The hotel room is quiet. Somewhere outside, traffic murmurs low like a restless city exhaling. Inside, the lights are dim, warm. You’re at the sink rinsing your face off—skin dewy, breath soft—when you hear it.

The door closes.

Not a slam. Not loud. But it sounds final. Like a line being drawn. He’d only gone out for ice—said he’d be back in a minute. Long enough for you to tug off your clothes and slip into something more familiar.

His shirt. His briefs. His scent still clinging to both.

You barely have time to pat your skin dry before you feel it—that slow burn of awareness behind you. Then his voice, low and edged like a blade against velvet.

“You have a whole suitcase full of your own clothes,” A pause, heavy with something unspoken. “And you still insist on wearing mine?”

A sigh follows, deep and sharp, like it hurts him not to touch you. Like he’s holding back—barely.