"We are all alone, and we are all together in that."
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Original Female Character
Genre: angst, romance, emotional affair, tension, mature
Warnings: emotional infidelity, marriage issues, yearning, alcohol
— ❈ —
Everything inside his chest lit up so suddenly it almost hurt.
— Sure. Yeah. Of course. No problem.
His answer came too fast.
Irina smiled then.
Not bright and teasing like before.
Smaller.
Shyer.
And somehow that affected him even more.
She opened the door to her room, then looked back over her shoulder at him.
A tiny pause.
Half confidence.
Half nerves.
— So come on in.
The moment the door closed behind them, the silence changed again.
Not awkward.
Worse.
Loaded.
The low buzz of the city outside filtered through the enormous windows, distant traffic glowing far below them in ribbons of gold and red. The hotel suite was dim except for a couple warm lamps left on near the sofa and minibar, everything bathed in soft amber shadows.
Irina exhaled first.
Then immediately bent down to free herself from the heels that had apparently been torturing her all day.
— Jesus Christ—
She kicked one off.
Then the other.
Both landing somewhere carelessly across the carpet.
Jensen laughed softly under his breath while closing the door slower than necessary behind him.
She walked farther into the suite already pulling the blazer off her shoulders, revealing the sleeveless silk blouse underneath. The white fabric caught the warm light beautifully against her skin before she tossed the blazer over an armchair without looking.
Jensen followed more slowly.
Hands in his pockets.
Trying very hard to look anywhere except at her.
Which was becoming a serious problem.
— Fancy room, Ms. Diplomat.
His voice sounded rougher now.
Irina glanced around dramatically.
— Mhm. Very… beige.
He laughed quietly.
— Rich people love beige.
She smiled tiredly at that while reaching behind herself to unclasp her earrings, placing them carelessly on the counter beside the minibar.
Jensen watched every movement despite himself.
The elegant line of her neck exposed now.
The slight messiness settling into her after the long day.
The way she looked less like the untouchable diplomat from that morning and more like a woman unwinding in front of him.
Dangerous thought.
Very dangerous.
He cleared his throat lightly and forced himself to glance around the room instead.
— This painting is terrible.
Irina looked over.
— Oh God, it is terrible.
— Looks expensive though.
— That’s how you know it’s bad.
He laughed again, softer this time.
There was something strangely shy happening between them now underneath all the flirting. Like both of them suddenly understood how close they were standing to something irreversible.
Irina pointed toward the sofa.
— Can you move those papers for me?
— Yeah, sure.
He stepped forward immediately, gathering folders and documents scattered over the cushions — schedules, diplomatic notes, folders with UN insignia.
Meanwhile she loosened the tension from her shoulders with a slow roll of her neck.
— Check the minibar too. There might be something decent hidden in there if we’re lucky. — she paused, looking at him over her shoulder with a faint smile. — I’m gonna take a quick shower. Make yourself comfortable.
The words shouldn’t have affected him that much.
But they did.
Jensen nodded once.
— Take your time.
She disappeared into the bathroom a moment later.
And suddenly he was alone with the sound of his own heartbeat.
He let out a long breath and rubbed both hands down his face.
— Jesus Christ…
A quiet laugh escaped him immediately after.
Then he reached for his phone almost on instinct.
A second later, classic hard rock filled the suite softly through the room speakers.
He opened the champagne from the minibar with a muted pop, poured himself a glass and loosened two buttons of his shirt slowly, trying to relax into the sofa.
It didn’t work.
Not even a little.
Because behind the bathroom door he could hear the water running.
And somehow that was worse than actually seeing her.
The soft hiss of the shower.
The blurred silhouette moving behind frosted glass.
The expensive soap slowly filling the suite with warm clean notes that mixed dangerously well with the whiskey still lingering on her earlier perfume.
Jensen leaned back deeper into the couch and took a longer sip of champagne.
His knee bounced once.
Twice.
He laughed quietly at himself.
Forty-something years old and suddenly feeling like a nervous teenager waiting for his date to come downstairs.
Then Bon Jovi hit the chorus.
And before he could stop himself, he started singing along under his breath.
— Tonight I won’t be alone… but you know that don’t mean I’m not lonely…
A few drinks in, his voice came easier now — low, naturally raspy, filling the suite effortlessly.
He got up eventually, champagne glass in hand, and wandered toward the enormous windows overlooking the city.
The streets glittered below him.
Alive.
Restless.
He kept singing softly with the music, staring out at the traffic.
Then suddenly—
He felt her presence before he heard her.
Jensen inhaled slowly.
Smiled to himself.
And took another sip before turning around.
Irina stood barefoot a few feet away now, wrapped in black silk.
The same pajamas from the night before.
Loose silk pants brushing softly against her ankles. Thin straps exposing elegant shoulders still slightly damp from the shower. Her hair twisted up messily, exposing her neck completely.
And somehow that looked infinitely more intimate than if she’d dressed up for him.
The scent of soap and her perfume surrounded her completely now.
Warm.
Clean.
Feminine.
Dangerous.
She stepped closer slowly and rested her hand lightly against the middle of his back.
Jensen closed his eyes for half a second at the contact.
Then she leaned in just enough to murmur:
— I always knew you were Team Bon Jovi.
Her voice brushed his ear softly.
He chuckled under his breath.
Irina moved toward the champagne bottle but before she could reach it, Jensen turned immediately.
— Oh no, no. I got it.
She raised her eyebrows slightly.
— Oh?
— Yeah.
He grabbed another glass, pouring carefully while she watched him with obvious amusement.
— Such a gentleman.
— I’m trying very hard tonight, actually.
That earned her another laugh.
She took the glass from his hand and settled onto the sofa first, sitting comfortably on her heels against the cushions.
Then she patted the spot beside her.
Inviting him closer without saying it aloud.
Jensen sat down slowly beside her, one arm stretching along the back of the sofa, legs spread comfortably despite the tension simmering under his skin.
Irina turned toward him immediately.
One elbow resting against the back cushion now.
Her cheek against her hand.
Watching him.
Just watching him.
Those enormous brown eyes fixed on him so openly now it almost unsettled him.
A slow smile curved against the rim of her champagne glass.
Not sweet.
Not innocent.
Something softer and infinitely more dangerous.
Jensen looked at her.
Held it for exactly one second too long.
Then laughed suddenly under his breath and looked away toward the floor.
— Why are you looking at me like that?
Irina tilted her head slightly.
— Like what?
— Like you’re about to eat me alive.
Her eyebrows lifted slowly over the glass.
And she never broke eye contact when she answered:
— Maybe I will.
Jensen let out a loud deep laugh instantly, head falling back against the sofa, eyes closing for a moment while the sound filled the room.
The room had gone quieter at some point.
Not literally — Bon Jovi still played low somewhere near the TV, glasses still clinked softly every now and then, the city still existed outside the windows — but quieter between them.
Like the air itself had thickened.
Jensen sat deeper into the couch now, one knee angled toward her, champagne loose in his hand. Two buttons of his shirt undone, exposing the warm skin of his throat. Irina remained curled toward him, one leg folded beneath her body, fingers lazily circling the stem of her glass.
And those eyes.
Jesus Christ.
Those huge brown eyes stayed on him like she was listening to things he wasn’t even saying.
“So,” she murmured eventually, voice softer now, slightly roughened by alcohol and exhaustion. “How do you do it?”
He glanced at her with a lazy smile.
“Do what?”
She tilted her head a little.
“This.”
A vague gesture toward him.
“The charming thing.”
That pulled a laugh from him.
“Oh, c’mon.”
“No, I’m serious.” She smiled into her glass. “You do it professionally. It’s actually impressive.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Mmhm.”
He took another sip, still smiling faintly, but she kept looking at him.
Not teasing now.
Watching.
Like she meant something else entirely.
The smile faded from his mouth little by little.
He looked down at the champagne bottle on the table between them and exhaled quietly through his nose.
“Honestly?” he said after a moment. “Most days I think I’m just improvising.”
Something in the room shifted.
Irina’s expression softened almost immediately, like she understood the sentence far beyond the joke it was supposed to be.
He rubbed his thumb slowly against the side of his glass.
“You spend enough years traveling, smiling, shaking hands, making people feel good…” he shrugged lightly. “Eventually you get very good at performing a version of yourself.”
