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đ§ First time in the Wreckage?
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She waits until heâs re-racking the weight.
Not before. Not after.
Right when his arms are shaking and his breath is loud enough to give him away.
âRoom 929,â she says, pressing the key card into his palm. âWhen youâre done cleaning up.â
No number. No smile. Just a certainty that lands harder than flirtation ever could.
He notices the tan line on her left hand only after she turns away. Pale skin where a ring used to be. Recent enough to matter. Old enough to be intentional.
She doesnât slow down.
He finishes the set because stopping would feel like weakness. He showers longer than necessary. Stands under the water like it might rinse the decision off him.
It doesnât.
The elevator ride is quiet. The hallway softer than it should be. He stops outside the door onceâhand hoveringâbecause part of him knows this is the kind of choice you donât get to undo.
Then he knocks.
She opens the door already barefoot, blazer draped over a chair like itâs done its job. The room smells like hotel soap and heat that hasnât settled yet.
âYou made it,â she says.
Itâs not a question.
They donât rush. That would cheapen it.
She pours something amber into a glass and hands it to him, fingers brushing his like she wants to remember the feel of it later. He sets it down untouched.
Thereâs a momentâquiet, electricâwhere she looks up at him and says, almost like a warning,
âI donât do this anymore.â
The rush hits then.
Not guilt. Not fear.
That sharp, undeniable clarity that makes it better than the first time anything ever isâbecause you know exactly what youâre risking.
She looks at him like sheâs his for the night. Not owned. Chosen.
And when they finally move, itâs not frantic. Itâs deliberate. Intentional. Every touch like a rep taken slow and perfect. The kind of cardio no machine can simulate.
They push each other harder than they ever did on the gym floor. Breathless. Heated. Laughing once, quietly, because itâs absurd how good this feels.
Morning arrives without mercy.
Sheâs already dressed when he wakes. Hair perfect. Conference-ready. The version of her he met first, reclaimed.
On the nightstand: a folded hotel card.
Checkout is at 10am.
You should be gone before then.
This was exactly what it was supposed to be.
No name.
No number.
He leaves before the hour, heart still racing, knowing he shouldnât have goneâand knowing thatâs exactly why he did.
Back at the gym the next week, he lifts heavier. Rests less.
Personal best.
And the memory burns longer than the soreness ever does.
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đ Current Investment Progress:
đ€ Total Invested: $41.00
đ Current Value: $40.24 (3:42pm 01/05/2025)
