You take the elevator

You stand in the hallway, staring at the locked door, heart sinking.

The elevator numbers have stopped at L. Lobby. Mara's down there somewhere.

You need to find her. That's all that matters now. You need to tell her—tell her that you're an idiot, that you finally get it, that you've wanted her for two years and been too scared to do anything about it.

You imagine finding her at the bar. Walking up. Her eyes widening when she sees you in just a towel. And instead of stammering through an explanation, you'd just kiss her. Finally. The way you've wanted to since that first late night in the office when she laughed at one of your terrible jokes and you realized you were completely gone for her.

Then you'd go upstairs. To her room. And the key card could wait until morning, because neither of you would be sleeping anyway.

But first you need to get downstairs.

You look down at yourself. The white towel is already loosening, hanging low on your hips. Water droplets slide down your chest, catching the hallway light.

This is fine. You'll go down, find Mara, and—

You take a breath and head for the elevator.

The button glows when you press it. You wait, gripping the towel with one hand, hyperaware of how exposed you are. The air conditioning raises goosebumps on your damp skin.

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open.

Inside are three women in cocktail dresses, passing a flask between them.

They see you.

Their eyes go wide.

Then they shriek with laughter.

"OH MY GOD!"

"Get in here, Towel Boy!"

You hesitate, but the doors are closing. You step inside quickly, pressing against the back wall.

The brunette in red is grinning at you like you're the best thing she's seen all night. "Locked out?"

"Yeah," you mutter, staring at the floor numbers.

"Aw, poor thing." She exchanges a look with her friends.

The blonde takes another sip from the flask, then holds it out to you. "Want some? You look like you could use it."

"I'm good, thanks."

"Suit yourself." She caps it, slipping it into her small purse. "But fair warning—you're about to do a walk of shame through that lobby in nothing but a towel. Liquid courage might help."

"It's not a walk of shame."

All three of them look at you.

"Sweetie," the brunette says gently, "you're in a towel. In a hotel. At ten PM. That's, like, the textbook definition of a walk of shame."

"Except usually there's pants involved," the blonde adds.

"And usually you got lucky first," the redhead says, eyes glinting with mischief. "Did you at least get lucky?"

Your face burns hotter. "No."

"Aw, that's tragic." The brunette's grin widens. "So you're doing the walk of shame without the fun part? That's just cruel."

The redhead is eyeing your towel with professional assessment. "That thing looks like it's barely hanging on, by the way."

You adjust your grip reflexively. "It's fine."

"For now," the blonde says. "But one wrong move..." She makes a dropping gesture with her hands.

"Please don't," you say quickly.

The brunette laughs, bright and genuine. "Relax. We're not gonna pantsing you or whatever." She pauses. "Towel-ing you?"

"Though it would be hilarious," the redhead mutters.

"Jess!" The blonde elbows her, but she's grinning too.

The redhead shrugs, unapologetic, and pulls out her phone again.

Your stomach drops. "Please don't take a picture."

"Relax," she says, waving you off. "I'm not taking a picture."

"Yet," the brunette adds under her breath, and they all dissolve into giggles again.

The blonde's eyes drop to your towel, then widen slightly. "Oh—okay, well, at least something's enjoying the attention."

You look down.

The towel is twitching.

Your face goes nuclear. You adjust your grip, trying to think about anything else, but they're all watching now, barely containing their giggles.

"Don't worry," the blonde says, eyes sparkling. "Happens to the best of them."

"You've got nothing to be embarrassed about," the brunette adds, gaze lingering on your chest. "Seriously. You look really good."

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open.

All three women turn to you with matching grins.

"Showtime," the brunette says.

"Good luck out there, soldier," the blonde adds, giving you a mock salute.

The redhead winks. "Try not to drop the towel."

They step out into the lobby, heels clicking on marble, and you catch the brunette glancing back over her shoulder one more time, eyes dropping briefly to your towel before she turns away, laughing.

"Good luck, Towel Boy!" she calls, voice echoing across the lobby.

You take a breath and step out after them.

The lobby is empty.

Completely, utterly empty.

The champagne bar sits dark and abandoned, bottles lined up behind it like soldiers at rest. The corner tables are vacant, chairs tucked in neatly. The soft pink lighting that made everything feel like a celebration earlier now just makes the space feel hollow, expectant.

No bachelorette parties.

No couples having late drinks.

No Mara.

Your stomach drops. She's not here. She must have changed her mind, gone back to her room, or maybe she never planned to wait for you at all. Maybe that was just her way of giving you one last chance before she gave up entirely.

You stand there for a moment, half-naked in an empty lobby, feeling the weight of your mistake settle over you like a physical thing.

Then you hear it.

A soft intake of breath.

You turn.

Sienna stands behind the front desk, and the moment your eyes meet hers, her expression transforms.

She'd been looking down at her computer, professional and composed, but now—now she's looking at you. Her lips part slightly. Her eyes widen just a fraction before that slow, devastating smile curves across her face.

She straightens, one hand coming to rest on the marble counter, and even that small movement is graceful, deliberate.

You walk toward her because there's nowhere else to go, bare feet silent on the polished floor. Every step makes you more aware of how exposed you are—chest still damp, towel hanging low, cool air raising goosebumps on your skin.

She watches you approach. Doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend to be busy with something else.

Just watches, that smile deepening, eyes traveling down your body with unhurried appreciation before coming back up to meet your gaze.

By the time you reach the desk, your heart is hammering and there's heat spreading through you that has nothing to do with embarrassment.

She leans forward, resting her forearms on the marble, and the movement draws your eye to the open collar of her blouse, the hollow of her throat, the way her hair falls forward over one shoulder.

"Good evening, sir," she says, and her voice is perfectly professional—smooth, courteous, exactly the tone she'd use to offer you a wake-up call or extra pillows.

Except.

Except the way she's looking at you—eyes dark and warm, smile playing at the corners of her mouth—makes those simple, professional words sound like an invitation.

Like she's saying something else entirely.

Like she's commenting on exactly how good you look standing there mostly naked in her empty lobby.

"How can I help you this evening?"