She stared at him for a second longer before letting out the faintest breath of a laugh.
“Oh, I’ve seen this movie... too many fucking times.”
Their eyes met again.
And suddenly it wasn’t flirting anymore.
Or maybe it still was — but now there was honesty underneath it.
Irina leaned her temple against the back of the couch, eyes drifting briefly toward the ceiling.
Jensen huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“Ah, c’mon. You work with people too. I’m sure you know how it works.” He shrugged lightly, eyes drifting toward the city lights outside the windows. “Traveling, smiling, shaking hands, making people feel good…” His fingers turned the glass slowly in his hand. “Eventually you get very good at performing a version of yourself.”
Irina looked away for a second, tilting her head thoughtfully.
“Yeah,” she murmured quietly.
She shifted slightly on the couch before lifting her gaze back to his.
Her hand resting against the back of the couch brushed softly against his arm.
Such a small touch.
Still, it sent a shiver through every inch of him.
God.
Jensen’s eyes dropped instinctively to her hand against his arm.
Then to her bare shoulders.
To the dark strands of hair framing her face softly.
To her mouth.
Those naturally red lips.
And those deep brown eyes looking at him with something dangerously close to longing now, mixed with hesitation, softness, exhaustion.
She bit her lower lip gently.
And that was it.
One moment he was thinking about loneliness, performance, life—
The next his mouth was on hers
Hungry.
Needy.
Like something inside both of them had finally snapped.
His lips moved against hers slowly at first, deepening seconds later, firmer now, desperate in a way that made her stomach tighten instantly. His hand closed around her waist, pulling her flush against him until she could feel the heat of his body, solid and dazzlingly warm beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
Irina gasped softly into his mouth.
Jensen took the opportunity immediately, kissing her deeper, and she felt his breath mix with hers as her fingers curled instinctively against his chest, gripping the fabric there.
His heartbeat was fast.
Too fast.
Not calm at all.
His fingertips slid slowly up her side, brushing higher little by little, teasingly close to her breast before stopping again, restraint hanging by a thread between them.
The sound he made when she pulled him closer almost ruined her completely.
A low groan against her mouth.
Raw.
Helpless.
By the time they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing hard.
Foreheads pressed together.
Eyes closed.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he whispered first, voice wrecked.
“No,” she breathed shakily. “We shouldn’t.”
Neither of them moved away.
Then Jensen finally leaned back slightly, dragging a hand down his face before pushing his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“I just…” He exhaled sharply. “I need you to know I’m not this guy.”
Irina stayed quiet, watching him carefully.
“I’m not the guy who leaves his family at home and runs around the world screwing anything that moves.” His voice tightened slightly. “That’s not me.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I know. Me neither.”
“No, wait.” He shook his head quickly. “I need to say this.”
For the first time that night, Jensen looked genuinely exposed.
Not charming.
Not funny.
Not performing.
Just tired.
“I love my family,” he said quietly. “I really do.”
Irina’s expression softened immediately.
“For years… during Supernatural, everything somehow worked. We had a routine. We had stability. Fifteen years of the same schedule, same city, same rhythm…”
A sad laugh escaped him.
“And then suddenly it was over.”
His eyes drifted somewhere distant again.
“The kids got older. They couldn’t just leave school anymore. I started jumping between productions, different cities, different schedules…” He swallowed hard. “And I try, you know? I try to still be present. To not just become the fun dad who shows up between flights.”
The silence stretched for a second.
“But with Danneel…” he admitted quietly. “Marriage is different. Distance becomes resentment really fast when one person is carrying everything alone.”
Irina listened without interrupting.
Curled slightly toward him on the couch, cheek resting against her arm, brown eyes fixed on him with quiet understanding.
Because she understood.
God, she understood all too well.
For a few seconds neither of them spoke.
Soft hard rock music still played softly somewhere behind them, low enough now to feel more like memory than music. The city lights outside the windows painted slow golden reflections across the room, across the champagne bottle abandoned on the table, across Jensen’s tired face.
And when he finally looked back at her—
His eyes were glassy.
Not fully crying.
Not falling apart.
Just exhausted enough that the sadness had nowhere left to hide.
Something inside Irina broke a little at the sight.
“Oh no, no, don’t cry,” she whispered immediately, voice impossibly soft.
Before he could even react, she moved closer.
One knee sinking into the couch beside him, then the other, until she was kneeling there in front of him, close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
Her hands slid carefully to his face first, thumbs brushing lightly against his beard before she pulled him toward her.
And Jensen let her.
God, he let her.
His forehead pressed against her chest, fingers disappearing softly into his hair.
Irina kissed his head softly.
“hey..” she whispered again. “it’s okay...”
“You’re not a bad guy, baby,” she said quietly. “You’re just human.”
The word ‘baby’ nearly destroyed whatever restraint he still had left.
Jensen’s arms wrapped around her waist instinctively, holding her tighter now, his face still buried against her chest as he breathed her in deeply.
Irina kept running her fingers through his hair slowly, her touch impossibly tender, kissing the top of his head once more while his grip around her tightened almost unconsciously beneath the silk fabric of her pajama top.
And then—
he turned his face slightly.
Just enough that his lips brushed the warm skin above her chest.
One small kiss at first.
Absentminded.
Instinctive.
But the second one lingered longer.
Irina’s breath caught immediately.
Jensen felt it.
Felt the way her body tensed softly beneath his hands.
The room changed again.
Just like that.
His mouth moved higher slowly, lingering against her skin now, warm kisses turning more deliberate against the softness exposed by the thin straps of her top.
Irina inhaled shakily above him, fingers tightening slightly in his hair.
- “Jensen…”
But it wasn’t a warning.
Not really.
Not anymore.
— ❈ —
Thank you for checking into our little hotel in Monaco.🥃
Apparently behind closed doors and heavy hearts, lust wins.
And runs free.
"I felt as though I had known you for a long time."
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Original Female Character
Genre: angst, romance, emotional affair, tension, mature
Warnings: emotional infidelity, marriage issues, yearning, alcohol
— ❈ —
Slightly out of breath, still carrying the cold air from outside with her, one hand holding her phone, the other adjusting the strap of a leather bag that immediately got dropped onto the stool beside her.
She looked like she had come straight from war.
Long dark hair slightly messy now, makeup a little softer around the eyes after an entire day, sleeves rolled carelessly up her forearms beneath a white blouse tucked into tailored trousers. Tiredness lingered around her, but then she smiled—
And Jesus Christ.
It hit him like sunlight after drowning.
— “I am so, so sorry,” she sighed dramatically, climbing onto the bar stool beside him. “One meeting became three meetings, then someone decided diplomacy requires seventeen unnecessary handshakes—”
Jensen laughed before he could stop himself.
An actual laugh.
Warm. Real.
She finally breathed out deeply, shoulders relaxing for the first time since arriving, then turned fully toward him with that enormous smile.
— “Hi,” she repeated softer this time.
He looked at her for half a second too long.
— “Hey.”
The bartender approached.
— “What can I get you?”
Jensen opened his mouth, but she beat him immediately:
— “Old Fashioned.” Then she turned back to him casually, like that wasn’t the sexiest possible answer she could’ve given.
His eyebrows lifted.
— “Atta girl.”
She grinned instantly.
— “What? You thought diplomats only drank champagne?”
— “I thought diplomats poisoned people discreetly.”
— “Only on Thursdays.”
That pulled another laugh out of him.
The bartender returned with her drink quickly. She took the glass with both hands for a second like it contained life itself.
Then lifted it toward him.
Jensen clinked his whiskey gently against hers.
And for the first time that entire evening, the knot in his chest loosened.
- “So let me get this straight,” Jensen said, leaning back slightly with his whiskey in hand. “You speak, what, five languages, you’re a diplomat, and apparently you also know people who can hack electronic locks?”
Irina laughed softly into her glass.
- “In this line of work, you end up meeting all kinds of people.”
She took a slow sip of her old fashioned, eyes sparkling over the rim of the glass.
- “And now,” she added thoughtfully, “if I ever need to exorcise someone or kill a demon…”
She gestured vaguely toward him with complete fake arrogance.
- “…I can call you.”
Jensen laughed, shaking his head.
- “Oh, wow. So that’s what I am to you?”
