Chapter 1: The Rules of the Game

The elevator dinged softly as it reached the fourth floor. Mira stepped out, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor of the hotel corridor. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her suitcase. The routine was muscle memory now. Right turn, end of the hallway, second door from the fire exit.

Room 407.

The brass numbers on the door shimmered faintly in the warm light. She paused for a second, staring at them like they might suddenly change. But they never did. Six years, and this room had never once disappointed her. It never asked anything from her. Never demanded explanations or promises. And neither did the man waiting inside.

She knocked twice.

A moment passed before the door opened. And there he was—Kabir. Same half-smile, same soft eyes that always held a little more than they revealed.

He stood aside to let her in, dressed in a charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, as if he, too, had stepped out of time and back into this night that belonged only to them.

Mira entered, her expression unreadable. She placed her bag beside the dresser, took a breath, and glanced around. The room hadn’t changed. The plush king-size bed. The cream-colored drapes. The abstract painting above the headboard. Everything still in place—just like the ritual they both upheld.

“Wine?” he asked, already moving toward the minibar.

“Red, if they have it,” she replied, slipping out of her coat. Her voice was calm, detached, as though this were a transaction instead of the one night a year her heart beat differently.

Kabir poured the wine with quiet precision. “Same time, same place,” he said softly, handing her the glass. “We’re getting good at this.”

She accepted the drink without looking at him. “We were always good at this.”

That was part of the agreement.

No names. No past. No future. Just this night. October 10th. Room 407.

They hadn’t exchanged phone numbers. No social media. No birthdays or breakups or breakfast conversations. Just a yearly escape from whatever chaos life threw at them.

And yet… Kabir had learned little things over the years. Mira didn’t like roses—she preferred tulips, which he’d brought once and remembered not to bring again. She always drank red wine, never white. She hated small talk but loved jazz. When she showered, she hummed under her breath—a tune he didn’t recognize but always looked forward to hearing.

Mira, on the other hand, knew that Kabir didn’t snore, but he sometimes talked in his sleep—usually in fragments, pieces of memories she wasn’t supposed to know. She knew he always left before dawn but never without folding the blanket on his side of the bed. And that he smelled faintly of vetiver and rain.

They didn’t speak of their real lives. Didn’t ask where the other went when the night ended. And yet, in the silence between words, something real had always lingered.

“Six years,” Kabir said, settling beside her on the couch. “Do you ever wonder why?”

“Why what?”

“Why we keep coming back.”

Mira tilted her head. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulder, catching the golden hue of the lamp beside them. “Because it’s easy. Clean. No mess.”

“But are we still playing by the same rules?” he asked, eyes searching her face.

She met his gaze for the first time that evening. “Do you want to change the rules?”

He hesitated.

That moment—just a second too long—was enough for her to put the wall back up. She leaned back, resting her glass on the side table. “Don’t,” she said quietly. “Let’s not complicate this.”

Kabir smiled faintly, though something flickered behind it. “Alright. Same rules, then.”

She nodded. “Same rules.”

But something in the air had shifted.

They spent the evening as they always did—drinking wine, sharing glances that spoke louder than words, moving together like a rhythm only they knew. They danced briefly, barefoot on the soft carpet, her head resting against his shoulder, his hand warm on the small of her back.

And when their lips met, it was like coming home.

They made love like strangers who knew each other’s souls. No rush. No expectations. Just the kind of intimacy that couldn’t be faked, even if it was supposed to be fleeting.

Afterward, they lay in silence, the dim light casting soft shadows across the sheets. Mira faced the ceiling, her breath slowing. Kabir lay beside her, watching her in the way one watches something they’re afraid to lose.

“I almost didn’t come this year,” she whispered.

He turned his head toward her, eyes alert. “Why?”

“I thought maybe… it had run its course. That maybe one night a year wasn’t enough anymore.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then he asked, “And is it?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she sat up, wrapped the sheet around herself, and crossed to the window. She pulled the curtain slightly and stared out at the city lights—distant and cold.

Kabir rose slowly and joined her.

“Same time next year?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

She nodded once, not turning to look at him.

He stood behind her for a moment, close but not touching.

Then, without a word, he turned and began dressing. Mira didn’t stop him. She never did.

By the time she turned around, he was gone.

She walked to the bed and found the wine glasses still on the table. Next to hers was a single tulip—red, full bloom.

She sat down slowly, picked it up, and sighed.

Room 407. Their haven. Their escape. Their lie.

And the rules?

They still followed them. But each year, it got harder to pretend they didn’t care.

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