The lobby of the Marlowe was quieter than the street outside.
Soft lighting. Marble floors that muted their footsteps. A faint piano track playing somewhere overhead. The kind of hotel designed to make everything feel calm, intentional.
Neither of them spoke as they crossed it.
The alcohol still buzzed through their systems—just enough to soften the sharpness of the night. Just enough to keep the silence from feeling unbearable.
Maybe they were both intoxicated enough to be honest.
Or reckless.
The elevator ride was short but stretched strangely long. Mikha leaned back against the wall, hands in her jacket pockets, eyes occasionally flicking toward Aiah and then away again.
Aiah stood beside her, staring at the glowing floor numbers like they were incredibly interesting.
Neither acknowledged the tension humming in the small space.
Ding.
The doors slid open.
They stepped out into a quiet hallway lined with muted carpet and identical doors.
Their footsteps slowed as they walked.
Not because they didn't know where they were going—but because every step felt like crossing another invisible line.
The alcohol made everything feel slightly unreal.
Like this was a scene from someone else's life.
They stopped outside the door.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Aiah cleared her throat and crouched slightly, rummaging through her small bag for the hotel key card.
The sound of fabric shifting and the soft clink of keys filled the silence.
"I swear it's in here somewhere," she muttered.
Mikha leaned lightly against the wall across from the door, watching her.
Three years.
And yet the sight of Aiah digging through a bag, slightly flustered, still felt absurdly familiar.
"You still carry half your life in that thing," Mikha said.
Aiah glanced up with a faint smile.
"You used to love that about me."
"I used to hate waiting five minutes for you to find your keys."
"You're still waiting," Aiah pointed out.
That earned a small huff of amusement.
Finally, the key card appeared between Aiah's fingers.
"Found it."
She slid it into the slot.
The lock clicked.
Aiah pushed the door open and stepped inside first, flicking on the light.
The room was warm and tidy—neutral hotel decor, a couch near the window, an untouched bottle of wine sitting on the small table.
Mikha stepped in behind her, the door clicking shut softly.
The sudden quiet of the room felt louder than the bar ever had.
Aiah dropped her bag on the chair.
"Nightcap?" she asked, gesturing toward the small minibar.
