The hallway on the twelfth floor smelled of disinfectant and the sweet perfume of a woman who had just walked by. Sarah pulled her rolling suitcase behind her, its wheels barely audible on the gray carpet. The conference started tomorrow at eight. She had exactly fourteen hours to perfect her presentation, sleep, and mentally prepare to face Jonas Parker.
Jonas. The mere mention of the name made her jaw muscles tense.
She stopped in front of room 1247 and slid the keycard into the slot. The light flashed green. The door gave way, heavy and silent. She stepped inside—and froze.
On the bed, which was far too big and far too white, lay an open laptop bag. Next to it, a jacket. Anthracite. Tailor-made.
Her pulse quickened.
The bathroom lights were on. She heard water running. Then the click of a razor.
Sarah let go of her suitcase. It tipped over against the wall.
The bathroom door opened.
Jonas Parker stood in the doorway, his shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up. His gaze met hers – and for a second there was nothing but surprise. Then something twitched in his face, a mixture of amusement and icy control.
"Wrong door?" he asked.
His voice was deeper than she remembered. Calmer. More dangerous.
“Wrong booking,” she replied, holding up her key card. “This is my room.”
He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of his chest. "Funny. I have the same number."
Sarah went to the filing cabinet where his key card lay in a white envelope. She picked it up and turned it over. 1247.
“Reception,” she said, turning towards the door.
"It closes in five minutes."
She turned around. "Pardon?"
"It's after midnight. The night shift doesn't arrive until six."
Sarah closed her eyes. Her head was throbbing. She had taken the last train, traveled for four hours through the cold, struggled with her presentation until she was exhausted – and now this.
"Then I'll call."
Jonas shrugged. "Good luck. I already tried. The line is busy."
He went back into the bathroom as if the matter were settled. Sarah heard him hold his toothbrush under the water, hear him wash his face. Very calmly. Very naturally.
She dialed the reception number. It rang. And rang. Nobody answered.
"Damn," she whispered.
"The sofa is comfortable," he called from the bathroom.
She stared at the couch – cream-white, narrow, far too short for a person over one hundred and sixty-five.
"You're welcome to take it," she said loudly.
He came back, now shirtless. Just dark trousers. His torso was slim but defined—not like a gym rat, more like someone who ate far too little and worked far too much. A small scar on his left shoulder. She forced herself to look away, but the image was already seared into her memory.
"I moved into the room first," he said.
"I have the booking confirmation from three weeks ago."
"Me from six years ago."
They stared at each other.
"That's ridiculous," said Sarah.
"Yes."
"We are adults."
"I certainly hope so."
"We can find a solution."
Jonas stepped closer. Not threateningly. Just… there. The room shrank. The air thickened. She smelled his aftershave—something sharp, expensive, that didn't suit the man who had torn her apart in front of the board last year.
"What solution do you have in mind?" he asked quietly.
She didn't back down. "I'll take the bed. You take the sofa."
"Or vice versa."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're an asshole."
The corners of his mouth twitched. Not amusement. Just appreciation.
"You embarrassed me in front of the entire board last year," he said.
"You manipulated my numbers."
"I corrected them."
"You sabotaged them."
He leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets. "Your model was faulty."
"Your ego is flawed."
Silence.
Then he laughed. Briefly, roughly, surprised by himself.
"Good," he said. "Then we're even."
"Not even close."
"What do you want to hear?"
"That you were wrong."
"That wasn't me."
"Then nothing."
She turned around, dragged her suitcase to the bed, and began unpacking. Her hands trembled slightly, but she forced them to remain still. She wouldn't let him unsettle her. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
Jonas didn't move. She felt his gaze on her back, heavy and precise. How it slid over her shoulders, her neck, the line of her spine. It felt like a touch, even though he was standing three meters away.
Then she heard him walk to the window. He pulled back the curtains a little. The city lay below them, a sea of yellow lights blurring in the drizzle.
“I sleep on the floor,” he finally said.
"What?"
"You take the bed. I'll take the floor."
She turned around. “This isn’t—”
"I insist."
"Why?"
He looked at her. His face was calm, but his eyes were not. They were dark, intense, and something in them made her breath catch.
"Because I'm not an asshole."
