Room 412

The hotel bar had that expensive smell of cedar and vanilla, amber-y and comforting. Scott, thankful to be done with the conference that had droned on for way longer than it should have, was three fingers into his whiskey. He swirled the tumbler, watching the brown liquid catch the low light, when a laugh cut through the murmur of conversation like a blade. But the laugh wasn’t polite, or restrained, the way some laughs sound in public places. It was a real, authentic laugh; the kind that turns heads and makes other people smile, too.

He looked up. Trent was leaning against the bartop, one elbow propped on the polished wood, telling a story with his hands more than with his words. The guy had a mop of messy brown hair that fell across his forehead and a cocksure grin that let Scott know exactly how charming he was. He wore a vintage t-shirt depicting a cartoon wolf howling at the moon, and ripped jeans. Way too casual for the vibe of the bar. Scott could already tell he was cocky as hell.

Scott took another sip of his whiskey and tried not to stare. He liked confident men, sure, but he was just as much a sucker for a shy boy, too. The bar was packed with other people from the conference, but thankfully none he recognized; just other finance guys with loosened ties talking to women in heels so high they looked like instruments of torture. He had come down for a nightcap and the type of peace and quiet you can find from the dull roar of some social spaces. But apparently peace and quiet wasn’t on the menu.

Just as he was about to finish his drink and head back to his room, someone scraped the seat next to him across the floor and sat down.

“Sorry, man. Everywhere else is full.”

The guy who slid onto the stool had short brown hair and green eyes that caught the light like emeralds. He wore a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled, revealing forearms dusted with blonde hair. Fit build. Warm smile. He had an innocence that made him look like he’d just walked out of a Princeton brochure, but his Vans sneakers said he didn’t take himself too seriously, either.

“All good,” Scott replied. “I was about to leave anyway.”

“Don’t leave on my account.” The preppy guy flagged down the bartender. “Whiskey neat, or whatever he’s having.” He nodded at Scott’s glass. “I’m Kenny.”

“Scott.”

Trent’s story must have ended, because Scott saw his eyes land on Kenny like he’d just discovered a new species.

Kenny must have felt Trent’s eyes, too, because he turned, and Scott saw something flicker between the two of them. A spark. A challenge. Scott felt it in his chest, a low hum he couldn’t quite name. Was it jealousy for two strangers he didn’t even know?

Sure enough, Trent waved “goodbye” to the woman he was chatting with and sauntered over, leaning against the bar on Kenny’s other side, still wearing that grin. “She was cute,” Trent admitted, “but absolutely zero sense of humor.”

“You’re in luck,” Kenny snorted. “I’ll laugh at anything. Especially a fart joke. I’m easy.”

Trent’s grin widened and he extended a hand. “Trent.”

They shook, and Scott watched Kenny’s fingers linger a second longer than necessary.

The next two hours blurred like a fever dream. Trent kept the jokes coming, quick and sharp, and generously looped Scott into the conversation. He told stories about a terrible road trip he took with his grandmother and described in depth how his dog ate his favorite shoes last weekend. Kenny matched him beat for beat, laughing with an infectious cackle that made Scott’s chest tighten with tenderness. And Scott found himself talking too, about the bank where he worked (though he felt boring chatting about work), and about the house he’d bought last year that still needed a new roof. But Trent and Kenny both listened, Trent with his crooked grin and Kenny with his piercing green eyes that seemed to see right through him.

At some point, Kenny’s knee brushed Scott’s under the bar. Scott didn’t pull away. Neither did Kenny.

At midnight, the bartender called last call. Scott looked at his empty glass, then at Kenny, then at Trent. The air between them had changed. What was once awkward and light was replaced with an air of heaviness, a thickness loaded with something none of them said aloud.

But Kenny knew. His specialty was reading people. He saw the way Trent’s eyes lingered on his mouth when he sipped his whiskey. He felt the air particles charge when Scott’s hand drifted closer to his, fingers resting on the bar top, palm up. An invitation.

“I’m on the fourth floor,” Kenny announced, silently accepting Scott’s gesture. His voice was steady, but his pulse hammered in his throat. “Room 412.”

Trent raised an eyebrow. “That an invitation?”

Kenny met his gaze and held it. “I wouldn’t mind keeping the party going.”

Scott stood first, but he didn’t say anything. He simply looked at Kenny with his dark brown eyes, soft and serious, and waited. Trent slid off his stool next, cracked his neck, and shrugged like it was no big deal. But Scott noticed his hands were slightly shaking a little. If Kenny’s superpower was reading people, Scott’s was observance; he noticed everything. He wondered what Trent’s was.

The elevator ride was silent. Kenny stood between them, close enough to feel the heat coming off their bodies. Despite how many drinks they had, Scott only smelled like pine and smoke, while Trent’s scent was more soapy and sharp, like the air just before a storm.

After Kenny led them inside his room and clicked the door shut behind them, he turned and looked at them both. Two men. Strangers two hours ago. Now standing in his hotel room, watching him with the same hungry stillness he felt in his gut. They all knew why they were there, but still no one had said anything. So Kenny steered yet again.

“So, I want this,” he said. “But you guys should know what I’m into first.”

Trent plopped onto the bed, arms propped up behind him, smiling. “Enlighten us.”