The strap of my sundress digs into my shoulder as I shift my carry-on bag, scanning the hotel lobby for any sign of him. Three years apart and now I’m meeting him in fucking Turkey because his marriage hit a snag. Typical.

The lobby’s polished marble floor reflects my hesitant steps as I spot him by the concierge desk, same unruly cowlick, same habit of drumming fingers against your thigh when impatient. His linen shirt clings to broad shoulders that weren’t there three years ago.

The concierge bell jangles as he pivots toward me, his grin widening in that way that used to mean trouble, like when we’d sneak vodka from dad’s liquor cabinet or knock and run on the neighbours doors. Three years apart, but his hands still move the same, quick, confident, as he grabs my suitcase handle before I can protest.

The moment his fingers close around my suitcase handle, I catch the scent of his aftershave, something expensive and citrus-sharp that doesn’t quite mask the familiar warmth of his skin underneath. “Jesus,” I mutter, swatting his hand away only to have him grab my wrist instead, pulling me into a hug so tight the air rushes from my lungs. “Still don’t know personal space, do you?” My voice comes out muffled against his collarbone, but I don’t pull away. Not yet.

His fingers lingered at my waist a beat too long when we finally pulled apart, just enough for me to notice, not enough for me to call him out on it. “Christ, you’re sunburnt already,” he muttered, thumb brushing the pink skin above my dress strap where the Turkish sun had kissed me during my layover. The touch burned hotter than any sunlight.

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss, enclosing us in mirrored walls that reflected our silence back at us a dozen times over. His fingers drummed against the polished railing, a nervous habit I remembered from childhood thunderstorms when he’d sneak into my room claiming he hated the sound of rain.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing a hallway lined with potted palms and the faint scent of lemon polish. His fingers brushed the small of my back as we stepped out, casual, familiar, lingering just long enough to make my breath catch. “Room 714,” he murmured, his voice low against my ear. “Lucky number.”

The keycard slipped from his fingers when he tried to open the door, twice, before I snatched it with a laugh, swiping it properly on the first try. “Still useless with anything smaller than a football,” I teased, pushing the door open into darkness heavy with the scent of lemongrass and starched linens.

The door clicked shut behind us with finality. My fingers still tingled where they’d brushed against his when I took the keycard. The room was dark except for the city lights bleeding through sheer curtains, painting stripes across the king-sized bed.

“What happened to the single beds?” I inquired, fingertips brushing the pristine duvet covering the king-sized monstrosity dominating the room. My voice sounded unnaturally high, even to my own ears.

“This was meant to be for me and Sophie,” he said, shrugging as he tossed his wallet onto the dresser with a hollow thud. The casual mention of his wife hung between us like a swinging pendulum, one moment insignificant, the next slicing through the charged air.

“Wait” I halted halfway through unpacking my suitcase, holding up a silky nightgown like a surrender flag. “What’s actually happening between you and Sophie? Why didn’t she come?” The question hung between us.

The nightgown slipped from my fingers as he turned toward me, the silk pooling at my feet like liquid moonlight. His exhale filled the silence before words did. “Sophie and I…” He rubbed his jaw, the stubble making a rough sound against his palm. “We’re separated. Not officially yet, but…” His shrug was too casual, the way men do when they’re pretending something doesn’t gut them.

“Better get some Gin sent up,” I said, watching him twist his wedding band again, that nervous tic I’d noticed the moment we stepped into this room meant for lovers. “Lots to unpack.” The double meaning hung between us, thick as the Mediterranean humidity seeping through the balcony doors.

“I’ve already got the champagne on order,” he said, twisting his wedding band again, that nervous tell I’d forgotten about until now. The gold caught the fading light through the balcony doors as he turned toward the minibar. “Figured we’d need it either way. Celebration or…” His shoulders moved in that half-shrug again, the one that pretended everything was fine when his jaw was tight enough to crack walnuts.

The door chimed right as my fingers hovered over the minibar’s gin bottle, one of those delicate hotel sounds that shouldn’t startle but did. He paused mid-sentence about room service, eyebrows lifting toward his still-tousled hairline. “That was fast,” he murmured, crossing to the door in three strides. The hinges sighed open to reveal Anna, balancing a silver tray with the practiced ease of someone who’d carried more than just champagne through hotel corridors.

“Apologies for interrupting,” she said, her accent curling around the vowels like smoke. Her gaze flickered past him to where I stood frozen. Something unreadable passed behind her dark eyes, not judgment, but a recognition that made my cheeks burn. “Management insisted you receive proper amenities.” The tray clinked softly as she set it on the lacquered console table: three flutes, a sweating bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and a single crimson rose that looked violently out of place.

The rose’s petals trembled when Anna set the tray down, the stem quivering against crystal. My brother’s knuckles whitened around the doorframe. “That’s… unexpectedly thorough service,” he said, voice pitched an octave too high. Anna’s lips curved, not a smile, but the practiced expression of someone who’d seen every possible hotel scenario unfold.

The silence stretched like taffy, thick and sticky. I watched a single drop of condensation slide down the champagne bottle, tracing the same path my gaze had followed moments earlier, from Anna’s knowing smirk to my brother’s throat working as he swallowed hard.

“Stay for a drink, Anna, won’t you?” The words tumbled out of his mouth before I could process them, his voice catching slightly on the invitation. His fingers twitched toward the champagne flute like he wasn’t entirely sure who’d spoken.

“How generous,” she purred. “Though I suspect I’m interrupting something… delicate.”

“Not at all, I insist you join us for a drink,” my brother said, his voice sliding into that smooth register I remembered from childhood poker games when he was bluffing about a royal flush. His fingers tightened around the champagne flute hard enough I worried the stem might snap.

“Here, sit,” he murmured, gesturing to the plush armchair with the champagne flute extended toward Anna, the bubbles fizzing violently from how quickly he’d poured it.