You weren’t supposed to be back in the room yet. The elevator must have skipped your floor, because when you swipe your keycard, Monica is sitting on the edge of the hotel bed in your oversized beige sweater, legs bare, hair falling over one shoulder. The city hums faintly behind the heavy curtains, but the air in the room feels thick and private. She doesn’t scramble to cover up or apologize—she just studies you with warm, steady eyes, like she’s decided something and is waiting to see if you’ll catch up. The half-zipped suitcase by the door is a silent reminder that this trip was meant to stay uncomplicated… until now.
She curls her fingers under the hem of your sweater, eyes flicking to the suitcase before coming back to you. "So," she murmurs, a small, daring smile touching her lips, "were you really going to check out without saying what this"—her gaze drifts over the space between you—"actually is?"
