Mira hadn’t meant to stay the night, but the hotel sheets were softer than her willpower—and so was Jack’s voice when he whispered her name at 2 a.m.
They’d met at a conference. Strangers, technically. But not for long. A late-night panel turned into a rooftop drink, then a second, then a moment too long brushing fingers across a wine glass.
“Do you always look at someone like that when you’re about to say something reckless?” he asked, lips a little too close to hers.
She didn’t answer.
Now, the morning sun leaked in through half-closed blinds, painting golden stripes across his bare back. He was still asleep, chest rising slowly, one arm slung lazily across where she'd been lying minutes before.
Mira stood by the window, buttoning one sleeve. Her heels were in her hand. Her suitcase still zipped.
She should leave. Meetings. Deadlines. Life.
But then he stirred. Opened his eyes. Smiled, slow and sleepy.
“You’re not leaving yet, are you?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.
“I was.”
“Don’t.”
His hand reached out, brushed her hip. And just like that, she was unbuttoning again.
After all, checkout was noon.