She lay in the dark, the blanket pulled up to her chin. The bed smelled of fresh linen and something impersonal – hotel soap, neutral detergent. Outside, the wind whistled softly through a crack in the window. The radiator hummed.
Jonas lay on the floor three meters away. She had given him a blanket. He had taken it without a word.
She stared at the ceiling. Her mind was too full. The presentation. The numbers. The way he had looked at her today—not hostile, just tired. As if the whole fight had suddenly become pointless.
And beneath that, barely admitted, the way her body had reacted when he stood before her shirtless. The warmth that had risen within her. The tingling sensation she had ignored because it was impossible, because it was wrong.
"Are you asleep?" she asked softly.
"No."
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"That you're lying on the floor."
"This isn't the first time."
She turned her head to the side. She couldn't see him, only the outline of the ceiling, which rose and fell slightly.
"Why are you doing that?" she asked.
"What?"
"This job. These conferences. You could work anywhere."
"You too."
"I'm not like you."
"No?"
"No. You are... ice cold."
He laughed softly. "Many people say that."
"Is it true?"
Pause.
"Sometimes."
She closed her eyes. Her heart was beating too fast.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"I know."
"I hate that you're always right."
"I don't."
"Yes. And I hate that you never do anything wrong."
"Sarah."
Her eyes opened. He had never spoken her name before. Not like that. Not softly, like a question, like a touch.
"What?"
"I'm always doing something wrong."
She sat up. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
"Like for example?"
He sat up as well. His face was in shadow, only the outline of his profile visible. Strong. Precise. Beautiful in a way that enraged her.
"I shouldn't have persuaded the receptionist."
Her breath caught in her throat. "What?"
"I asked her to give me the room number of your booking. Then I had mine changed."
Silence.
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to know if you really hated me as much as you pretended."
Her hands clenched in the blanket. “This is—”
"Wrong. Yes."
"Why?"
He stood up. He came closer. Not too close. But close enough for her to feel the warmth emanating from him. Close enough for her to smell his aftershave mixed with something else—his skin, his breath.
"Because I've been thinking about you for a year."
The words hit her like blows. No metaphor. Her body reacted—heat rose to her cheeks, her stomach clenched, and deeper, in a place she didn't want to name, a throbbing, a pulling sensation. She couldn't speak.
"I know you hate me," he said. "And I understand that. But I had to say it."
"You—" Her voice broke. She tried again. "You staged it?"
"Yes."
"To prove what?"
"Nothing. Just to be here."
She stood up. Her legs were trembling. She was barefoot, in her nightshirt, vulnerable. But she stepped towards him.
"You are disgusting."
"Yes."
"You are manipulative."
"Yes."
"And you think that makes it better?"
"No."
They stood facing each other. His breath brushed her forehead. She saw the contours of his face in the darkness, the shadows cast by the faint light from outside. Saw his chest rise and fall, faster than normal.
“I should go,” he said.
"Yes."
But he didn't move. And neither did she.
"Sarah."
"What?"
"Tell me to leave."
Her heart was racing. Her mouth was dry. She wanted to say something sharp, something devastating. But all that came out was a whisper.
"I can't."
His hand rose. Slowly. So slowly that she could have pulled away. But she didn't. His fingers touched her cheek. Cool. Firm. And then his thumb slid down her cheekbone, gently, probingly, as if he wanted to learn something.
"Why not?"
"Because I hate you too," she whispered. "But not enough."
His thumb continued to move, stroking her jaw, her neck. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the contact and at the same time unable to end it.
“We should sleep,” he said, but his voice had become rough, fragile.
"Yes."
But his hand stayed where it was. And she opened her eyes, looked at him, saw the desire in his gaze that he no longer hid.
“Jonas—”
"Tell me to stop."
"I-"
But the words didn't come. Instead, she moved, closing the last few centimeters between them, and then she kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It was anger and longing and a year of suppressed tension finally erupting. His lips were warm, demanding, and he responded immediately, pulling her closer, his hands in her hair, on her back.
She gasped against his mouth, her fingers digging into his T-shirt. He tasted of toothpaste and something bitter, of control that was just crumbling.
“Damn it,” he murmured against her lips. “Sarah, damn it—”
"Shut up," she whispered, kissing him harder and pulling him along with her until her legs hit the bed.