- “A valuable international contact.”
- “Fantastic.”
They both laughed again, easier now, warmer. The kind of laughter that sneaks up on two people who already feel dangerously comfortable around each other.
God, she was fun.
- “So you actually watched the show?” he asked, genuinely curious.
- “Of course I did,” she said simply. “Since I was a teenager, and that ending destroyed me.”
That surprised him more than it should have.
Before he could answer, she leaned closer suddenly, like she was about to confess classified information.
The movement carried her perfume with it — warm, elegant, mixed with the cold night air still trapped in her hair and the whiskey on her breath.
Jensen felt his entire body tense instinctively.
Irina’s eyes flickered briefly toward his mouth before she murmured near his ear:
- “But honestly…”
Her voice dropped lower.
- “Sam was always my favorite.”
For half a second Jensen just stared at her in betrayed disbelief.
Irina leaned back again with a tiny apologetic pout, lips pressed together to hide her laugh.
- “Sorry.”
Jensen let out an incredulous laugh, dragging a hand through his hair.
- “Oh, that’s cold.”
- “I like emotionally available men,” she replied calmly before taking another sip of her drink.
He nearly choked on his whiskey.
The hours slipped by almost unnoticed.
At some point, the crowd at the hotel bar had thinned into only a few scattered guests speaking quietly over late drinks, the jazz softer now, the lights dimmer, warmer. Their empty glasses multiplied slowly across the polished wood between them.
And somewhere between the second whiskey and whatever story Irina was telling about a disastrous diplomatic dinner in Brussels, they had both stopped sitting like strangers.
She talked with her hands when she got excited, warm and expressive in that effortless Balkan/Mediterranean way. Every now and then her fingers wrapped around his forearm to emphasize a point, or she laughed and hit his knee lightly like she’d known him for years instead of hours.
None of it felt forced.
Which somehow made it worse.
Or better.
Jensen honestly wasn’t sure anymore.
He only knew he had become painfully aware of every point of contact between them.
The warmth of her hand over his sleeve.
Her perfume every time she leaned closer.
The way her laughter kept pulling laughter out of him too, deeper and louder than usual.
At one point he started imitating directors he’d worked with over the years, then actors, then eventually Jeffrey Dean Morgan.
Irina nearly folded over laughing.
Jensen lowered his voice into an exaggerated gravelly rumble.
— Listen here, kiddo…
Irina made an immediate wounded sound, fanning herself dramatically with one hand.
— Oh my God, don’t do that to me.
He grinned slowly.
— Do what?
And then, still half joking, he leaned closer.
His voice came out lower this time.
Rougher.
Too close.
Irina’s laughter faltered first.
Their eyes met.
And suddenly the air changed.
Not all at once.
Worse.
Slowly.
Jensen watched her expression soften into something quieter, her lips parting slightly as she looked at him. He could see the pulse moving in her throat now. Feel the warmth radiating from her body in the small space between their stools.
Her breathing shifted.
So did his.
His eyes dropped instinctively to her mouth.
Irina swallowed hard.
For one suspended second neither of them moved.
Then Jensen inhaled sharply, like waking up from something dangerous.
He leaned back again first.
Took a longer sip of his whiskey than necessary.
Ran a hand through his hair and looked away toward the nearly empty bar before glancing back at her with a crooked, quieter smile.
— “Man…”— he exhaled a soft laugh. — “I really needed this tonight. Especially tonight.”
Irina adjusted herself slightly on the stool, suddenly aware of how warm she felt.
A strand of hair had stuck to the damp skin at the back of her neck. She pushed it back slowly, clearing her throat once before taking another sip of her drink.
Then she looked at him again, softer now.
— “Why?”
And for the first time that night, the smile on Jensen’s face faded just enough for her to see the tiredness underneath it.
Jensen stayed quiet for a moment after her question.
Not uncomfortable quiet.
Just… thoughtful.
The ice clinked softly inside his glass while he turned it slowly between his fingers, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the bar shelves and amber bottles glowing behind them.
Irina watched him carefully without interrupting.
For the first time that night, he looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with jet lag or long convention hours.
He exhaled through his nose, smiling faintly to himself.
— “I don’t know…” — he admitted quietly. — “I guess sometimes it just gets exhausting being… split in half all the time.”
His voice had lost most of its teasing warmth now. It turned lower, rougher around the edges.
— “You spend months away from home pretending everything’s balanced because technically you’re still showing up, y’know? You call every day, you FaceTime, you fly back whenever you can… but after a while it starts feeling like you live two completely different lives.”
Irina’s eyes softened immediately.
Jensen kept looking ahead, thumb rubbing absently against the condensation on his glass.
— “And the worst part is… nobody’s really wrong.” — He gave a small humorless laugh. — “That’s what makes it hard.”
The jazz hummed softly around them.
— “My kids need stability. My wife’s tired of carrying everything alone while I’m constantly somewhere else pretending I can somehow make everybody happy all the time. And I keep thinking if I just work harder or organize things better maybe I can fix it, but…”
He trailed off.
His jaw flexed slightly.
— “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like no matter where I am, there’s always a part of me failing somebody else.”
The words stayed hanging between them.
Heavy.
Honest.
Jensen finally took a sip of whiskey, eyes distant now, somewhere far from the hotel bar and the low music and her perfume beside him.
And for the first time that night, Irina saw not the actor, not the charming man everybody gravitated toward naturally.
Just a lonely man.
Trying very hard.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
She inhaled slowly.
— “Tell me about it...”
Her voice came out softer than before.
Jensen looked at her then.
Irina took another sip of her drink, slower this time, before resting the glass carefully against her thigh. Then she lifted her left hand quietly between them.
The ring caught the warm amber light immediately.
Simple.
Elegant.
Painful.
Her eyes stayed lowered toward the glass for a second longer before she finally smiled.
A small sad thing.
Nothing like the bright laughter from earlier.
Jensen’s eyes dropped to the ring.
Something inside him shifted immediately.
Because suddenly this wasn’t flirting anymore.
This wasn’t just chemistry and whiskey and late-night tension.
It was recognition.
Irina looked away first.
Toward the empty end of the bar.
Toward nowhere.
Her thumb moved absently over the ring like muscle memory.
— “Turns out diplomacy is also a terrible profession for relationships.” — she murmured with a faint smile that didn’t quite survive. — “Who knew?”
Jensen stared at her for a second longer than he should have.
At the tiredness behind her composure.
At the loneliness hiding beneath all that elegance and wit.
And God help him, but that was the exact moment something truly dangerous began.
The bar was nearly empty by the time Jensen finally glanced down at his watch.
The realization seemed to hit both of them at the same time.
Irina let out a soft breath through her nose, almost laughing at herself.
— God… I have to be awake in like four hours.
— Yeah, same. — Jensen smiled tiredly, though neither of them moved. — We’re getting old.
— Speak for yourself, Ackles.
— Wow. Cold.
She laughed softly again, but there was something quieter underneath it now. Something reluctant.
Like neither of them wanted to be the first one to end the night.
Jensen paid the bill while Irina finished the last sip of her old fashioned, slow and thoughtful. The bartender wished them goodnight politely and suddenly they were walking through the enormous hotel lobby together, side by side beneath warm golden lights and marble reflections.
The hotel felt strangely empty compared to the chaos from earlier that day.
Their footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor.
Jensen shoved one hand into his pocket.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
They stepped inside together.
And suddenly the space felt very small.
Very quiet.
Jensen leaned back lightly against the mirrored wall while Irina stood beside him, arms folded loosely, exhaustion softening the sharp elegance she carried all day.
She looked beautiful like this.
Real.
Her lipstick slightly faded.
Hair not as perfect anymore.
Eyes heavier now from alcohol and lack of sleep.
He couldn’t stop looking at her.
The elevator hummed quietly upward.
Something warmer.
The doors opened onto their floor.
They walked slowly down the hallway together.
Too slowly.
Almost like they both knew reaching their doors meant this would end.
Irina stopped first outside room 1480.
Jensen’s room waited only a few steps away.
For a second neither of them spoke.
Then Jensen rubbed the back of his neck lightly and stopped beside his own door.
— So… — he started casually, though his heartbeat suddenly wasn’t casual at all. — Do you wanna come in for one last drink?
