The orgasm hit him like a small death—shattering, all-consuming—his body and soul dissolving for an instant inside her, in her heat, in her unrestrained abandon. To die this way, surrounded by her countless reflections, caught in an endless kaleidoscope of her body, her gaze, her cries—it felt perfect, as if the moment itself had been created to be his last.
He felt as though he truly might collapse, vanish into this flash of ecstasy, drown in her scent, her skin, in this alien world still humming beyond the walls of the elevator.
"I love you so much—you don't even realize," David whispered, his voice breaking.
He pressed his face to her neck, breathing her in, his body still trembling with aftershocks. She clung to him softly, stroking his hair.
…
Sophie and David stood holding hands, their breaths still heavy, their bodies quivering from the storm of passion. The mirrored walls reflected their disheveled figures: Sophie in the skin-tight black dress and absurdly oversized sneakers, David in wide jeans and a T-shirt now torn even further by her eager hands.
At that moment, the elevator doors slid open.
They peered out cautiously. Before them stretched a vast lobby bathed in golden light. The floor was dark marble, the walls adorned with abstract paintings that shimmered with shifting patterns, and the air carried a faint fragrance of sandalwood and citrus. It was a hotel—luxurious, yet touched by something subtly alien: the furniture too smooth, as if carved from liquid metal, and the lamps glowed in a greenish spectrum, casting an unhealthy tint across Sophie's skin.
"This… is a hotel?" she whispered. Her legs still wobbled, her head spun, and she squeezed David's hand tighter so she wouldn't collapse.
Before he could answer, a soft but confident voice called out:
"Mr. and Mrs. Miller! Did you lose your room key?"
They turned. Behind the reception desk stood a woman in a sharp, elegant suit, her hair pulled into a flawless bun, a professional smile on her face. In her hand gleamed a small metallic rectangle—a key card.
Sophie and David exchanged a quick, startled glance. Mr. and Mrs. Miller? So, in this world, they were married.
"Yes—that must be ours," David said quickly, playing along, and stepped forward to take it. The receptionist nodded, handing him the card, then added:
"You do remember your room, don't you? Number 2317, on the twenty-third floor. If you need anything, simply call—your concierge will fulfill any request at any time. Enjoy your stay!"
David leaned close to Sophie and whispered: "Concierge? Either everyone gets that kind of treatment here, or we're someone important." She smiled faintly and nodded, too drained to say more.
They stepped back into the elevator. It ascended so fast Sophie nearly stumbled, and David wrapped an arm around her waist, once again struck by how this young, strong woman could sometimes seem so fragile.
When they finally reached the bed, exhaustion overtook them. They fell asleep almost instantly, without even noticing the details of the room around them. And there was much to notice…