BABY

ROOM 3 (PT.3)

“Well,” she said, adjusting her purse on her shoulder, “that’s unfortunate timing.”

“For someone,” I replied.

Her mouth curved slightly, like she appreciated the honesty more than the situation.

“You didn’t even ask me if I was staying at that hotel,” she said.

“I didn’t need to.”

That landed.

She held my gaze a second longer, then let out a quiet breath through her nose.

“Right,” she said. “Of course you didn’t.”

She turned then, heading toward the door this time with more intention, her steps steady, controlled, like she’d already decided how the rest of this would go.

Halfway there, she stopped.

Not fully turning back, just enough that I could see her profile.

“You should really fix that sound upstairs,” she said. “It’s going to get you in trouble.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She nodded once, like that was enough.

Then she reached for the door.

And paused again.

This time, she looked back at me fully.

“Next time,” she said, “try not to be so obvious.”

The door opened, letting in the night air again.

And just like that…

she was gone.

The door closed behind her, and the house settled again, but not in the way it usually did. Something about the quiet felt misplaced, like it hadn’t fully returned to where it belonged.

I remained in the foyer longer than necessary, replaying the last few minutes without meaning to. The officers, her answers, the way she moved through tension without forcing it, the way she left without asking permission but without pushing too far either.

Then my thoughts shifted.

Room Three.

The connection came too easily.

I didn’t like that.

I walked down the hallway with less certainty than usual, aware of the difference in my own pace. Normally, decisions followed structure. This felt… influenced. Adjusted.

Her words had not stayed contained to the room I left them in.

A gentler love.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

She was still in the chair, wrapped in the blanket, exactly where I had left her, though her posture had changed. Not defiance this time. Not quite surrender either. Something in between. Waiting without hope, but not entirely empty of it.

I watched her longer than I should have.

Not evaluating.

Not correcting.

Just watching.

That alone irritated me.

The tray remained mostly untouched. The spoon had shifted slightly out of place, and I adjusted it again without thinking, restoring it to center.

She noticed.

Of course she did.

“You didn’t eat,” I said.

“I’m not hungry.”

That wasn’t true, but I didn’t correct her.

Instead, I turned and left the room again, closing the door behind me with less finality than before.

I didn’t return to the foyer.

I went downstairs, through the kitchen, and out the back without fully deciding to.

The night air cleared something in my head, but not enough.

The florist was still open. I had passed it countless times without interest. Tonight, I stopped. I chose flowers without much thought, something soft, something controlled, something that would not overwhelm the room.

Then I kept going.

The general store was nearly closed. I should have turned back.

I didn’t.

Paint supplies. Brushes. Colors.

And then, after a pause that lasted longer than it should have, I added a small bag from the front counter.

Baby items.

Unnecessary.

Illogical.

I paid anyway.

When I returned to the motel, the house felt different again, as if it had noticed my absence and was waiting for an explanation I did not intend to give.

I went straight back to Room Three.

She looked up this time when I entered.

Not afraid.

Confused.

That was new.

I set everything down inside, placing the flowers first, then the paints, then the bag, each item arranged with more care than I had planned to give it.

Her eyes moved from one to the next, then back to me.

I did not explain.

Because I did not have an explanation that fit cleanly.

Something in my chest felt unsettled again, but not in a way I could correct with order.

I straightened one of the brushes, aligning it with the others, then stepped back and looked at the room as a whole.

It no longer felt entirely controlled.

And I did not like that I could not decide if that was a problem.

She didn’t touch anything at first.

She just looked at it all, like she was trying to figure out if it was real or some new version of punishment she hadn’t learned yet. Her eyes moved from the flowers to the paints, then to the bag, slower each time, like the meaning of it all was taking longer to land.

“What is this?” she asked finally.

Her voice wasn’t sharp.

That was new.

“It’s for the room,” I said, because that was the easiest answer available.

She gave a small, disbelieving shake of her head.

“The room?” she repeated. “You locked me in here.”

“And now you have something to do inside it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

No.

It wasn’t.

I stepped closer, not enough to crowd her, but enough to see her reaction more clearly. She didn’t pull away this time. She didn’t lean in either. She just stayed where she was, watching me like she was trying to decide which version of me she was dealing with.

“You said you were tired of this,” I continued. “Tired of waiting. Tired of the repetition.”

“I said I can’t do this anymore,” she corrected.

“You can,” I said. “You just don’t want to do it like this.”

Her jaw tightened.

“And what is this supposed to be?” she asked, nodding toward the things I’d brought. “An upgrade? You think flowers and paint fix this?”

“No,” I said. “They make it more tolerable.”

She laughed once, but there was no humor in it.

“You’re insane.”

That word again.

It should have irritated me.

Instead, I found myself watching the way her hand moved toward the flowers without meaning to, her fingers brushing one of the petals before she pulled back like she’d done something wrong.

I noticed.

And I didn’t correct it.

“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” she said, quieter now.

That wasn’t entirely true.

But I didn’t argue.

