Romy paused outside the bathroom door, hearing only the shower and a soft, uneven breath on the other side of the thin wall. He imagined Monty standing under the spray, shoulders shaking, grief pouring out the way water did, as if tears could finally fall where no one would witness them.
"Monty," he called gently, resting a palm against the wood, "listen… whatever the media says, you're not alone in this. I swear we'll clear your name. Just, we'll take it one step at a time, okay?"
Inside, Monty stared up at the ceiling, mortified. If he answered now, Romy would hear the tremor in his voice, and misread it anyway. The last thing he could admit was the real reason for his distress. So he stayed silent, hoping the wild thrum of his body would subside with the icy water pelting his skin.
Romy exhaled, misreading Monty's quiet as heartbreak. "Take your time," he said, letting his hand fall. "When you're ready, breakfast is on the way. And… I'm here."
His footsteps faded down the hallway.
Monty pressed his forehead to the cool tile and laughed, one sharp, embarrassed puff. Great. Romy thought he was crying about Naina while he was, in fact, waging war with his own desire.
"Pull yourself together, Chaudhary," he muttered, turning the tap colder still. He pictured accountants' spreadsheets, his high-school math teacher's mustache, last month's quarterly reports, anything thoroughly unsexy. Slowly, mercifully, the tension eased.
By the time he emerged, towel draped around his neck, his cheeks were only slightly flushed from the water, and maybe from something he refused to name. Romy sat at the little table by the window, two coffees steaming between baskets of croissants.
Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat the room felt too small, too bright, too truthful.
"Feeling better?" Romy asked.
"Yeah. Just… needed the shock of cold water," Monty said, forcing a crooked grin.
Romy's brow softened, relief mingling with something more complicated. "Good. Eat. We've got a full day of detective work."
Monty, across the small round table, worried a croissant to pieces. Flakes clung stubbornly to the corner of his mouth, a little golden constellation against the faint pink bloom in his cheeks. Ever since he'd walked out of the shower, toweling steam from his hair and protesting, "You ordered the entire bakery?", he'd been flushed, fever-bright.
At first Romy thought the color was only from the near-freezing water Monty claimed to enjoy. But as the minutes ticked on, the redness deepened to a rosy crimson that crept all the way to his hairline. A bead of perspiration winked at Romy from Monty's temple, startlingly intimate for so early in the day.
Ever since he'd walked out of the shower, toweling
Romy's own pulse surged, an irrational, protective rhythm. Without thinking, he leaned across the table and placed the back of his hand against Monty's forehead.
Monty startled, hand frozen mid-air with a sliver of pastry poised like an ungainly flute. "R-Romy?"
"Shh," Romy breathed. "Hold still a second. You're burning up" The word slipped out before he could strangle it.
If Monty heard the endearment he gave no sign, except that his eyes, warm maple in the muted hotel light, flickered wider. He didn't pull away.
"You've definitely got heat in there," Romy murmured, sliding his fingers lightly across Monty's hairline, sweeping the damp strand that insisted on falling over his brow. "Have you felt off since last night? Sore throat? Headache?"
Monty's pulse leapt under Romy's touch. "I'm fine," he said, but his voice came out thin, unconvincing. "Maybe the shower was just too hot—too cold—I mean—"
Romy arched an eyebrow. "Or maybe you're running an honest fever. Blood rushing around trying to fight your enemies for you." He tried for lightness, but the muted sincerity in his words dissolved any teasing.
Monty's gaze dropped to Romy's lips. "It's nothing dramatic," he whispered, then added with a strangled laugh.
A beat of silence stretched like melted sugar, slow, sticky, inescapable. They sat so close their knees brushed beneath the linen-clad table. Monty's breath hitched; Romy felt it against his own parted mouth, an invisible kiss.
Outside, Zurich's elegant morning traffic slipped by in discreet murmurs, ignorant of the revolution unfolding above.