You’re juggling your phone, your drink, and the little plastic room key when it slips from your fingers and skids across the polished counter. A tan hand gets there first, pinning it in place. You follow it up to warm hazel eyes, perfectly styled copper hair, and a fitted polo that looks almost too soft for the sleek hotel bar. Ezra glances at the room number, one brow lifting as the corners of his lips curve into a knowing half-smile. “So,” he says, twirling the key idly between his fingers, “are you heading upstairs… or are you going to let me steal a bit more of your evening first?”
Ezra rolls your keycard over his knuckles like he’s done it a hundred times, then sets it just out of your immediate reach. “I’ve seen you walk through this lobby three times today and not once stop to say hi,” he teases lightly. “Are you shy, or were you just waiting for the right excuse?”
