Chapter Text
You met him in a hotel bar, which is already too on-the-nose. The kind of place where the ice melts before the conversation does. You weren’t there to meet anyone. You were there because your work sent you to a conference you didn’t care about, and the minibar was cruelly understocked.
He sat one stool away. Subtle. Intentional. Like someone who’s mastered the art of not being recognized while also clearly waiting for someone to recognize him.
“You look like you’re hiding,” you said, not looking at him.
“I’m Irish,” he replied, with that dry delivery that made it impossible to tell if it was a joke or just a diagnosis.
You glanced over. Yep. It was him. The voice was a giveaway. That low, deliberate rumble that always sounded like it was trying to seduce a secret out of you.
“I thought you were smaller,” you muttered.
He smirked. “I thought you were quieter.”
Touché.
You talked. Not much. Not quickly. It was the kind of conversation that only happens when neither of you has anything to prove. He asked about your job. You deflected with something vague and unimpressive. He didn’t press. He didn’t have to.
There was a silence, but not the awkward kind. The kind that settles between two people who’ve both done this before—talked to strangers in transient places, let themselves be versions of themselves they don’t wear at home.
When you stood to leave, he said, “Don’t write about this.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” you said, even though you were. Even though you already were.
He didn’t ask your name. You didn’t ask for a photo. You both just accepted that this—whatever it was—was already past tense.
You slept that night with the TV on low volume, as if the dialogue might explain what just happened. It didn’t. But it filled the space.
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It was a rooftop bar this time. Less cliché, more wind.
The sky was soft with dusk, bruised with city light. You were there for the quiet—the kind that doesn’t demand silence, just offers it. You didn’t expect to see him again. But there he was, standing near the edge like someone who didn’t mind being misinterpreted.
He looked over once. Then again, longer. Like a man trying to remember if he knew you, or just dreamt you during a layover nap in Berlin.
“You,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “Me?”
A hint of a smile. “You’re the one who asked if I was method acting my general vibe.”
You smirked. “Still stands.”
He laughed—not a full laugh, just a huff, like he didn’t want to encourage you but couldn’t help himself.
He offered a cigarette. You didn’t smoke, but you took it anyway. Lit, didn’t inhale. Just held it, like it was part of the moment.
“You’re strange,” he said.
“Coming from you, that’s practically flattery.”
He nodded, amused. “You’ve got a kind of... unpolished honesty.”
“I’m professionally underwhelming.”
“And yet,” he said, “I find myself remembering you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Like air right before rain.
You leaned on the railing beside him. The city unfolded below—glittering, unaware, irrelevant.
He didn’t ask questions. You didn’t explain yourself. You both just stood there, smoking lies and watching the night arrive.
For a minute—just a minute—he looked at you like someone worth a second encounter.
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You didn’t mean to see him again. You weren’t following him. Not technically. You just ended up in the same overpriced hotel lobby at the same time, during a storm that shut down half the city and all of your good judgment.
You were soaked. Not cute-rom-com-drizzle soaked— drenched , chaotic, hair-clinging-to-your-skull soaked. Like an abandoned art student who wandered into a noir film.
He was at the elevator. Dry. Of course.
He looked at you, blinking once, slowly, as if trying to determine whether you were a ghost or just some dripping reminder of his own questionable life choices.
“You again,” he said. That voice, warm and biting. Like Irish whiskey with a grudge.
“I’m being haunted,” you replied, stepping into the elevator with him. “By fate. And possibly mildew.”
He didn’t hit a button. Neither did you. The doors closed anyway, sealing the two of you into a moving box full of unsaid things.
“You’re following me,” he said.
“Only emotionally,” you deadpanned.
That smile again—crooked, restrained, as if he knew smiling too wide would let something dangerous out.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
“I’m unemployed emotional debris in human form.”
And then—God help you both—he leaned in . Not close enough to touch. Just enough to feel his words against your skin.
“I like trouble,” he whispered.
Your heart did something stupid. Like believe him.
The hallway to your floor was long, plush, silent. Every step echoed like bad decisions in a cathedral.
He didn’t ask. You didn’t stop him. The keycard beeped. The door clicked.
Inside: a room, too cold. You weren’t thinking. You weren’t planning. You were feeling , which you never do, because it’s unsafe and inefficient and usually ends in embarrassment and five stages of regret.
But there he was.
Looking at you like a man who'd made peace with a bad idea long before he acted on it.
He stepped closer. You didn’t move. Your breath hitched, barely audible, but he caught it. His fingers hovered near your face, not quite touching, tracing something that didn’t exist except in the electricity between molecules.
“This is mad,” you said, quietly.
He nodded. “Yes.”
Neither of you stopped.
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You woke up first.
The hotel curtains were drawn, but light still leaked through the edges like the day was trying to sneak in quietly, ashamed of itself. You blinked against the headache blooming behind your eyes. The room smelled faintly of hotel linen, stale gin, and a decision you absolutely cannot walk back.
He was still asleep. One arm flung over his head. Hair a mess. Breathing annoyingly calm, like someone who hadn’t just rewritten the entire power dynamic of your brain.
You stared at the ceiling, trying to piece it together.
You’d kissed him. Like you meant it. And he let you. No— he started it . Or maybe you did. You couldn't even remember the exact moment things tipped over from clever banter to whispered names and half-buttoned shirts. It was a blur of wanting and not stopping and the ache of finally letting something happen.
You glanced at him again.
Still asleep. Or pretending. He looked annoyingly human now. No spotlight, no slow-motion walk through a foggy alley. Just a man, breathing, next to you. And you were still here.
You sat up. The sheets fell around you like the closing scene of a mistake.
"You're thinking too loudly," he murmured, eyes still closed.
You froze. “You were awake.”
He opened one eye, barely. “Unfortunately.”
You didn’t respond. You just stared at the wall, waiting for your thoughts to realign like ducks you never actually had in a row.
“Regret?” he asked, voice low, hoarse, half-mocking, half-genuine.
You exhaled. “No. Just... recalibration.”
He laughed quietly, like he didn’t believe you but respected the performance. He sat up beside you, the covers pooling around his waist, and looked at you like someone trying to decide whether to speak or vanish entirely.
“I don’t usually do this,” you said, knowing full well that sounded like a cliché even as it fell out of your mouth.
He raised an eyebrow. “I assumed you only do this.”
You turned to him, defensive. “What’s this ?”
He shrugged. “Walk into rooms like you don’t belong, say something strange, make people want to follow you anyway.”
That shut you up.
A long pause. The kind that feels like it should lead to something profound.
Instead, he reached for the hotel kettle. “Want tea?”
You nodded.
You sat there—two people orbiting the awkward beauty of what had just happened, trying not to crash into it again. But there was something gentle in the silence now. Something that didn’t quite feel like shame.
Maybe the world hadn’t ended. Maybe it had just... shifted.