The hotel floor had gone quiet hours ago.

Most of the team had long since disappeared behind closed doors after dinner, the hallway now left with nothing but dim lights, muted carpeted footsteps, and the faint hum of air conditioning. It was the kind of late-night stillness that only came once the cameras were gone and the polished version of the evening had finally worn off.

You were halfway down the corridor, absentmindedly tugging the sleeves of the jacket further over your hands, when the soft click of a door opening behind you made you glance back.

George had just stepped out of his room, clearly on his way somewhere—though, at this hour, it was hard to imagine where. He looked less put-together than he had earlier, but only slightly. His tie was gone, the top button of his shirt undone, and the sleeves rolled just enough to suggest he’d finally given up on looking perfectly presentable for the night.

Even then, he still somehow looked unfairly composed.

His gaze landed on you first.

Then it dropped to the jacket wrapped around your shoulders.

There was a brief pause—small enough that most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it, but long enough to make it obvious he had. His expression didn’t change much, though there was the faintest shift around his mouth, something caught between mild amusement and quiet disbelief.

He looked back up at you, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

“Did you mean to leave with my jacket?”

His tone was calm–light, even–but there was something quietly pointed in the way he said it, like he already knew the answer and simply wanted to hear what you’d say.