Room Service

The email came on a Tuesday: You and Marcus will be representing the firm at the Chicago conference next month. Please coordinate travel arrangements.

My stomach did that familiar flip it always did when Marcus Williams was mentioned. Three years of carefully maintained professionalism, of polite small talk at office events, of pretending I didn't notice every time he walked into a room. And now we'd be traveling together for four days.

My name is Jessica Park. I'm thirty-four, a financial analyst at a consulting firm, and for three years I'd been silently, hopelessly attracted to my colleague. We'd never crossed any lines. Never even come close. But the thought of spending four days together in a strange city, away from the office, away from our carefully constructed routines...

It was either the best opportunity or the worst idea in the world.

Marcus Williams was the kind of person who seemed effortlessly competent at everything. In meetings, he was articulate and confident. With clients, he was charming without being smarmy. At office parties, he was the one everyone wanted to talk to, the gravitational center of any group he joined.

We'd worked on projects together, shared coffee in the break room, made each other laugh at particularly boring presentations. Friends, I told myself. Friendly colleagues. Nothing more.

But I noticed things. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The deep timbre of his voice when he got excited about something. The flash of something in his expression when our eyes met across a crowded conference room—something that might have been interest, or might have been my imagination.

I'd never found out. Too scared to ask, too professional to pursue it. The office was sacred ground, not to be contaminated by messy personal feelings.

But Chicago wasn't the office. And that was the thought that kept me up the night before we left.

The flight was fine. Professional. We sat next to each other, reviewed materials for the conference, discussed strategy like the colleagues we were. If there was tension, it was the productive kind—two people focused on the work ahead.

The hotel was nice—corporate nice, with matching room cards and continental breakfast included. We checked in, agreed to meet for dinner after freshening up, and went our separate ways.

I told myself it would be a normal business trip. Four days, three nights, then back to regular life.

I was wrong.

Dinner was at a steakhouse recommended by a client we'd be meeting the next day. It started professionally—talking about the conference agenda, the people we'd need to impress, the outcomes the firm was hoping for. But after the second glass of wine, the conversation shifted.

"Can I tell you something?" Marcus set down his glass, his expression somewhere between serious and amused. "I almost asked to be reassigned from this trip."

"Why?"

"Because traveling with you seemed like a bad idea."

My heart did something complicated. "A bad idea how?"

"You really don't know?" He studied my face, searching for something. "Jessica, I've been trying to stay professional around you for three years. Trying to pretend you're just a colleague, just someone I work with. Trying not to think about—" He stopped, shook his head. "Never mind. I shouldn't have said anything."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Start something and not finish it. Tell me what you've been trying not to think about."

A long pause. Then, quietly: "You. All the time. From the day you started at the firm."

The noise of the restaurant faded. The wine, the meal, the ambient conversation—all of it became background static, irrelevant to the electricity crackling between us.

"I've been doing the same thing. Trying not to think about you."

"And now we're in a different city. No office politics. No one who knows us."

"Now we're in a different city."

"What do you want to do about that?"

The question hung in the air. I had two options: the safe option, where we finished dinner and went to our separate rooms and pretended this conversation never happened. Or the risky option, where we stopped pretending and finally gave in to what we'd both been feeling.

"I want to finish dinner. Walk back to the hotel. And then I want you to come to my room."

His eyes darkened with something that made my skin flush. "Are you sure?"

"I've been sure for three years. I was just too scared to admit it."

We barely tasted the rest of the meal.

The walk back to the hotel felt endless and instantaneous, both at once. Marcus's hand found mine as we crossed the lobby, and I felt that simple touch in every nerve of my body. Three years of wondering what it would feel like, and now I knew: it felt like coming home.

My room was on the twelfth floor. The elevator ride was silent, charged with anticipation. When the doors opened, we walked down the corridor with measured steps, both of us savoring the final moments before everything changed.

Inside the room, we stood facing each other in the low light.

"Last chance to back out," he said. "If we do this, there's no pretending it didn't happen. We can't go back to being just colleagues."

"Maybe I don't want to be just colleagues anymore."

He kissed me.

It wasn't tentative or uncertain—it was three years of restraint finally breaking loose. I met him with equal intensity, my hands finding his shoulders, his back, the muscles I'd imagined running beneath his perfectly pressed shirts. He tasted like wine and wanting, and I couldn't get enough.

We made it to the bed eventually. Clothes fell away in a scattered trail across the hotel room floor. His body was everything I'd imagined and more—strong, warm, responsive to every touch. And his attention to me was singular, focused, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"You're beautiful," he murmured against my skin. "I've thought about this so many times."

"Show me what you thought about."

So he did. Every fantasy he'd harbored, every scenario he'd imagined during long meetings and late nights. And I shared mine, our bodies speaking a language we'd been suppressing for far too long.

The first time was desperate, years of tension releasing in a rush. The second time was slower, learning each other's rhythms. By the third time, as dawn began to lighten the curtains, we'd found something that felt less like new discovery and more like recognition.

"We should probably get some sleep," he said. "Conference starts in six hours."

"Probably."

"Are you going to kick me out?"

"Are you going to leave if I don't?"

"Absolutely not."

We slept tangled together in the hotel sheets, and when the alarm went off far too soon, we woke up to a new reality. One where "just colleagues" was no longer an option.

⏳ After Chicago

The conference went brilliantly. We were professional during the day, excellent even, our working chemistry translating into the best presentations either of us had ever given. The clients were impressed. The firm was pleased.

At night, we explored each other as thoroughly as we explored the city. Dinner in hidden restaurants, walks along the lake, and always, always, the return to the hotel and the connection we'd finally allowed ourselves to have.

When we got back to the office, we disclosed immediately. Neither of us wanted to hide or sneak around—we'd done enough of that internally for three years. HR nodded, filed the paperwork, and reminded us of the firm's relationship policies. Nothing in those policies prevented us from being together, so together we were.

Some colleagues were surprised. Most said they'd seen it coming for years. "The way you two looked at each other in meetings," one of them commented. "It was obvious something was there."

We moved in together after six months. Got engaged after a year. The wedding was small—just family and close friends—but meaningful. Marcus's vows made me cry, especially when he talked about three years of waiting and how every moment of restraint had been worth it for this.

Sometimes I think about what would have happened if we'd never been assigned to that conference. If we'd just kept circling each other at the office, too professional to take the risk, too scared to lose what we had by reaching for something more.

I'm glad we'll never have to find out.

Chicago changed everything. Room 1207, to be specific. We go back every anniversary, stay in the same hotel, order from the same room service menu. Some things are worth commemorating.

Some risks are worth taking.

And some colleagues are worth becoming so much more.