The producer made the announcement just before dusk: we'd be sharing rooms, two to each. A shuffle of glances and low murmurs followed—curious, cautious, like we were all back in school camp, except this time, the stakes pulsed beneath the surface. There were cameras now. Chemistry had become currency.
Michelle turned toward me, casual but intentional.
"Wanna be roommates?"
Her voice was quiet, unassuming, but it landed like a soft press to the chest—inviting something I wasn't sure I could name yet. There was a glimmer behind the words. Not suggestion. Not flirtation. Just something that said: I see you.
I nodded. Maybe too quickly.
"Sure."
Calm, I told myself. Stay calm. But my heartbeat thrummed traitorously—loud and clumsy behind my smile. I followed her down the hallway, our steps side by side, past the soft clatter of shoes and sleepy rustle of unpacked bags.
The room was waiting. Twin beds. A lamp aglow like a secret. Warm wood panels and no escape from proximity.
We stood inside the doorway for a beat longer than necessary.
"We're a pair now," Michelle said, almost playfully.
I smiled.
"A possibility."
She tossed her overnight bag onto the bed with practiced grace, then turned to me.
"Do you have a side you prefer?"
I blinked.
"Huh?"
"Left or right?" Her smile curled at the edges. "Unless you sleep diagonally and claim both."
"No, I'll take the one nearer to the window."
She nodded, already undoing the buttons of her blouse without ceremony. Her movements were fluid, unbothered, as if changing in front of me had never been in question.
I turned away. Reflex. Respect. But curiosity had its own rhythm—and for one treacherous second, my gaze slid back.
Her skin curved gently at the waist, dipped at the hip. Slender, yes. But there was no chill to her presence. Michelle was warmth. Quiet geometry. Unspoken softness.
And something unguarded.
I felt that flicker again—behind the breastbone. That quiet ache. Not urgent, but tender. Not lust. Not yet. Just wanting: the kind that wished to linger without taking. The kind that longed to be allowed.
Michelle pulled on a fresh T-shirt, then paused.
"You okay?"
I nodded. Too fast.
"Yep. Just thinking about dinner."
She chuckled—throaty, amused.
"Same. Let's go before they eat all the good stuff."
But neither of us moved right away. The golden hour pressed itself gently against the window, catching in Michelle's hair and the slight crease near her mouth as she smiled at nothing. I watched her fingertips brush against the edge of the bed, absently.
She was already in the room with me. But part of me still felt like I hadn't arrived.