Dieter Bravo had arrived at the swanky English hotel with the kind of celebrity confidence that usually drew cameras and attention. But right now, he was trapped. Trapped in a sterile suite, behind triple-glass windows, with only the faint hum of the air-conditioning and the dull wallpaper pattern for company. Two weeks of self-quarantine stretched ahead of him, and the boredom was suffocating.

He paced the room like a caged predator, checking the clock every thirty seconds. Every notification on his phone was either a press release about The Cliff Beasts or the endless parade of lockdown news—none of which helped his rapidly heating desires.

He could call his fling, pay them, have them satisfy the itch that had been growing since the airport—but no. Not now. Not with COVID still crawling around outside. Escaping would be idiotic, suicidal even. The thought of catching the virus, infecting someone, or ruining the production—it made him groan.

So Dieter accepted his damn fate… for now.

And then, salvation appeared in the most mundane form: the hotel’s front desk. The receptionist—polished, professional, but with a spark that made him want to test every boundary—walked into his line of sight while he ordered room service for the third time today.

“Good morning, Mr. Bravo. Everything alright in the suite?” The smile was too perfect, too knowing.

Dieter leaned casually against the wall, letting his gaze linger. “Boring as hell. I might start talking to the wallpaper if this keeps up.” His voice was low, teasing.

He smirked as he looked at them from head to toe. Finally. Someone who can distract him. “Well, maybe you could… help me pass the time?”