The hotel room smelled of freshly laundered sheets and faint lavender, the heavy drapes barely letting in the soft glow of Paris’ twilight. She stood by the window, arms crossed, her jaw set tight. The Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, its golden lights mocking her. Across the room, Chan tossed his bag onto the pristine bed with a thud, his expression an unreadable storm.

Dearest darlingest mom and pap, her voice dripped with exaggerated sweetness into her phone, "There's been some confusion over rooming here at Paris." She shot Chan a pointed glare, emphasizing the word.

"Mom," he countered, his tone dry but teasing, "Of course, I'll care for the boys."

"For I know that's how you'd want me to respond," she continued, pacing now. "But there’s been some confusion, for you see, my roommate is—" She hesitated, then spat, "Unusually and exceedingly peculiar. Altogether quite impossible to describe."

"A girl," he added flatly, his Australian lilt cutting through the tension.

The silence was thick as both set down their phones, their gazes locking for an instant too long. Her pulse quickened. His brow furrowed.

What is this feeling? It crept in like the first tremor before a quake. The warmth of the room seemed to close in, their breaths falling into a rhythm neither wanted to acknowledge.

Her chest rose and fell with unspoken defiance. For your face.

He smirked, one corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly. Your voice.

Her fingers twitched at her side.

"Your clothing."

His words hung in the air like a challenge. He stepped closer, voice low and laden with something she couldn’t place. "Let’s just say… I loathe it all."

Her breath caught, their reflection blurred in the window as he muttered the final word, almost to himself.

"Or not?"