44 no cameras
The door closes behind us with a soft click that feels louder than it should, not because of the sound itself, but because of what it takes with it.
The hallway noise fades instantly-Jess's voice, Declan's commentary, the constant sense of being watched or expected to react-and what's left is quiet in a way that feels unfamiliar.
It's just the room.
Just us.
For a second, I stay where I am, my hand still resting against the handle like I might change my mind and step back into the noise where everything is easier to hide behind. I don't move, though, and neither does he, and that pause stretches just enough to make me aware of it.
Caiden is across the room, not watching me like I expected, not stepping closer like he usually would. Instead, he shrugs off his jacket and drops it onto the chair with an ease that feels deliberate, like he's giving the moment space instead of trying to control it.
It throws me off more than if he had just closed the distance.
"You always hesitate this much," he says after a second, his voice quieter than usual, "or is this just a me thing?"
I push away from the door, crossing the room slowly, giving myself something to do besides stand there thinking too much. "I like to consider my options."
He glances at me, something faintly amused pulling at the corner of his mouth. "You have options?"
"Technically."
"You're still here."
I don't answer that, because we both know he's right and saying it out loud would make it harder to pretend otherwise. Instead, I sit on the edge of one of the beds, smoothing my hands over the fabric like that's the reason my pulse feels slightly off.
The room is standard, forgettable in the way hotel rooms are designed to be-neutral colors, clean lines, nothing personal-but it doesn't feel that way right now. It feels contained, like everything that happens in here is going to stay here whether I want it to or not.
He sits on the other bed, not too close, not far enough to ignore either, and for a moment neither of us says anything.
It isn't awkward. It's just... quiet.
"Vegas suits you," I say finally, because saying something feels easier than sitting inside the weight of everything unsaid.
"Yeah?" he asks.
"You like the attention."
He huffs a quiet laugh. "You're one to talk."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
I look at him then, properly this time, and there's something in his expression that doesn't match the tone of the conversation. It's not teasing in the way it usually is. It's steadier, more focused, like he's not just filling space anymore.
"Yeah," I say, softer. "It is."
He doesn't argue.
That's new.
The silence that follows feels different from the one before. Less uncertain, more... intentional.
"Why'd you really come?" he asks after a moment.
It's not accusatory. Not even sharp. Just direct in a way that makes it harder to deflect.
"I told you," I say lightly. "Jess would've dragged me anyway."
He watches me for a second, like he's deciding whether to let that answer stand. "That's not what I asked."
Of course it isn't.
I look down at my hands, tracing a line in the fabric without really seeing it. It would be easy to brush it off, to turn it into a joke or something vague enough that it doesn't mean anything.
I don't.
"Because I wanted to," I say finally.
The words settle between us, simple but heavier than they should be.
He shifts slightly, leaning forward just enough that the distance between us feels smaller without actually disappearing.
"Yeah?" he asks, quieter now.
I nod once.
He doesn't smile. He doesn't make a joke out of it. He just lets it be what it is, and somehow that makes it feel more real than anything else.
"I noticed," he says after a second.
"What?"
"The game," he says. "You weren't pretending."
My chest tightens slightly at that, not in a bad way, just in a way that makes it harder to ignore how closely he was paying attention.
"Neither were you," I point out.
He tilts his head, considering that. "I never am."
"That's not true."
"It is with you."
The shift is subtle, but it's there. Not sudden, not overwhelming-just a slow, steady pull that makes everything else feel less important.
This isn't tension anymore. It's something quieter than that, something heavier.
I don't realize when we stop talking entirely. It just... happens, the conversation fading into something that doesn't need words to carry it forward.
He stands first, not abruptly, not like he's making a decision so much as following one that was already there. I stay where I am for half a second longer before standing too, closing the distance without thinking too much about it.
We end up close. Not touching yet, just close enough that I can feel it.
"This is a bad idea," I say, but there's no weight behind it.
He watches me for a second, his expression softer than I've ever seen it. "Probably."
Neither of us moves away.
That's the part that matters.
It doesn't feel like a decision. That's the first thing I notice.
There's no moment where I think this is happening now-no sharp line between before and after. It's quieter than that, softer, like something we've been circling finally stops pretending it isn't inevitable.
He's close enough that I can feel the heat of him before he even touches me, and for a second that's all it is-proximity, awareness, the kind of stillness that feels like standing on the edge of something without moving yet.
Then his hand lifts, slow. Not grabbing, not pulling-just there, hovering near my waist like he's waiting for me to decide if this is real or not.
I don't step back, I don't hesitate.
That's my answer.
His hand settles, light at first, like he's testing the space between us, and the second it does something in my chest shifts-not sharp, not overwhelming, just... steady. Certain.
When he kisses me, it's nothing like before.
There's no audience here. No expectation. No version of this that has to translate into something visible or convincing. It's just the way his mouth moves against mine, unhurried, like he's not trying to prove anything... just feel it.
I feel it.
Every part of it.
My hand finds the front of his shirt without me thinking about it, fingers curling into the fabric like I need something to hold onto even though I'm not going anywhere. He exhales softly against me, and the sound of it does something to me I don't have a name for.
This isn't tension. It's something heavier. Something that pulls instead of pushes.
We move without really noticing we are, the space between us closing until there isn't any left to measure. His other hand comes up, steadier now, more certain, and I let myself lean into it instead of resisting the instinct.
There's no rush.
That's the thing that keeps catching me off guard.
Everything about this should feel like it's happening too fast, like we skipped steps or crossed lines we weren't supposed to, but it doesn't. It feels like something we already passed a while ago and are only now catching up to.
I pull back just enough to look at him, not far, just enough to see his expression properly.
He looks the same, but not. Softer, somehow, less guarded, like whatever distance he usually keeps is just... gone.
"You sure?" he asks quietly.
The fact that he asks-now, when it would be easier not to-lands harder than anything else has.
I nod once. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
His hand tightens slightly at my waist, not enough to hold me in place, just enough that I feel it.
"Okay," he says.
And then we stop thinking about it.
The rest of it happens the same way everything else has tonight-without forcing it, without rushing past something that matters. There's nothing careless about it, nothing thrown together. Every touch feels intentional, like we're both paying attention in a way we haven't before.
I'm aware of everything.
The way his hand shifts, more confident now. The way my breath changes before I realize it has. The way the world outside this room feels like it's been turned down to nothing.
It's not messy. It's not out of control. It's chosen.
And that's what makes it different.
At some point, the movement slows again, not because anything is ending, but because it doesn't need to rush forward anymore. The urgency fades into something steadier, something that lingers instead of burns out.
When it's quiet again, it doesn't feel like something's over. It feels like something settled.
I'm lying back now, staring at the ceiling, aware of him beside me in a way that doesn't make me want to pull away or create space like I usually would. My hand is still loosely tangled with his, neither of us letting go, neither of us pretending we didn't just cross something we can't uncross.
For a while, neither of us says anything. It's not awkward, not heavy. It's just... calm.
"You're thinking too much," he says eventually.
I let out a quiet breath. "You don't know that."
"I do."
I turn my head slightly, enough to look at him. "And what exactly am I thinking about?"
"That this changes things."
I don't answer right away. Because he's right.
And we both know it.
"It does," I say finally.
He nods once, like he expected that. "Yeah."
There's no argument. No attempt to define it, to box it into something manageable or temporary.
We just let it sit there.
Real.
And for once-
neither of us tries to turn it into something it isn't.