We rendezvous at a cheap motel on the outskirts of town—her idea, presumably to avoid prying eyes. My pulse pounds at the sheer recklessness. She greets me outside in a plain trench coat, hair tucked under a cap. We look like conspirators in a noir film.
Inside the modest room, the tension is suffocating. The ancient AC rattles, casting a dull hum over our hushed voices. We don't talk about the overseas rumor or the latest whispers. Instead, we stand near the single bed, breathing each other's air.
Her hand trembles against mine. "I feel like I'm losing control of my life," she confesses. "Adrian's empire grows, and I'm just… an accessory. I hate it."
My heart clenches. The bed looms behind us, an unspoken possibility. WTF, my mind shrieks. This is the biggest line we haven't crossed. Do we dare?
But she just leans her forehead against my chest, and we stand there, not quite embracing, yet intimately close. The storm of emotions between us churns, and dawn is still hours away.