The Room Number

The Room Number – Part 1

I didn’t come to the coast looking for trouble.

I came to forget.

The hotel was everything the brochure promised — marble lobby, sweeping ocean views, and the kind of staff who smiled without actually looking at you. I’d booked a junior suite for the weekend, just me, my camera, and the sound of the sea.

The receptionist slid a gold‑embossed key card across the counter. “Room 502. Top floor. Enjoy your stay.”

I thanked her, took the elevator up, and found the door at the far end of the hall. Inside, the air smelled faintly of salt and expensive cologne. The curtains were drawn, but soft afternoon light filtered through, painting the room in a warm haze.

And then I heard it.

Water running.

I froze.

Before I could process it, the bathroom door opened and a man stepped out — tall, broad‑shouldered, a towel slung low around his hips, hair wet and tousled. Drops of water traced a path down his chest.

We stared at each other.

“This isn’t housekeeping,” he said, voice deep, threaded with amusement.

“I— I think I have the wrong room,” I stammered, holding up my key card like it could explain everything.

He glanced at it, then smiled. “No. That’s the right room number. But maybe not the right room for you.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I’m so sorry, I’ll just—”

“Stay.”

It wasn’t a request.

Before I could answer, he crossed the space between us, one hand braced casually on the doorframe, close enough that I caught the scent of his skin — clean, warm, with a hint of something darker.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re here to disappear for a while.”

My throat went dry. “Something like that.”

He reached for the minibar, pulling out two small bottles of wine. “Then let me make you a deal. You have one drink with me while reception fixes the mix‑up. After that, you can disappear… if you still want to.”

I should have left. Instead, I sat.

We talked. Or maybe I just listened. His voice had that low, deliberate rhythm that made you lean in without realizing it. He didn’t ask the safe questions — not where I worked or how long I’d be staying — but the kind that scraped against the truth: What’s the last thing you regretted not doing? Who’s the one person you can’t stop thinking about?

The wine loosened my tongue. I told him things I hadn’t said out loud in months.

At some point, he leaned closer, close enough that his knee brushed mine. “You know,” he said softly, “sometimes the wrong room is exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

The phone on the desk rang, shattering the moment. He answered, listened for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Reception says they made a mistake. Your room is ready.”

I stood, reluctant to leave.

He walked me to the door. “I’ll see you around,” he said, like it was inevitable.

When I finally reached my actual room, the view was stunning — but my mind was back in 502, with the man in the towel and the dangerous smile.

And when I glanced at the nightstand, I found a slip of paper tucked under my key card.

Just three words, in bold, confident handwriting:

Come back later.

The Room Number – Part 2

The slip of paper burned in my hand for hours.

I told myself it was ridiculous — a stranger I’d met for less than half an hour, a situation born entirely from a hotel’s mistake. But every time I tried to focus on something else — the view, the sound of the waves — my mind slid back to him.

By midnight, the hallways were quiet. My bare feet barely made a sound on the thick carpet as I stood outside 502. I lifted my hand to knock, hesitated, then tapped twice.

The door opened immediately, as if he’d been waiting just on the other side.

“You came,” he said.

“I almost didn’t.”

“But you did.” His eyes traveled over me — the silk slip I’d thrown on like armor, the faint tremor in my breath. “Come in.”

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp near the balcony doors. The ocean beyond was black and endless. I stepped inside, the air warm and tinged with the scent of wine and salt.

He closed the door behind me.

“You could have ignored the note,” he said.

“I tried.”

He smiled faintly, stepping closer. “Sometimes trying isn’t enough.”

And then his hands were on my waist, pulling me toward him. His mouth found mine with the same slow certainty as before — not rushed, not tentative, but deliberate, like he’d been replaying this in his head all evening.

The kiss deepened, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine, anchoring me against him. My hands fisted in his shirt, tugging it loose, needing to feel the heat of his skin. When I touched him, his breath caught — just barely — and the sound went straight through me.

“You taste like you’ve been waiting,” he murmured against my lips.

“I have.”

He led me toward the balcony, the curtains billowing around us. The ocean air wrapped over our skin, cool against the heat building between us. His hands roamed, mapping me like he wanted to memorize every line, every breath. My silk slip slid off one shoulder, and his mouth followed, pressing hot against bare skin.

It should have felt reckless. It did. But it also felt inevitable.

The world outside — the hotel, the ocean, everything — faded until there was only him.

Later, I sat curled against him on the balcony floor, the waves below a soft roar. He poured more wine, the glass catching the moonlight.

“You never told me your name,” I said.

He smiled, a slow, private thing. “Ethan.”

“Are you a guest here?”

His eyes flicked to mine, holding. “No.”

“What then?”

“I own it.”

The words landed between us like a challenge.

“You own this hotel?”

“I own all of it. Every room. Every hallway. Every mistake reception ever makes.” His smile deepened. “Sometimes, I like to see what happens when someone walks through the wrong door.”

I shook my head, half‑laughing, half‑breathless. “So this was… planned?”

“Not entirely. I didn’t plan on wanting you to stay.”

His fingers brushed mine, warm and steady. “But now that you have… I don’t intend to let you disappear.”

The waves crashed below, and somewhere deep down, I knew I wouldn’t.

That night, I left his room just before sunrise. The hallway was empty, the air heavy with the secret I carried. In my pocket, I found another slip of paper.

Just two words this time, in the same confident hand:

Next time.

And I knew there would be.