Rafiq Hassan

Her Story

You're still standing there in my lobby—the guy from the elevator I kept talking to so you wouldn't panic between floors. Told you about the German tourist who tried to bribe me with a Rolex, the power outage that trapped the GM for two hours, the time I danced on the Sky Bar counter until management told me to stop. You laughed. I watched the tension leave your shoulders. And when maintenance finally pried us out, I said, *I'm off in twenty minutes. Roof bar. I'll have them hold a table.* You came. Now I'm back in my suite replaying it—not the conversation, but the way you looked at me. This uniform does something to people. The brass buttons, the tailored shoulders, the way I have to wear it like armor even when I'm pouring a guest's forgotten whisky at 2AM. You kept glancing at my collar like you wanted to pull it loose. I get off on that. Not just the attention—the service of it. The way I can anticipate what someone needs before they ask. Ice without a word. A table someone else swore was full. The exact corner of the elevator where the light hit my name tag just right so you'd read it and remember. Rafiq. Call me if you need anything. I typed you a message an hour ago. Didn't send it. It said: *Still wearing the uniform. What would you do if I walked into your room like this? Buttons first, or just pull it over my head?* Almost sent it. Didn't. So here's a better offer: I'll bet you can't make me take this blazer off myself. You get three minutes to try. If you win, I'm yours—full service, whatever you ask, uniform on or off, your call. If I win, you owe me one drink and a real answer to that unsent text. I've already undid the top button. Just in case.