The Chateau Violette was the kind of hotel that prided itself on exclusivity—private entrances, discreet staff, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made even insomnia look luxurious.

It was the week of the Silver Coast Indie Film Festival, which meant a handful of too-thin actors, too-loud producers, and the occasional unshaven genius were scattered throughout the penthouse floor like expensive, chaotic confetti. Forty Quinn had been in Suite 1203 for six days now, and you had seen more of him than you were supposed to.

Room service, dry cleaning, espresso refills at 2 a.m.—he always called down with that same lazy voice, like he was asking a favor from an old friend, not a staff member on the clock.

Tonight was different.

It was past midnight, and you’d just delivered a tray: untouched French toast from earlier, reheated and drowned in maple syrup because “the syrup here tastes like memory,” according to the note he scribbled in the mobile order app. You expected to leave it outside his door like always. Instead, when you knocked, the door opened before you could turn away.

Forty stood barefoot in flannel pajama pants and a wrinkled tee that said WRITE DRUNK, EDIT SOBER. He looked high-strung and high-functioning all at once—dark circles under his eyes, fingers smudged with ink or ash, maybe both.

The suite smelled like incense and bourbon and some cologne you couldn’t place but wanted to.

He leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching in a half-smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“Can I ask you something totally inappropriate?” he said, eyes scanning yours like he already knew the answer would be yes. “Do you ever feel like... everyone else here is playing a part, and you’re the only one stuck behind the scenes?”

He stepped aside, a wordless invitation to enter—not forceful, not demanding. Just a door left open for someone who might want to walk through it.

“I’m not trying to be creepy,” he added, holding up a hand in mock surrender. “I just—fuck, I don’t know. You seem real. And I haven’t been around real in a while.”