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Lynelle swiped her keycard in the door. Between the jet lag from flying in from D.C. just hours earlier and the drinking and schmoozing she’d had to do at the Montana DNRC gala, she was far beyond ready for bed. She absentmindedly tossed her purse onto a chair as she shed her blazer and reached for her suitcase. She pulled out an old t-shirt and a pair of sweats and headed for the bathroom.
She stepped into the shower tiredly, hoping to rush through her bedtime routine so she could get some more sleep. When the warm water threatened to lull her to sleep right then and there on her feet, she reached for her towel. Wrapping herself in it, she stepped out and reached for the bathroom door. The lock popped as she turned the handle, and then she was staring at the familiar figure of John Dutton— walking into her hotel room. She jumped when she saw him, holding onto her towel— how the hell had he managed to get in? To her surprise, he jumped too.
“John, I know sometimes you need to call in a favor from Washington, but Jesus, don’t you think this is a bit excessive?”
John’s eyes crinkled as he chuckled in response, apparently having moved past his initial shock.
“I think I’ve got the wrong room… I can see myself out. Let me check the number on the key.”
John pulled his keycard from his pocket, reading the sharpie scrawl from the front desk on the back of it.
“418. What room is this?” He asked.
“418…” she trailed off, looking at him with her eyebrows raised.
“Well Lynelle, either the state is endorsing our sex lives or they double booked us by mistake.”
“Dammit, they booked me for one bed. Otherwise we could’ve just shared.… Let me get dressed and I’ll go down and ask for a different room.”
John paused, thinking for a minute, looking at her.
“Or we could just share… looks like it could fit both of us….” John trailed off, crooked grin on his face.
She looked at him, rolling her eyes, then considering for a moment, she just shrugged.
“Wouldn’t be the first time. At least I don’t have to sleep in a tent downwind of your cattle this time,” she retorted drily.
“Let me go put my pajamas on and then we can talk about how the state of Montana can improve its bureaucracy by booking hotel rooms for the correct amount of people,” she said, snickering, water droplets falling from her hair as she laughed.
She noticed John watching the excess water rolling down her collarbone, so she bit her lip and smirked before turning on her heel to go change. She looked him up and down for good measure. She told herself it was just to piss him off. Slipping off to the bathroom, she pulled on the old t-shirt and sweats she’d grabbed earlier, stopping to scrunch her hair with a towel and brush her teeth on her way out.
When she opened the door, she was unsurprised to see that John had made quick work of finding a spot for his luggage and was sitting comfortably in a chair wearing a white undershirt and boxers, his hat set upside down on the desk. He was always practical and traveled light— of course, she thought. It suited him, she noted offhandedly.
“Hey,” he greeted softly, looking up at her from his spot in the chair.
Lynelle felt her eyes prickle involuntarily, the sight of him waiting up for her reminding her of some of the quieter moments with her late husband. She bit it back before John was able to detect it, though.
“Hey yourself,” she said simply, eyes crinkling as she smiled.
She made her way over to his chair and let him pull her into his lap. He smelled faintly of the bourbon from the event downstairs. She’d always preferred gin, but she never minded when he tasted like bourbon— it was one of his personal quirks she’d come to look forward to. She kissed him soundly, settling back into the feeling of kissing him at first. Shit, she realized, she’d missed this. She began fervently placing kisses along his jawline until he interrupted her.
“Damn, Lynelle, don’t you have jet lag? Do you ever sleep these days?” He asked, chuckling, amusement and concern written across his face.
She blushed, a little flustered. She had assumed that he was dropping hints when he said he’d wanted to share the hotel room.
“Sorry, I just thought you wanted to-“
“I do, sometime when I’m not running on four hours of sleep. Do you know how many people I had to wrangle to get this damn thing planned?”
Lynelle snorted.
“I’m sorry that you ran for governor and now you’re being forced to do the governor’s job, John. Really.” She laughed.
John sighed, then chuckled.
“Well, do you want to go to sleep?” He asked, gesturing to the bed.
“Sure.” Lynelle shrugged, feeling disproportionately awkward for a woman her age.
“Ladies first,” John half-joked, then pulled the covers back on the right side of the bed and stepped back.
Lynelle rolled her eyes before climbing into bed and grabbing the covers he’d pulled back for her. She patted the empty space next to her, smiling. She didn’t think she’d ever slept next to him unless they’d had sex first, and the emotional depth of the act was enough to make her stomach turn with guilt.
Unfortunately John seemed to read her mind.
“Have we ever just…” he trailed off, climbing into bed next to her.
She shook her head, nervously biting her lip. John didn’t say anything, just lifted his left arm in invitation. Feeling timid for the first time in decades, Lynelle shifted so that she could move under his arm. Settling into his side, she sighed, half contented, half nervous. To her surprise, John leaned over to kiss the top of her head.
The simple intimacy of it all was too much for her, then, and her eyes started prickling again. To her chagrin, John must’ve noticed, because he pulled her in closer with the arm he still had around her. He rested his cheek on the top of her head and took in a breath much more shaky than Lynelle would’ve anticipated. She didn’t want to complicate this— they were good friends/colleagues and good sometimes-bedfellows. It didn’t need to be anything else.
He let out a sigh, grounding them both,
then gently: “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shifted, looking up at him. Smiling bitterly, she tried her best to explain.
“I still miss him, John. Every day. Does something ever remind you of what life with her used to be like and then it’s all suddenly just too much?” She asked, eyes shining unabashedly now.
“All the time.”
“Me too. Lately I’ve felt like my memory of him has been a little fuzzier than it used to be.”
“I can’t remember her as well as I’d like to, either, Lynelle. It’s okay. I think he’d forgive you.”
That last part gave her pause— it wasn’t easy to get John to open up about anything, much less anything regarding cosmology and lost loved ones. Overwhelmed again, she felt a few tears actually escape her eyes and run down her face.
“What?” He asked. “Did I say something?”
“No, John. I just— remember when we both said we’d never find love again?”
“Yeah…” he trailed off.
“I think I lied,” she admitted.
“I lied too,” he admitted back, his eyes shining like hers now. He pulled her close, rubbing her back and kissing her head.
“It feels wrong,” she started, pulling back to look up at him.
“I know,” he said, and she knew he did.
Surprisingly, he continued: “But it’s supposed to be the only thing you live for.” He echoed her words from that first conversation they’d had on the couch.
“He would’ve liked you, John.”
“She would’ve liked you too.”
“Think they can forgive us?”
“I hope so.”
“Then let’s sleep together.” She laughed though tears and snuggled back into his side. He kissed her head and turned out the light.
So quiet that it was almost inaudible, she dared to whisper, “I’m glad I lied.”
“I love you too.”