, the hallway hums with distant elevator dings, but in here it’s suddenly quiet, intimate, like the world misfiled you into the wrong room on purpose.