He asked it without looking at her at first.
Like maybe that made it less real.
Then he finally turned his head.
And held his breath.
Irina froze slightly.
The hallway suddenly felt too warm.
She looked at him, really looked at him now — loosened collar, tired green eyes, whiskey-soft voice, that impossible face watching her carefully like he was already preparing himself for rejection.
Her pulse stumbled.
— I… — she inhaled softly. — I really need a shower.
The answer hit him immediately, even though he tried not to let it show.
— Yeah, of course. Sure.
He nodded once, forcing an easy smile.
But before the disappointment could fully settle over his features, she spoke again:
— Will you wait for me?
— ❈ —
Thank you for checking into our little hotel in Monaco.
Is there anything more old fashioned than a love affair? 🥃
"I felt as though I had known you for a long time."
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Original Female Character
Genre: angst, romance, emotional affair, tension, mature
Warnings: emotional infidelity, marriage issues, yearning, alcohol
— ❈ —
Slightly out of breath, still carrying the cold air from outside with her, one hand holding her phone, the other adjusting the strap of a leather bag that immediately got dropped onto the stool beside her.
She looked like she had come straight from war.
Long dark hair slightly messy now, makeup a little softer around the eyes after an entire day, sleeves rolled carelessly up her forearms beneath a white blouse tucked into tailored trousers. Tiredness lingered around her, but then she smiled—
And Jesus Christ.
It hit him like sunlight after drowning.
— “I am so, so sorry,” she sighed dramatically, climbing onto the bar stool beside him. “One meeting became three meetings, then someone decided diplomacy requires seventeen unnecessary handshakes—”
Jensen laughed before he could stop himself.
An actual laugh.
Warm. Real.
She finally breathed out deeply, shoulders relaxing for the first time since arriving, then turned fully toward him with that enormous smile.
— “Hi,” she repeated softer this time.
He looked at her for half a second too long.
— “Hey.”
The bartender approached.
— “What can I get you?”
Jensen opened his mouth, but she beat him immediately:
— “Old Fashioned.” Then she turned back to him casually, like that wasn’t the sexiest possible answer she could’ve given.
His eyebrows lifted.
— “Atta girl.”
She grinned instantly.
— “What? You thought diplomats only drank champagne?”
— “I thought diplomats poisoned people discreetly.”
— “Only on Thursdays.”
That pulled another laugh out of him.
The bartender returned with her drink quickly. She took the glass with both hands for a second like it contained life itself.
Then lifted it toward him.
Jensen clinked his whiskey gently against hers.
And for the first time that entire evening, the knot in his chest loosened.
- “So let me get this straight,” Jensen said, leaning back slightly with his whiskey in hand. “You speak, what, five languages, you’re a diplomat, and apparently you also know people who can hack electronic locks?”
Irina laughed softly into her glass.
- “In this line of work, you end up meeting all kinds of people.”
She took a slow sip of her old fashioned, eyes sparkling over the rim of the glass.
- “And now,” she added thoughtfully, “if I ever need to exorcise someone or kill a demon…”
She gestured vaguely toward him with complete fake arrogance.
- “…I can call you.”
Jensen laughed, shaking his head.
- “Oh, wow. So that’s what I am to you?”
- “A valuable international contact.”
- “Fantastic.”
They both laughed again, easier now, warmer. The kind of laughter that sneaks up on two people who already feel dangerously comfortable around each other.
God, she was fun.
- “So you actually watched the show?” he asked, genuinely curious.
- “Of course I did,” she said simply. “Since I was a teenager, and that ending destroyed me.”
That surprised him more than it should have.
Before he could answer, she leaned closer suddenly, like she was about to confess classified information.
The movement carried her perfume with it — warm, elegant, mixed with the cold night air still trapped in her hair and the whiskey on her breath.
Jensen felt his entire body tense instinctively.
Irina’s eyes flickered briefly toward his mouth before she murmured near his ear:
- “But honestly…”
Her voice dropped lower.
- “Sam was always my favorite.”
For half a second Jensen just stared at her in betrayed disbelief.
Irina leaned back again with a tiny apologetic pout, lips pressed together to hide her laugh.
- “Sorry.”
Jensen let out an incredulous laugh, dragging a hand through his hair.
- “Oh, that’s cold.”
- “I like emotionally available men,” she replied calmly before taking another sip of her drink.
He nearly choked on his whiskey.
The hours slipped by almost unnoticed.
At some point, the crowd at the hotel bar had thinned into only a few scattered guests speaking quietly over late drinks, the jazz softer now, the lights dimmer, warmer. Their empty glasses multiplied slowly across the polished wood between them.
And somewhere between the second whiskey and whatever story Irina was telling about a disastrous diplomatic dinner in Brussels, they had both stopped sitting like strangers.
She talked with her hands when she got excited, warm and expressive in that effortless Balkan/Mediterranean way. Every now and then her fingers wrapped around his forearm to emphasize a point, or she laughed and hit his knee lightly like she’d known him for years instead of hours.
None of it felt forced.
Which somehow made it worse.
Or better.
Jensen honestly wasn’t sure anymore.
He only knew he had become painfully aware of every point of contact between them.
The warmth of her hand over his sleeve.
Her perfume every time she leaned closer.
The way her laughter kept pulling laughter out of him too, deeper and louder than usual.
At one point he started imitating directors he’d worked with over the years, then actors, then eventually Jeffrey Dean Morgan.
Irina nearly folded over laughing.
Jensen lowered his voice into an exaggerated gravelly rumble.
— Listen here, kiddo…
Irina made an immediate wounded sound, fanning herself dramatically with one hand.
— Oh my God, don’t do that to me.
He grinned slowly.
— Do what?
And then, still half joking, he leaned closer.
His voice came out lower this time.
Rougher.
Too close.
Irina’s laughter faltered first.
Their eyes met.
And suddenly the air changed.
Not all at once.
Worse.
Slowly.
Jensen watched her expression soften into something quieter, her lips parting slightly as she looked at him. He could see the pulse moving in her throat now. Feel the warmth radiating from her body in the small space between their stools.
Her breathing shifted.
So did his.
His eyes dropped instinctively to her mouth.
Irina swallowed hard.
For one suspended second neither of them moved.
Then Jensen inhaled sharply, like waking up from something dangerous.
He leaned back again first.
Took a longer sip of his whiskey than necessary.
Ran a hand through his hair and looked away toward the nearly empty bar before glancing back at her with a crooked, quieter smile.
— “Man…”— he exhaled a soft laugh. — “I really needed this tonight. Especially tonight.”
Irina adjusted herself slightly on the stool, suddenly aware of how warm she felt.
A strand of hair had stuck to the damp skin at the back of her neck. She pushed it back slowly, clearing her throat once before taking another sip of her drink.
Then she looked at him again, softer now.
— “Why?”
And for the first time that night, the smile on Jensen’s face faded just enough for her to see the tiredness underneath it.
Jensen stayed quiet for a moment after her question.
Not uncomfortable quiet.
Just… thoughtful.
The ice clinked softly inside his glass while he turned it slowly between his fingers, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the bar shelves and amber bottles glowing behind them.
Irina watched him carefully without interrupting.
For the first time that night, he looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with jet lag or long convention hours.
He exhaled through his nose, smiling faintly to himself.
— “I don’t know…” — he admitted quietly. — “I guess sometimes it just gets exhausting being… split in half all the time.”
His voice had lost most of its teasing warmth now. It turned lower, rougher around the edges.
— “You spend months away from home pretending everything’s balanced because technically you’re still showing up, y’know? You call every day, you FaceTime, you fly back whenever you can… but after a while it starts feeling like you live two completely different lives.”
Irina’s eyes softened immediately.
Jensen kept looking ahead, thumb rubbing absently against the condensation on his glass.
— “And the worst part is… nobody’s really wrong.” — He gave a small humorless laugh. — “That’s what makes it hard.”
The jazz hummed softly around them.
— “My kids need stability. My wife’s tired of carrying everything alone while I’m constantly somewhere else pretending I can somehow make everybody happy all the time. And I keep thinking if I just work harder or organize things better maybe I can fix it, but…”
He trailed off.
His jaw flexed slightly.
— “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like no matter where I am, there’s always a part of me failing somebody else.”
The words stayed hanging between them.