Because for the first time since I had met her—

I wasn’t sure I did.

She kept looking at the flowers.

Not touching them this time. Just looking, like they had said something she wasn’t ready to answer.

Her shoulders dropped a fraction, the fight in her posture loosening in a way that didn’t belong in this room. I had grown used to resistance, to anger, to the predictable cycle of breaking and rebuilding. This was different. Quieter. Less defined.

“I don’t want this,” she said finally, though her voice didn’t match the certainty of the words.

I followed her gaze instead of responding.

The petals were pale, controlled, deliberate in their softness. I had chosen them without thinking. That unsettled me more than anything else.

“You don’t want to be here,” I corrected.

She let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly.

“That too.”

Silence settled again, but it no longer felt clean.

It felt shared.

I didn’t like that.

“I brought you something to occupy your time,” I said, forcing the structure back into place. “Use it or don’t. It changes nothing.”

Her eyes opened and found mine again.

“You don’t believe that,” she said.

Before I could answer, something echoed faintly through the hallway outside.

Not loud.

Not clear.

But wrong enough that I turned toward the door.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

I made it all the way to the car before stopping, standing there with the door open and the night air wrapping around me while I told myself to just get in and leave. Everything in me said that was the smart move, that whatever was going on in that motel wasn’t normal and I didn’t need to stay long enough to figure out exactly how not normal it was. But the problem was I don’t leave things unfinished, and this already felt unfinished in a way that made my skin itch. I leaned into the car, grabbed my bag from the passenger seat, and shut the door again harder than I meant to, the sound echoing across the lot like it had something to say about the decision I was making.

I hadn’t checked out.

That thought landed clean and simple, and it gave me just enough reason to turn around without feeling like I was doubling back for nothing. No receipt, no goodbye, no real exit. As far as anyone knew, I still had a room. That made this less like going back and more like continuing something I hadn’t finished yet, and for some reason that mattered to me more than it should have. I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder and headed back toward the motel, slower this time, quieter, like I wasn’t trying to draw attention to myself.

The foyer was empty when I stepped inside, the same quiet sitting there like it had been waiting. No Simon. No movement. No sound. I didn’t call out. I didn’t give the place a chance to answer. I just walked through it and went straight for the stairs, my hand brushing the banister as I moved up, my eyes already scanning the hallway ahead.

Room Seven.

My room.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside without hesitation, already expecting it to look the way I had left it.

Packed.

Empty.

Ready to go.

And it was.

My bag wasn’t there anymore because I had it with me. The surfaces were clear. The chair was empty. The room looked exactly like someone had been preparing to leave and had actually followed through.

Except for the bed.

There was a box sitting right in the center of it.

White. Wrapped. Perfectly placed.

I stopped just inside the doorway, staring at it longer than I meant to, because it didn’t belong there. Not in this room, not after I had packed everything up, not after I had already decided I was leaving.

“What the hell is that,” I muttered, stepping forward slowly.

There was nothing else out of place. No sign of my stuff being moved around this time. No obvious mess. Just that one thing, sitting there like it had been waiting for me specifically.

I moved closer and untied the ribbon, slower than I usually would, like I was giving myself time to think through why I was even opening it.

The lid came off easily.

Inside was a silk nightgown.

White, soft, expensive-looking, the kind of thing you don’t accidentally leave behind in a motel room. I picked it up, letting the fabric fall through my fingers, feeling how light it was, how deliberate it felt.

“This is not mine,” I said under my breath, already setting it back down like touching it too long might make it real.

Then I saw the card.

Of course there was a card.

I grabbed it and opened it, reading it once, then again slower, like maybe I had misunderstood the first time.

I hope you like it, “Baby.”

I stared at that word longer than anything else.

“Baby?”

The confusion hit first, then irritation right behind it. I let out a short breath, shaking my head as I looked back at the box.

“Okay, no. No.”

This had to be for someone else.

Wrong room.

Wrong guest.

Some kind of mistake.

Because there was no way this was for me.

I looked around the room again, taking in the empty surfaces, the fact that all my things were gone because I had packed them myself. Nothing else had been touched. Nothing else had changed.

Which meant—

this was placed here after.

For me.

I looked back at the note, my grip tightening slightly around the card as my brain reached for the easiest explanation.

Damon.

It had to be Damon.

He was the only one who called me that, the only one reckless enough to think something like this was a good idea. I exhaled slowly, pacing once across the room as I tried to make it fit.

“Did he follow me?” I muttered, glancing toward the door.

It didn’t feel right.

Damon wasn’t this… clean. He wasn’t the type to wrap things like this or leave something sitting perfectly in the middle of a bed like it meant something.

This felt planned.

That thought stayed there, quiet and uncomfortable.

I turned back toward the bed, looking at the box again, then around the room one more time.

“Yeah,” I said slowly, even though it didn’t sound convincing when I heard it out loud. “This is Damon.”

It had to be.

Because the other option meant someone had been in here.

After I left.

Waiting for me to come back.