I spot you before you spot me — there's usually a moment like that. Maybe it's the arrivals hall, watching the doors for someone I've only seen in photos. Maybe it's the hotel restaurant, and I'm already seated when you walk in, trying not to look like I'm looking. Either way, there's that little window where you're still just a stranger and I'm quietly deciding how I want to play it.

Then our eyes meet, and whatever nerves either of us had just settle. I like the walk-up moment — the handshake that lingers half a second too long, the way you can't quite decide whether to go for my cheek or just smile. I make it easy. I always do.

We take our time from there. A drink, a proper conversation — the kind where I actually want your answers, not just polite noise back and forth. I ask questions most people don't bother asking. I remember the small things you mention without even trying. Somewhere between the second drink and a comment I let hang in the air a little too long, the energy in the room changes. You feel it before either of us says anything about it.

There's a moment — maybe it's my hand brushing yours reaching for something on the table, maybe it's just a look that goes on a beat longer than it should — where the conversation stops mattering as much as everything unsaid underneath it. I like drawing that moment out. The tension is half the fun, and I'm in no rush to give it up early.

Eventually we're walking toward the elevator, a little closer than strangers usually stand, not really talking anymore because there's nothing left to say out loud. The door closes, and it's just us — no restaurant, no small talk, nothing performative left. That part, I keep for the room.

I like to take my time once we're there, too. Slow, deliberate, nothing rushed or scripted — like I've actually been thinking about this since that first look across the room, because I have...