Heavy.
Honest.
Jensen finally took a sip of whiskey, eyes distant now, somewhere far from the hotel bar and the low music and her perfume beside him.
And for the first time that night, Irina saw not the actor, not the charming man everybody gravitated toward naturally.
Just a lonely man.
Trying very hard.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
She inhaled slowly.
— “Tell me about it...”
Her voice came out softer than before.
Jensen looked at her then.
Irina took another sip of her drink, slower this time, before resting the glass carefully against her thigh. Then she lifted her left hand quietly between them.
The ring caught the warm amber light immediately.
Simple.
Elegant.
Painful.
Her eyes stayed lowered toward the glass for a second longer before she finally smiled.
A small sad thing.
Nothing like the bright laughter from earlier.
Jensen’s eyes dropped to the ring.
Something inside him shifted immediately.
Because suddenly this wasn’t flirting anymore.
This wasn’t just chemistry and whiskey and late-night tension.
It was recognition.
Irina looked away first.
Toward the empty end of the bar.
Toward nowhere.
Her thumb moved absently over the ring like muscle memory.
— “Turns out diplomacy is also a terrible profession for relationships.” — she murmured with a faint smile that didn’t quite survive. — “Who knew?”
Jensen stared at her for a second longer than he should have.
At the tiredness behind her composure.
At the loneliness hiding beneath all that elegance and wit.
And God help him, but that was the exact moment something truly dangerous began.
The bar was nearly empty by the time Jensen finally glanced down at his watch.
The realization seemed to hit both of them at the same time.
Irina let out a soft breath through her nose, almost laughing at herself.
— God… I have to be awake in like four hours.
— Yeah, same. — Jensen smiled tiredly, though neither of them moved. — We’re getting old.
— Speak for yourself, Ackles.
— Wow. Cold.
She laughed softly again, but there was something quieter underneath it now. Something reluctant.
Like neither of them wanted to be the first one to end the night.
Jensen paid the bill while Irina finished the last sip of her old fashioned, slow and thoughtful. The bartender wished them goodnight politely and suddenly they were walking through the enormous hotel lobby together, side by side beneath warm golden lights and marble reflections.
The hotel felt strangely empty compared to the chaos from earlier that day.
Their footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor.
Jensen shoved one hand into his pocket.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
They stepped inside together.
And suddenly the space felt very small.
Very quiet.
Jensen leaned back lightly against the mirrored wall while Irina stood beside him, arms folded loosely, exhaustion softening the sharp elegance she carried all day.
She looked beautiful like this.
Real.
Her lipstick slightly faded.
Hair not as perfect anymore.
Eyes heavier now from alcohol and lack of sleep.
He couldn’t stop looking at her.
The elevator hummed quietly upward.
Something warmer.
The doors opened onto their floor.
They walked slowly down the hallway together.
Too slowly.
Almost like they both knew reaching their doors meant this would end.
Irina stopped first outside room 1480.
Jensen’s room waited only a few steps away.
For a second neither of them spoke.
Then Jensen rubbed the back of his neck lightly and stopped beside his own door.
— So… — he started casually, though his heartbeat suddenly wasn’t casual at all. — Do you wanna come in for one last drink?
He asked it without looking at her at first.
Like maybe that made it less real.
Then he finally turned his head.
And held his breath.
Irina froze slightly.
The hallway suddenly felt too warm.
She looked at him, really looked at him now — loosened collar, tired green eyes, whiskey-soft voice, that impossible face watching her carefully like he was already preparing himself for rejection.
Her pulse stumbled.
— I… — she inhaled softly. — I really need a shower.
The answer hit him immediately, even though he tried not to let it show.
— Yeah, of course. Sure.
He nodded once, forcing an easy smile.
But before the disappointment could fully settle over his features, she spoke again:
— Will you wait for me?
— ❈ —
Thank you for checking into our little hotel in Monaco.
Is there anything more old fashioned than a love affair? 🥃
"I felt as though I had known you for a long time."
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Original Female Character
Genre: angst, romance, emotional affair, tension, mature
Warnings: emotional infidelity, marriage issues, yearning, alcohol
— ❈ —
Slightly out of breath, still carrying the cold air from outside with her, one hand holding her phone, the other adjusting the strap of a leather bag that immediately got dropped onto the stool beside her.
She looked like she had come straight from war.
Long dark hair slightly messy now, makeup a little softer around the eyes after an entire day, sleeves rolled carelessly up her forearms beneath a white blouse tucked into tailored trousers. Tiredness lingered around her, but then she smiled—
And Jesus Christ.
It hit him like sunlight after drowning.
— “I am so, so sorry,” she sighed dramatically, climbing onto the bar stool beside him. “One meeting became three meetings, then someone decided diplomacy requires seventeen unnecessary handshakes—”
Jensen laughed before he could stop himself.
An actual laugh.
Warm. Real.
She finally breathed out deeply, shoulders relaxing for the first time since arriving, then turned fully toward him with that enormous smile.
— “Hi,” she repeated softer this time.
He looked at her for half a second too long.
— “Hey.”
The bartender approached.
— “What can I get you?”
Jensen opened his mouth, but she beat him immediately:
— “Old Fashioned.” Then she turned back to him casually, like that wasn’t the sexiest possible answer she could’ve given.
His eyebrows lifted.
— “Atta girl.”
She grinned instantly.
— “What? You thought diplomats only drank champagne?”
— “I thought diplomats poisoned people discreetly.”
— “Only on Thursdays.”
That pulled another laugh out of him.
The bartender returned with her drink quickly. She took the glass with both hands for a second like it contained life itself.
Then lifted it toward him.
Jensen clinked his whiskey gently against hers.
And for the first time that entire evening, the knot in his chest loosened.
- “So let me get this straight,” Jensen said, leaning back slightly with his whiskey in hand. “You speak, what, five languages, you’re a diplomat, and apparently you also know people who can hack electronic locks?”
Irina laughed softly into her glass.
- “In this line of work, you end up meeting all kinds of people.”
She took a slow sip of her old fashioned, eyes sparkling over the rim of the glass.
- “And now,” she added thoughtfully, “if I ever need to exorcise someone or kill a demon…”
She gestured vaguely toward him with complete fake arrogance.
- “…I can call you.”
Jensen laughed, shaking his head.
- “Oh, wow. So that’s what I am to you?”
- “A valuable international contact.”
- “Fantastic.”
They both laughed again, easier now, warmer. The kind of laughter that sneaks up on two people who already feel dangerously comfortable around each other.
God, she was fun.
- “So you actually watched the show?” he asked, genuinely curious.
- “Of course I did,” she said simply. “Since I was a teenager, and that ending destroyed me.”
That surprised him more than it should have.
Before he could answer, she leaned closer suddenly, like she was about to confess classified information.
The movement carried her perfume with it — warm, elegant, mixed with the cold night air still trapped in her hair and the whiskey on her breath.
Jensen felt his entire body tense instinctively.
Irina’s eyes flickered briefly toward his mouth before she murmured near his ear:
- “But honestly…”
Her voice dropped lower.
- “Sam was always my favorite.”
For half a second Jensen just stared at her in betrayed disbelief.
Irina leaned back again with a tiny apologetic pout, lips pressed together to hide her laugh.
- “Sorry.”
Jensen let out an incredulous laugh, dragging a hand through his hair.
- “Oh, that’s cold.”
- “I like emotionally available men,” she replied calmly before taking another sip of her drink.
He nearly choked on his whiskey.
The hours slipped by almost unnoticed.
At some point, the crowd at the hotel bar had thinned into only a few scattered guests speaking quietly over late drinks, the jazz softer now, the lights dimmer, warmer. Their empty glasses multiplied slowly across the polished wood between them.
And somewhere between the second whiskey and whatever story Irina was telling about a disastrous diplomatic dinner in Brussels, they had both stopped sitting like strangers.
She talked with her hands when she got excited, warm and expressive in that effortless Balkan/Mediterranean way. Every now and then her fingers wrapped around his forearm to emphasize a point, or she laughed and hit his knee lightly like she’d known him for years instead of hours.
None of it felt forced.
Which somehow made it worse.
Or better.
Jensen honestly wasn’t sure anymore.
He only knew he had become painfully aware of every point of contact between them.
