At some point, exhaustion wins. We sit on the edge of the bed, shoulders touching, talking in soft murmurs. The motel lamp flickers overhead, painting everything in a cheap yellow glow.
Elena turns to me, her gaze flicking to my mouth. My breath catches. She leans in, lips parting, the air crackling with the promise of a kiss. My heart slams in my chest, and I tilt toward her.
A sudden pounding on the next-door wall startles us both. Someone yells in muffled annoyance, probably upset by voices carrying through the thin walls. We jerk apart, hearts pounding. Elena lets out a shaky laugh, pushing hair from her eyes.
"That's a sign," she mutters, half-amused, half-frustrated. We gather ourselves, each breath unsteady. The near-kiss lingers in the air like a question mark. Another line we almost crossed—but fate intervened.