The bedroom door closes behind you with a quiet click that feels louder than it should.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

The space is… vast. Larger than your entire old apartment. Soft, dim lighting pools across dark wood and pale sheets, the bed at the center impossibly wide—meant for two people who actually want to share it.

You step inside first, slower this time, taking it in. Floor-to-ceiling windows, curtains half drawn, the faint glow of the city slipping through. Everything is pristine. Untouched.

Like no one has ever really lived here either.

“You’ll sleep here.”

His voice comes from just behind you.

You turn slightly. He’s already loosened his tie, movements efficient, practiced. Like this—this situation, this night—is just another obligation to complete.

“Our bedroom,” he corrects after a beat, as if remembering the script.

You almost smile at that.

Almost.

“Of course,” you say quietly.

He watches you for a second, then walks past you toward the bed. There’s a deliberate ease in the way he moves—controlled, composed. Nothing uncertain. Nothing hesitant.

It makes your own stillness feel louder.

“There are staff in the hall at all hours,” he says, unbuttoning his cuffs. “And cameras in the outer corridors. Not in here,” he adds, glancing at you briefly, “but close enough.”

A pause.

“We maintain appearances. Even now.”

Your gaze flicks to the bed again.

One bed.

No escape routes disguised as politeness.

“I assumed as much,” you reply.

He nods once, like you’ve passed some quiet test.

“Good.”

Silence settles again—but this time it’s heavier. Closer.

You move toward the other side of the room, placing your hands lightly on the back of a chair just to ground yourself in something solid.

“Is there… a side?” you ask after a moment, gesturing faintly toward the bed.

Something almost like amusement touches his expression—but it’s faint. Gone quickly.

“Take whichever you prefer,” he says. “I don’t share well enough for it to matter.”

Blunt.

Honest.

You nod, moving to the far side, putting the width of the bed between you. It feels like the only line you’re allowed to draw.

Behind you, you hear the soft rustle of fabric. A jacket discarded. The quiet click of a watch placed on the nightstand.

Normal sounds.

They shouldn’t feel so loud.

You hesitate before turning back around—but when you do, he’s already there, sleeves rolled, collar open. Less formal. Not softer, exactly—but less distant in a way that’s harder to define.

More real.

His gaze lifts to meet yours.

And holds.

“You’re tense,” he says.

Not a question.

You exhale lightly. “It’s been a long day.”

“That’s not the reason.”

Of course it isn’t.

You don’t answer.

For a moment, it seems like he might leave it there.

He doesn’t.

He steps closer—not invading, not quite—but enough that the space between you changes. Narrows.

“Look at me,” he says, quieter now.

You already are.

But something in the way he says it makes you straighten slightly, your attention sharpening without meaning to.

His eyes move over your face, searching. Measuring again. Not unkind—but not gentle either.

“People will watch us tomorrow,” he says. “They’ll look for cracks. Hesitation. Distance.”

His hand lifts—slowly enough that you could step back if you wanted.

You don’t.

His fingers brush lightly against your wrist.

Not a grip.

Just contact.

A test.

“You can’t flinch like that,” he murmurs.

You hadn’t even realized you did.

Heat rises to your face—more from the awareness than the touch itself.

“I’ll adjust,” you say.

His gaze flicks up to yours again.

A pause.

Then, unexpectedly—

His hand shifts, not away, but slightly higher, guiding your arm—not forceful, just precise—until your hand rests lightly against his chest.

Your breath catches, just for a second.

“Then start now,” he says.

The words are quiet. Controlled.

But closer than before.

You can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your palm. Even. Unaffected. As if this proximity means nothing to him at all.

Maybe it doesn’t.

“Like this,” he adds, adjusting you