The warmth of her hand over his sleeve.
Her perfume every time she leaned closer.
The way her laughter kept pulling laughter out of him too, deeper and louder than usual.
At one point he started imitating directors he’d worked with over the years, then actors, then eventually Jeffrey Dean Morgan.
Irina nearly folded over laughing.
Jensen lowered his voice into an exaggerated gravelly rumble.
— Listen here, kiddo…
Irina made an immediate wounded sound, fanning herself dramatically with one hand.
— Oh my God, don’t do that to me.
He grinned slowly.
— Do what?
And then, still half joking, he leaned closer.
His voice came out lower this time.
Rougher.
Too close.
Irina’s laughter faltered first.
Their eyes met.
And suddenly the air changed.
Not all at once.
Worse.
Slowly.
Jensen watched her expression soften into something quieter, her lips parting slightly as she looked at him. He could see the pulse moving in her throat now. Feel the warmth radiating from her body in the small space between their stools.
Her breathing shifted.
So did his.
His eyes dropped instinctively to her mouth.
Irina swallowed hard.
For one suspended second neither of them moved.
Then Jensen inhaled sharply, like waking up from something dangerous.
He leaned back again first.
Took a longer sip of his whiskey than necessary.
Ran a hand through his hair and looked away toward the nearly empty bar before glancing back at her with a crooked, quieter smile.
— “Man…”— he exhaled a soft laugh. — “I really needed this tonight. Especially tonight.”
Irina adjusted herself slightly on the stool, suddenly aware of how warm she felt.
A strand of hair had stuck to the damp skin at the back of her neck. She pushed it back slowly, clearing her throat once before taking another sip of her drink.
Then she looked at him again, softer now.
— “Why?”
And for the first time that night, the smile on Jensen’s face faded just enough for her to see the tiredness underneath it.
Jensen stayed quiet for a moment after her question.
Not uncomfortable quiet.
Just… thoughtful.
The ice clinked softly inside his glass while he turned it slowly between his fingers, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the bar shelves and amber bottles glowing behind them.
Irina watched him carefully without interrupting.
For the first time that night, he looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with jet lag or long convention hours.
He exhaled through his nose, smiling faintly to himself.
— “I don’t know…” — he admitted quietly. — “I guess sometimes it just gets exhausting being… split in half all the time.”
His voice had lost most of its teasing warmth now. It turned lower, rougher around the edges.
— “You spend months away from home pretending everything’s balanced because technically you’re still showing up, y’know? You call every day, you FaceTime, you fly back whenever you can… but after a while it starts feeling like you live two completely different lives.”
Irina’s eyes softened immediately.
Jensen kept looking ahead, thumb rubbing absently against the condensation on his glass.
— “And the worst part is… nobody’s really wrong.” — He gave a small humorless laugh. — “That’s what makes it hard.”
The jazz hummed softly around them.
— “My kids need stability. My wife’s tired of carrying everything alone while I’m constantly somewhere else pretending I can somehow make everybody happy all the time. And I keep thinking if I just work harder or organize things better maybe I can fix it, but…”
He trailed off.
His jaw flexed slightly.
— “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like no matter where I am, there’s always a part of me failing somebody else.”
The words stayed hanging between them.
Heavy.
Honest.
Jensen finally took a sip of whiskey, eyes distant now, somewhere far from the hotel bar and the low music and her perfume beside him.
And for the first time that night, Irina saw not the actor, not the charming man everybody gravitated toward naturally.
Just a lonely man.
Trying very hard.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
She inhaled slowly.
— “Tell me about it...”
Her voice came out softer than before.
Jensen looked at her then.
Irina took another sip of her drink, slower this time, before resting the glass carefully against her thigh. Then she lifted her left hand quietly between them.
The ring caught the warm amber light immediately.
Simple.
Elegant.
Painful.
Her eyes stayed lowered toward the glass for a second longer before she finally smiled.
A small sad thing.
Nothing like the bright laughter from earlier.
Jensen’s eyes dropped to the ring.
Something inside him shifted immediately.
Because suddenly this wasn’t flirting anymore.
This wasn’t just chemistry and whiskey and late-night tension.
It was recognition.
Irina looked away first.
Toward the empty end of the bar.
Toward nowhere.
Her thumb moved absently over the ring like muscle memory.
— “Turns out diplomacy is also a terrible profession for relationships.” — she murmured with a faint smile that didn’t quite survive. — “Who knew?”
Jensen stared at her for a second longer than he should have.
At the tiredness behind her composure.
At the loneliness hiding beneath all that elegance and wit.
And God help him, but that was the exact moment something truly dangerous began.
The bar was nearly empty by the time Jensen finally glanced down at his watch.
The realization seemed to hit both of them at the same time.
Irina let out a soft breath through her nose, almost laughing at herself.
— God… I have to be awake in like four hours.
— Yeah, same. — Jensen smiled tiredly, though neither of them moved. — We’re getting old.
— Speak for yourself, Ackles.
— Wow. Cold.
She laughed softly again, but there was something quieter underneath it now. Something reluctant.
Like neither of them wanted to be the first one to end the night.
Jensen paid the bill while Irina finished the last sip of her old fashioned, slow and thoughtful. The bartender wished them goodnight politely and suddenly they were walking through the enormous hotel lobby together, side by side beneath warm golden lights and marble reflections.
The hotel felt strangely empty compared to the chaos from earlier that day.
Their footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor.
Jensen shoved one hand into his pocket.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
They stepped inside together.
And suddenly the space felt very small.
Very quiet.
Jensen leaned back lightly against the mirrored wall while Irina stood beside him, arms folded loosely, exhaustion softening the sharp elegance she carried all day.
She looked beautiful like this.
Real.
Her lipstick slightly faded.
Hair not as perfect anymore.
Eyes heavier now from alcohol and lack of sleep.
He couldn’t stop looking at her.
The elevator hummed quietly upward.
Something warmer.
The doors opened onto their floor.
They walked slowly down the hallway together.
Too slowly.
Almost like they both knew reaching their doors meant this would end.
Irina stopped first outside room 1480.
Jensen’s room waited only a few steps away.
For a second neither of them spoke.
Then Jensen rubbed the back of his neck lightly and stopped beside his own door.
— So… — he started casually, though his heartbeat suddenly wasn’t casual at all. — Do you wanna come in for one last drink?
He asked it without looking at her at first.
Like maybe that made it less real.
Then he finally turned his head.
And held his breath.
Irina froze slightly.
The hallway suddenly felt too warm.
She looked at him, really looked at him now — loosened collar, tired green eyes, whiskey-soft voice, that impossible face watching her carefully like he was already preparing himself for rejection.
Her pulse stumbled.
— I… — she inhaled softly. — I really need a shower.
The answer hit him immediately, even though he tried not to let it show.
— Yeah, of course. Sure.
He nodded once, forcing an easy smile.
But before the disappointment could fully settle over his features, she spoke again:
— Will you wait for me?
— ❈ —
Thank you for checking into our little hotel in Monaco.
Is there anything more old fashioned than a love affair? 🥃
“Why is it that the best people seem to hide themselves away?”
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Original Female Character
Genre: angst, romance, emotional affair, tension, mature
Warnings: emotional infidelity, marriage issues, yearning, alcohol
— ❈ —
The breakfast room was already crowded when Jensen walked in, baseball cap low over his eyes, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his Henley. The smell of coffee, butter and expensive hotel perfume filled the air, mixed with low conversations in different languages.
Karl Urban was the first one to notice him.
- “Oi oi, look who survived the great hotel tragedy of last night.”
Jack Quaid nearly choked on his coffee laughing.
- “Dude, I still can’t believe you got locked out of your room. That’s so embarrassingly old-man coded.”
- “Fuck off “- Jensen muttered, grabbing a coffee pot from a nearby table. - “It wasn’t my fault, the damn lock died.”
- “Sure grandpa” - Karl said, not even looking up from his plate. - “Did ya forget the password too?”
Jensen rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he sat down with them.
- “I’m serious. Nobody could open the damn thing. Hotel staff, technician, everybody looked completely clueless.”
- “So what happened?” - Erin asked, curious.
Jensen poured coffee into his mug, leaning back on the chair.
- “Woman next door. She came out because of the noise. Asked what was going on.”
