The moonlight was like spilled milk, bathing the night in a silvery glow.
The next day, at 9 AM, York woke up and decided to check on Leda.
He was just about to knock on her door when it swung open from the inside.
“Sho—”
Oops!
Standing there was a young man, his hair a tousled mess, clearly just roused from sleep and about to make his exit.
Their eyes met, and York was totally flabbergasted.
The man, however, was much calmer, gave York a slight nod, and then gestured for silence with a finger to his lips, turning his head towards the interior, “Keep it down, she's still asleep.”
With that, he left.
York stood in the hallway, dumbfounded, for a solid thirty seconds before it hit him: “Damn—”
Leda had a guy over? In the hotel he ran, in the room he booked, right across from him, under his very nose?
York stormed in, trying to slam the door for effect.
Unfortunately, the hotel's quality control was too good; the doors were designed to close quietly, making barely any noise.
Frustrated, he kicked over a chair, but even that failed to make much of a racket thanks to the plush carpeting.
He then yanked the curtains open, letting the sunlight flood in, and finally, Leda woke up.
“York, what the hell are you doing?! You got a lot of nerve!”
She was furious, sitting up abruptly, but the sunlight forced her to squint, barely making out the man standing before her bed.
Thinking it was York, she commanded, “Close the curtains!”
If Leda had one flaw, it was her terrible mood upon waking up.
Usually, Roseanne wouldn't dare to provoke her at such times.
Hearing her, York scoffed.
Seeing the hickeys scattered across her neck and chest, some fresh, some fading, it was clear what she'd been up to last night and this morning...
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