Nolan

The suite is quieter than you expected.

After the noise of the reception — the speeches, the too-loud music, the open bar doing its work on half the guest list — this feels like stepping into a different night entirely.

Nolan's already there when you arrive, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, standing near the window with a glass of something amber. He turns when the door clicks shut, and there's that half-second where his gaze catches on you before his expression settles into something easy.

"Hey," he says, like this is the most natural thing in the world. Two people who barely know each other, alone in a hotel suite at midnight. "Drink? Minibar's surprisingly not terrible."

He gestures toward the small kitchenette without looking away from you.

The bed is right there. Not in a loaded way — just physically, undeniably there, taking up most of the room past the sitting area. Neither of you mentions it.

He's waiting for you to answer, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his glass. Patient. Present. Like he has nowhere else to be.

Which, apparently, he doesn't.