- “Hot?” - Karl asked instantly.
The table burst out laughing.
Jensen tried to hide his smile behind the mug.
- “I mean… yeah.”
- “Ahhhhh there we go.” - Karl pointed at him dramatically. - “There’s the important detail.”
- “She somehow knew a guy who taught her how to override electronic locks.” - Jensen ignored them. - “Called someone speaking fucking russian in the middle of the night, crouched in front of my door and unlocked it in thirty seconds.”
- “That sounds incredibly sexy” - Karl corrected casually, cutting into his pancakes.
Jensen shook his head with a quiet laugh.
- “Apparently she’s a diplomat too.”
- “A diplomat?” - Erin repeated, surprised.
- “Yeah. That’s literally what she told me when I asked if she was KGB or something.”
The table burst out laughing.
- “See?” - Karl pointed his fork dramatically. - “That is objectively hot.”
Jensen looked down at his coffee for a second, smiling despite himself.
He could still see her crouched in front of the door in black silk pajamas, long hair, messy from sleep, completely calm while everyone else around her looked useless.
The memory pulled an involuntary smile from him.
Jack pointed immediately.
- “Oh no. You’re smiling. This is serious.”
- “Brother… “- Karl leaned back dramatically. - “A mysterious hot diplomat hacker and ya didn’t even ask her bloody name?”
- “It was past midnight! I was tired.”
- “Excuses. Weak excuses.”
Jensen laughed under his breath, but before he could answer, his eyes instinctively drifted across the breakfast room again.
Slowly. Casually.
Scanning.
Businessmen. Families. Convention guests. Hotel staff.
No black silk pajamas.
No deep brown eyes.
No amused little smirk.
Nothing.
Something in his chest sank in a stupidly irrational way.
- “You’re doing it again” - Karl said around a sip of coffee.
- “Doing what?”
- “Looking for spy mommy.”
Jack laughed so hard he almost spilled orange juice on himself.
- “Spy mommy is insane, Karl.”
- “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Jensen shook his head, fighting a smile.
- “You people are unbelievable.”
But even as the conversation moved on, he caught himself glancing one last time toward the restaurant entrance.
Still nothing.
❈
Outside the hotel, the morning air was cold and buzzing with energy. Fans crowded behind barriers, screaming the second the cast stepped out through the revolving doors. Cameras flashed nonstop, security trying to keep a path open toward the black SUVs waiting by the curb.
- Jensen! Over here! - Soldier Boy!! - We love you!!
He slipped easily into the familiar rhythm of it all. Smiling, signing posters, taking phones for selfies, touching hands stretched desperately toward him.
A girl nearly cried when he hugged her.
Another handed him a tiny plastic Dean Winchester keychain.
- “This is for luck!” - she said breathlessly.
- “Thank you sweetheart” - he smiled warmly. - “I think I might actually need it after last night.”
The fans laughed, not understanding the joke but loving it anyway.
Then, between flashes and voices and sharpie signatures, his attention drifted.
To the side entrance of the hotel.
A small group emerged first. Men and women in tailored coats, talking quietly among themselves. Security moved differently around them, more discreet but more alert. Two black official cars waited near the curb, small flags attached to the front.
And then she appeared.
Jensen forgot the autograph he was signing halfway through his own name.
Irina walked beside two older diplomats, dark sunglasses covering her eyes, long hair perfectly sleek over her shoulders. The white pinstriped suit fit her like it had been made exclusively for her body, sharp and elegant and devastatingly expensive. Gold jewelry glinted softly against her skin every time she moved her hands while speaking.
She was laughing politely at something one of the men said, confident and composed, one hand holding her phone and leather gloves.
Not the barefoot woman in silk pajamas anymore.
Not warm.
Not sleepy.
Not teasing him in a hotel corridor at midnight.
This woman looked untouchable.
Important.
Dangerous, even.
And somehow that made her even hotter. Across the street, Irina turned slightly while one of her colleagues spoke to her.
For one suspended second, Jensen thought she might look toward him.
Instead, one of the drivers opened the car door for her and she disappeared smoothly inside the black vehicle.
The door shut.
The convoy pulled away.
And Jensen stood there smiling automatically for photos while feeling strangely… off balance.
- “Jensen!”
He blinked, turning back to a fan waiting nervously for a selfie.
- “Sorry sweetheart” - he smiled automatically. - “Of course.”
A few more photos, a few more autographs, and finally security started guiding them toward the cars.
Jensen exhaled quietly as he climbed into the SUV, rubbing a hand over his beard.
Beside him, Karl adjusted his sunglasses and glanced sideways.
- “Hey… you good?” - he asked casually. - “Ya kinda zoomed out back there.”
- “Yeah, I just… “- Jensen looked out the window for a second before shaking his head lightly. - “Nothing.”
Karl followed his gaze toward the street where the official cars had disappeared moments ago.
A slow grin appeared on his face.
- “Ahhhh. Mystery woman?”
Jensen looked down, trying and failing not to smile a little.
- “Shut up.”
Karl laughed quietly, leaning back against the seat.
- “Mate, she looked expensive.”
That finally pulled a real laugh out of Jensen.
- “Yeah” - he muttered, glancing once more toward the street outside. - “She really did.”
The convention center was loud from the moment Jensen stepped inside.
Fans screaming, people in cosplay, cameras everywhere, handlers trying to keep everything on schedule while panels changed every hour. It was the kind of chaos he knew by heart after years of conventions, something almost automatic by now. Smile here. Hug there. Tell a funny story. Make the crowd laugh.
And apparently, now he had a new one.
- “So I’m standing there at, like, one in the morning - he told the audience during the panel, leaning back in his chair while the crowd laughed already in anticipation - exhausted, locked out of my own hotel room, and the hotel staff is looking at me like I’m supposed to know how electronic locks work.”
The audience laughed.
- “And then this woman opens the door next to mine wearing silk pajamas looking like she walked straight out of a Bond movie”—
More screams.
— “speaks russian on the phone with some mysterious guy and unlocks my door in thirty seconds.”
The crowd exploded.
Jack leaned toward his mic dramatically.
- “Jensen got rescued by a spy.”
- ”That’s exactly what I said! “- Jensen pointed at him laughing. - “I literally asked if she was KGB.”
- “Was she?” - someone screamed from the crowd.
Jensen made an exasperated clueless expression
- “I still don’t know!”
The audience made a collective ooooohhhh sound.
- “See?” - Jack spread his arms. - “Sexy spy.”
Jensen laughed and shook his head, moving on before anybody could notice the way the memory still sat warm somewhere in the middle of his chest.
But through the whole day, between photo ops and backstage breaks and panels, she kept slipping into his thoughts at random moments.
A flash of black silk.
Her laugh in the corridor.
“You owe me a drink. For real.”
And the worst part was that he still didn’t know her name.
❈
The ride back to the hotel was quieter.
Everyone looked exhausted, spread lazily across the SUV seats while the city lights passed outside the windows. Jack had headphones on already. Someone in the back was half asleep.
Jensen sat by the window with his phone in hand, frowning slightly at the screen.
Karl glanced sideways from behind his sunglasses.
- “What the hell are ya doing?” - “Nothing.”
Karl leaned slightly to peek at the screen.
Searches:
UN conference Monaco
Female diplomats Monaco event hotel
Karl blinked slowly.
- “Mate… why are ya googling geopolitics?”
Jensen snorted quietly.
- “I’m trying to figure out who that woman was.”
- “The spy one?”
- “She helped me last night. I wanna thank her properly.”
Karl stared at him for two full seconds before bursting into laughter.
- “You absolute idiot.”
- “What?”
- “Didn’t she tell ya her room number?”
Jensen paused.
Silence.
Then:
- “…fuck.”
Karl slapped the seat laughing.
- “Ya spent all day searching “hot european diplomats” instead of just asking the front desk?”
- “Shut up.”
- “Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless.”
Even Jensen laughed then, rubbing a hand over his beard.
- “Okay, yeah, maybe I’m tired.”
- “Maybe your brain stopped working after the silk pajamas.”
- “Karl.”
- “ I’m just saying.”
❈
The hotel lobby buzzed softly with elegant evening noise when they arrived back.
Rolling suitcases. Quiet piano music. Expensive perfume lingering in the air.
