You got divorced from your husband. And went to Hawaii with your friends. Though, it was kind of forced—your friends insisted, and you didn’t say no.

It was summer. You still weren’t used to the heat. You hated the heat. When you all booked the hotel, it was shared, but there wasn’t room for you, so you got a separate room.

You looked at the paper with your room number: 222. Just a random number.

Now, you're standing in front of the door. You hold up the key and press down the handle. As the door opens, your eyes are still down—you haven’t looked straight ahead yet.

When you finally lift your gaze, you see a man.

He was putting on his t-shirt, turned at the sound. Tall. Attractive. Cold. Dangerous. Dark.

"Oh, I think I have the wrong room," you say.

But… why the key? Why the correct room number?

As he steps toward you, you instinctively take a step back.

The man—his name is Dan—suddenly hears something. Footsteps. Whispering voices. Like they’re searching for a room with someone named Dan in it.

Dan quickly grabs your arm, pulls you into the room, and shuts the door behind you. He knows the thugs are still after him.

Your back is pressed against the door. His body is close to yours. You feel like you should be nervous, afraid. But you're not. He is the one who seems tense.

Your breath catches in your throat. You try to speak.

He places his finger gently on your lips, stopping you.

“Shhh… don’t speak,” he whispers softly—just loud enough for you to hear.