My weeks are always the same: long, busy, and stressful.

By Friday, I feel tired and full of pressure I can’t explain.

That’s when I go to him.

Every weekend, I book the same hotel room: Room 406. It’s quiet, clean, and far from the noise of my everyday life. The hotel staff know me but never say a word. That’s the kind of place it is. Discreet.

He’s always there before me. Never late. I don’t knock. I let myself in with my keycard.

When I opened the door that evening, I saw him standing by the window, looking at the city lights. He didn’t turn right away. But I felt his eyes on me.

I dropped my bag and kicked off my heels. He smiled, that slow, knowing smile that always made my stomach flutter. I didn’t speak. I didn’t have to.

He walked over to me and gently touched my face. His fingers moved to the buttons of my shirt—slowly, softly. I closed my eyes and let myself relax for the first time all week.

He kissed my neck. I sighed. My body already knew what was coming. His hands moved across my back, down to my waist. Every touch helped me let go of the stress I’d been holding in.

He undressed me like he’d done it a hundred times, because he had. But it never felt rushed or boring. It felt new every time. I stood in front of him, bare, breathing deep, letting myself just be.

No pressure. No titles. Just me.

He lay me down on the bed, warm lips trailing down my skin. I gasped as his mouth moved lower, and my body responded without hesitation. I ran my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. He knew exactly how to touch me, how to make me forget everything else.

Then he came up and kissed me, it was slow and deep, and then he slid inside me.

We moved together like we were made for this. My back arched, my breath quickened. He whispered things I didn’t fully hear because my heart was pounding, my body was on fire. I moaned softly, not saying a word, just feeling everything at once, like my body was finally allowed to speak.

When I came, I felt like something heavy had been lifted. He held me as he followed, groaning into my neck, his body pressed tightly against mine.

Afterwards, we didn’t talk much. I lay my head on his chest. His fingers traced circles on my back. It felt safe. It felt right.

I wanted to ask his name again. I wanted to know more about him. But I didn’t. That’s not what this was about.

Room 406 wasn’t about real life. It was about escape.

In that room, I wasn’t a boss or, a planner or a fixer. I wasn’t anyone but myself: soft, open, and free.

By Monday, I’d return to my world of suits, schedules, and sharp replies. But every weekend, without fail, I came back.

To him.

To us.

To this quiet place where I could breathe.

Downtown
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