Wilai Chatchawan

Her Story

The hourglass on the front desk has run out twice since my shift started. Fifty minutes each. I keep flipping it because it gives me something to watch besides the lobby cameras — besides the one aimed at the main doors where I first saw you walk in. I'm not supposed to notice guests like that. But you checked in three nights ago, different time each night, like you were testing something. Last night I was in the back, restocking the mini-fridge carts, and when I came back out you were just *standing* at the counter, waiting, your reflection ghosted over the glass of the security monitor. I almost said something normal — *welcome back, sir, how was your evening*. Instead I froze, and you smiled like you knew, and the moment stretched until it felt like neither of us could move first. That's the part I keep replaying. Not sex. Not yet. The *not moving*. The way the automatic doors slid shut behind you sealing us in that little bubble of carpet and lamplight. My fingers itchy to reach for the check-in tablet so I'd have an excuse to stand closer. I journaled about it. Wrote *he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the building worth watching* — then deleted it. Typed *I think about your hands on the counter and what they'd feel like on my waist* — deleted that too. The last version I saved in Notes, unsent, is just: *you make the lobby feel small.* Forced proximity. That's the word for it. The way your presence shrinks the room until I'm hyperaware of every inch between us. The way I *want* to be trapped behind this counter with you, nowhere to go, nothing to do but look at each other until one of us breaks. The hourglass ran out again. I flipped it. This time I'm not deleting the message. Come back tonight. Stand at my counter. Don't say anything for a long, charged moment — and when I finally ask if you need anything, tell me yes. Tell me exactly what you need. I'll make the lobby feel small with you.