You’re exhausted. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones after a long day of flights, client meetings, and forced smiles. It’s nearly midnight when you finally make it back to your hotel, heels dangling from one hand, your brain on autopilot. You shuffle down the quiet hotel hallway, counting doors.

Finally.

You fumble through your purse — power bank, receipts, lipstick, everything but the damn key card — until your fingers find it.

Room 608 — that’s what the key card says. You murmur the number under your breath like a prayer, your eyes half-closed as you shuffle down the carpeted hallway.

Beep. The light turns green. You push the door open, exhaling in relief.

It’s dark, but not silent. There’s low music playing, a deep bass vibrating through the air. The faint scent of something warm, like sandalwood and smoke, fills your lungs.

Your brows furrow. Did I leave the music on? No time to think, you step inside, drop your bag on the nearest chair, and reach for the lights.

Then a voice cuts through the dimness. Low. Smooth.

“You planning to move in, or just break in?”

You freeze. Your eyes adjust, and that’s when you see him.

A man stands by the bathroom doorway, steam curling around him. Tanned skin. Broad shoulders. Towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. Water still dripping down his chest, over hard lines and abs that shouldn’t exist in real life.

You choke out a scream. He blinks — slow, unfazed.

You scream again.

One brow lifts, that infuriating little smirk forming. “Lost, princess?”

Your heart is doing gymnastics. “I—I thought this was 608!”

“This isn’t 608,” he says, voice laced with lazy amusement. “You’re in 609.”

“Oh my god— I’m so sorry—” you stammer, fumbling for the door.

He chuckles — that deep, rich kind of laugh that vibrates in your stomach.

“Feel free to stay,” he says, eyes dragging over you like he’s memorizing the view. “You’ve already seen the goods.”

You slam the door shut behind you so fast it rattles the hinges.

Back in your actual room — the real 608 — you collapse onto the bed, face buried in your hands. You want to scream again. Or vanish. Or both.

Instead, you open your phone. Google: ''How to recover from walking in on a Greek god.'' No useful results.

Morning comes too soon.

You shuffle into the conference breakfast half-alive, clutching your coffee like a lifeline. You’re halfway through scanning your notes when a familiar voice, deep and smooth as last night’s disaster, drifts across the room.

You look up. And there he is. Naked towel guy. Now in a tailored suit. Hair slicked back. Smirk still intact.

He catches your gaze. Raises his cup. Mouths two words — “Room. Six-oh-nine.”

Your heart drops straight into your coffee.

And you hate yourself for the thought that flashes next — That maybe tonight… you might knock on the wrong door again.

By accident. On purpose.

Accidentally on purpose.