Resort Logic
The call connected on the second ring, and suddenly the room felt warmer. Daemon’s face shifted before he spoke—a softness replacing the watchful scan he wore all day. The smile wasn’t forced; it bloomed.
“Hey, stranger,” said Dors, the camera catching her in profile as she lounged on the couch, legs tucked into a foot massager. “You look like hell.”
“That’s what love looks like,” he said, mock wounded. “This is your fault.”
“Mm-hmm,” she replied, unconvinced. “You sleeping at all?”
Daemon leaned back on the bed, phone angled just above him.
“Define sleeping.”
“Not mentally rewriting your event handlers while unconscious.”
He chuckled.
“Then no. But I took a shower. That almost counts.”
She gave him a look—half concern, half warning.
“You need to get sleep, Daemon.”
“You’re right. But I had to see you first.”
Her expression softened. In the background, something mechanical hummed—maybe the foot massager, maybe a humidifier. She looked off-screen and then back.
“So? Anything yet?”
He shook his head.
“Still locked up. Whoever encrypted it did their homework.”
“Did you?”
“Mostly,” he said. Then, more honest: “No. Not enough.”
She raised an eyebrow, playful.
“So you’re admitting you need me?”
Daemon put a hand to his chest.
“I have always needed you. But also, yes. I might actually need help.”
“You want me to ask Chris? He could help you brainstorm the right strategy or even point you to the right tools. If not, he probably knows someone that could help.”
“Not yet. I can probably brute force it. If not—it's just a factoring problem. It can't be too hard to factor a three-hundred digit number.”
She sipped something.
“You always think everything can be solved with enough pressure.”
He looked at her screen more than the camera now.
“Remember the trip? The all-inclusive resort in Mexico?”
“Which one?”
“The one with the swim up bars serving non-stop frozen Miami Vices and the people trying to sell us a timeshare.”
She just stared at the camera.
“I think you just described all of them. Are you talking about the time we had a swim-up room?"
His eyes shifted like he was trying to remember.
“No, the one where we were above the swim-up rooms. I think we were on the second floor."
“Oh god.” She laughed. “Cancún. And the handrails. They were filthy and you wouldn't stop touching them.”
“And then the monkeys came—”
“Sat right on the rails. Like, intimately.”
He mock-shuddered. “I don't think I've touched a handrail since.”
She smiled.
“And that animal —whatever it was.”
“Was that the same trip?”
“Same one.”
He nodded.
“Broke into the room like a pro. Knew exactly what it wanted.”
“The coffee.”
“And then it found the bath bomb.”
They both winced.
“Powdery tracks straight out the door,” she said.
He softened again.
“This place reminds me of it. Not the handrails. Or the drinks. Or the bath bomb incident. Just… the moments between things. The empty hallway. The click of the door. The way the light changes.”
She didn’t say anything. But her smile turned quiet.
“I miss you,” she said.
“I miss you more.”
They stayed like that a beat too long. Then she reached for something.
“Okay. Go break your code. Eat something. Sleep.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She kissed the camera.
Call ended.
The room felt colder when it was just him again.
But only just. Her warmth still lingered in the corners—the echo of her voice, the shape of her smile held in the glass of his screen.
