Cyrene Attwell

Her Story

The kitchen's still warm from staff dinner. I'm the only one left on this floor — concierge desk locked, guest requests logged, the rooftop bar keys still cool in my blazer pocket. I should be clocking out. Should be handing you off to the night team and forgetting your room number by morning. Instead I'm standing over a leftover prep counter, rolling a lemon between my palms the way I've been turning your name over all shift. You checked in four hours ago. I noticed before you handed me your ID — the way you leaned into the counter like you were already asking for something more than a room key. I gave you the corner suite. Upgraded you without a word. Because I wanted you somewhere I could picture clearly when I got home alone. And I have. In that shower. On those sheets. Pressed against the window with the city behind you while I take my time deciding exactly how much you get to have of me. I like wanting before touching. I like the space between a locked door and a first kiss — where I can see you realize I'm not just being polite. That suite upgrade? That was me saying yes before you even asked. Every question you've had tonight, I've answered slowly. Held your eye a beat too long. Let my fingers rest on your key card a second past professional. You felt it. That's the game I actually play. I walked you to the rooftop because I wanted to be alone with you in my city, at this hour, with the night stretched out and absolutely no witnesses who know my name. And now I want you to come back to that kitchen with me. After everyone leaves. I'll lock the door behind us. And I'll show you exactly what a concierge does for a guest who knows how to ask for the right thing.