He pulled away from her, just for a moment, his breath heavy. "Are you sure?"
"No." She pulled him close again. "But do it anyway."
He groaned softly, and then they were on the bed, his weight on top of her, warm and heavy and perfect. His hands slid under her shirt, over her skin, leaving trails of fire.
"I imagined it," he murmured against her neck. "So often."
"How?" Her breath came in gasps.
"You. Like this. Underneath me." His lips traced a path down her neck, her shoulder. "Looking at me as if you hated me and wanted me, both at the same time."
"I do both."
He laughed, a dark, rough laugh, and then he pulled her shirt over her head. His eyes slid over her, slowly, intensely, and she felt naked under his gaze, vulnerable.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered. "I hate how beautiful you are."
"Then we're even."
She tugged at his shirt, and he helped her, tossing it aside. Her hands roamed over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the hardness of his muscles, the small scar on his shoulder.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Accident. Years ago." He kissed her again, deeper. "Not important."
She wanted to object, wanted to know more, but then his hands slid over her body, and all her thoughts dissolved. He took his time, learning every inch, every breath, every sound she made.
“Jonas—” She bent towards him, desperate, breathless.
"What do you need?" His voice was barely more than a whisper.
"You. Now."
He hesitated, looked at her. "I want to do this right."
"There is no right. Only this one."
And then he gave in, and they moved together, finding a rhythm that was just theirs. It wasn't perfect—too much anger, too much longing, too much of everything. But it was real.
Sarah clung to him, her nails digging into his back as the world dissolved. She heard her name on his lips, broken, desperate, and then he followed her over the edge, his body trembling against hers.
Then they lay entwined, their bodies sweating, their hearts racing. His hand rested on her stomach, warm and possessive.
“That was—”, he began.
"Don't say it," she interrupted. "Don't say anything."
"OK."
She closed her eyes, feeling the exhaustion seep through her. But also something else. Something that felt like peace.
"Sarah?"
"Mm?"
"I still think about you."
She smiled, even though he couldn't see it. "I know."
She woke up in the morning, and he was lying next to her, not on the floor. His arm was around her waist, his face buried in the pillow. He looked younger in his sleep, vulnerable.
She watched him for a while, allowing herself that moment, before reality returned.
Then he moved, opened his eyes. For a moment there was confusion, then memory, then something that looked like hope.
“Hi,” he said.
"Hi."
"Do you regret it?"
She thought about it. Honestly. "No. Not yet."
"This is a start."
"Yes."
He pulled her closer and kissed her forehead. "You're going to be great today."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you're always great. Even when you hate me."
She laughed softly. "I hate you a little less this morning."
"Progress."
They lay like that for a while longer, until the alarm clock forced them back to reality.
The presentation went perfectly. She spoke freely, precisely, with a sharpness that surprised even her. The room applauded. Her boss nodded approvingly.
And Jonas sat in the last row. He wasn't looking at his phone. He looked at her, and there was something in his gaze that she had never seen before.
Proud.
After the conference, in the hustle and bustle of the foyer, she pushed her way through the crowd. She had to find him. She didn't know why. She only knew that she had to.
She found him at the exit, his hands in his pockets, waiting.
“Hey,” she said.
"Hey." He smiled. "You were—"
"Great. Yes, that's what you said."
"Because it's true."
They stood facing each other, suddenly uncertain after the intimacy of the night.
"What now?" she asked.
"That's up to you."
"I don't know what I want."
"Lie." He stepped closer. "You always know what you want."
She swallowed. "Okay. I want... this. Again. More often. But I don't know how."
"We'll find out."
"That simple?"
"No." He took her hand. "But it's worth it."
Her phone vibrated. She ignored it.
“Next time,” she said, “I’ll take the bed.”
"Or we can share it."
"Or that."
He kissed her there in the foyer, in front of everyone. Briefly. But firmly enough that it was a promise.
As he pulled away, he smiled. "Until next time, Sarah."
"Until next time, Jonas."
They went in different directions. But this time she knew it wasn't the end.
Her phone vibrated again. A message from him.
*“Room 1247. Next month. Same time?”*
She smiled and tapped back.
*“Only if you take the sofa.”*
*“Deal. But I’ll still sleep at your place.”*
*"I know."*
And for the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel like a struggle.
But rather like a possibility.