Jensen barely waited for the others before walking toward the reception desk.
The young receptionist smiled immediately in recognition.
- “Good evening, Mr Ackles.”
- “Hey. Uh… I actually wanted to ask you something.”
- “Of course.”
He rested his forearms casually against the marble counter.
- “The woman staying in room 1480… dark hair, european accent… she helped me last night with the door situation?”
Recognition flashed across her face instantly.
Then hesitation.
- “Ah… I’m not sure I can give personal information about guests, sir.”
- “Right, no, of course” - Jensen nodded quickly, charming smile appearing naturally. - “Totally understand. I just wanted to thank her properly. She kinda saved my night.”
The receptionist bit back a smile.
Jensen leaned a little closer conspiratorially.
- “And honestly? I think she might actually be some kind of international spy, so this may be my only chance.”
That made her laugh.
- “Her name is Ms. Irina Marković.”
There it was.
Irina.
Something about finally hearing her name made her suddenly feel more real.
Less like some strange fever dream from the middle of the night.
- “Marković” - he repeated softly.
The receptionist smiled knowingly now.
- “Would you like me to leave her a message?”
Jensen looked down for a second, thinking.
Then he grabbed one of the hotel pens.
❈
Ms. Diplomat,
Thank you again for saving me from committing a felony against my own bedroom door.
I’ll be at the hotel bar at 9PM if you’d like to let me repay my debt properly.
- Jensen
❈
- “Could you give this to her if she passes by?”
- “Of course.”
He thanked her and headed toward the elevators feeling significantly more pleased with himself than he should.
❈
An hour later, Jensen stood in front of the bathroom mirror fastening the last buttons of a dark charcoal shirt.
The shower steam still lingered through the room. His beard was trimmed, hair still slightly damp, expensive cologne warm against his skin.
On the bed beside him, his phone screen glowed softly.
IRINA MARKOVIĆ
Croatian diplomat.
Former advisor to the Croatian Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Specialized in Eastern European relations and post-war negotiations.
There were photos too.
Irina standing beside presidents and ambassadors.
Irina speaking at conferences.
Irina in elegant coats and sharp suits, always composed, always untouchable.
And somehow none of those pictures looked as beautiful as she had looked barefoot in silk pajamas laughing in that hotel corridor.
Jensen locked the phone and exhaled quietly.
This was ridiculous.
He was a grown man getting nervous over drinks with a woman he met less than twenty-four hours ago.
Still, he sprayed a little more cologne on his neck.
Just in case.
❈
The hotel bar was quieter than Jensen expected for a Friday night. Low jazz drifted through the room, mixing with the soft clinking of glasses and the muted hum of expensive conversations happening in dark corners. Warm amber lights reflected against polished bottles behind the counter, making everything feel softer than it really was.
He sat alone at the bar, one elbow resting against the wood, fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of whiskey.
9:07 PM.
The bartender had already asked twice if he wanted another drink.
- “Not yet,” Jensen had said the second time, glancing toward the entrance again.
No sign of her.
He told himself he didn’t care that much. It was just a drink. A thank you. A funny story to tell later.
Still, every time the elevator doors opened, his eyes lifted automatically.
His phone buzzed against the counter.
Danneel
The little warmth he’d built inside himself cooled immediately.
Jensen exhaled quietly before answering.
— “Hey.”
— “Finally.” Her voice came tired first. Then sharp. “I’ve been trying to call you for over an hour.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
— “We were finishing the convention stuff.”
— “You’re always finishing something.”
There it was.
He leaned back slightly on the stool, staring at the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar.
— “Dee…”
— “No, seriously, Jensen. I’m exhausted.” He could hear movement on the other side, drawers opening and closing aggressively. “The kids barely saw you this month. JJ had a school thing yesterday, Arrow keeps asking when you’re coming home, and I’m here doing everything alone while you fly around the world pretending this schedule is normal.”
His jaw tightened.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
That was the worst part.
— “I know.”
— “Do you?” she snapped. “Because every time we have this conversation you say you know, but nothing changes.”
He rubbed his hand down his face slowly, exhaustion settling into his bones.
— “What do you want me to do, Dee? Quit working?”
A bitter laugh came through the line.
— “You always do that.”
— “Do what?”
— “Make it sound impossible so we stop talking about it.”
Silence.
Heavy. Familiar. Old.
The bartender silently placed another whiskey in front of him after one look at his face.
Jensen mouthed a tired thank you.
— “We need to have a serious conversation when you get back,” Danneel said finally, quieter now. More dangerous somehow. “Because I can’t keep pretending this marriage is functioning normally.”
The word marriage lingered between them like smoke.
Jensen stared down at the amber liquid in his glass.
— “Okay.”
Another silence.
Then:
— “Goodnight, Jensen.”
The line went dead.
He stayed still for a few seconds, phone still pressed against his ear before lowering it slowly.
- “God.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, then over his mouth, exhaling hard through his nose. The whiskey suddenly tasted sharper, heavier.
9:40 PM.
He glanced at the entrance one more time and let out a humorless little laugh to himself.
Of course.
The mysterious diplomat had probably come to her senses.
He took another sip of his drink, eyes fixed on the glass now, already preparing himself to go upstairs looking vaguely pathetic—
— “Oh hi.”
Her voice hit him before his brain could process the rest.
Jensen turned immediately.
And there she was.
Thank you for checking into our little hotel in Monaco. New chapters every Sunday and Wednesday eve. 🥃
“Why is it that the best people seem to hide themselves away?”
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Original Female Character
Genre: angst, romance, emotional affair, tension, mature
Warnings: emotional infidelity, marriage issues, yearning, alcohol
— ❈ —
The breakfast room was already crowded when Jensen walked in, baseball cap low over his eyes, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his Henley. The smell of coffee, butter and expensive hotel perfume filled the air, mixed with low conversations in different languages.
Karl Urban was the first one to notice him.
- “Oi oi, look who survived the great hotel tragedy of last night.”
Jack Quaid nearly choked on his coffee laughing.
- “Dude, I still can’t believe you got locked out of your room. That’s so embarrassingly old-man coded.”
- “Fuck off “- Jensen muttered, grabbing a coffee pot from a nearby table. - “It wasn’t my fault, the damn lock died.”
- “Sure grandpa” - Karl said, not even looking up from his plate. - “Did ya forget the password too?”
Jensen rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he sat down with them.
- “I’m serious. Nobody could open the damn thing. Hotel staff, technician, everybody looked completely clueless.”
- “So what happened?” - Erin asked, curious.
Jensen poured coffee into his mug, leaning back on the chair.
- “Woman next door. She came out because of the noise. Asked what was going on.”
- “Hot?” - Karl asked instantly.
The table burst out laughing.
Jensen tried to hide his smile behind the mug.
- “I mean… yeah.”
- “Ahhhhh there we go.” - Karl pointed at him dramatically. - “There’s the important detail.”
- “She somehow knew a guy who taught her how to override electronic locks.” - Jensen ignored them. - “Called someone speaking fucking russian in the middle of the night, crouched in front of my door and unlocked it in thirty seconds.”
- “That sounds incredibly sexy” - Karl corrected casually, cutting into his pancakes.
Jensen shook his head with a quiet laugh.
- “Apparently she’s a diplomat too.”
- “A diplomat?” - Erin repeated, surprised.
- “Yeah. That’s literally what she told me when I asked if she was KGB or something.”
The table burst out laughing.
- “See?” - Karl pointed his fork dramatically. - “That is objectively hot.”
Jensen looked down at his coffee for a second, smiling despite himself.
He could still see her crouched in front of the door in black silk pajamas, long hair, messy from sleep, completely calm while everyone else around her looked useless.
The memory pulled an involuntary smile from him.
Jack pointed immediately.
- “Oh no. You’re smiling. This is serious.”
- “Brother… “- Karl leaned back dramatically. - “A mysterious hot diplomat hacker and ya didn’t even ask her bloody name?”
- “It was past midnight! I was tired.”
- “Excuses. Weak excuses.”
Jensen laughed under his breath, but before he could answer, his eyes instinctively drifted across the breakfast room again.
Slowly. Casually.
Scanning.
Businessmen. Families. Convention guests. Hotel staff.
No black silk pajamas.
No deep brown eyes.
No amused little smirk.
Nothing.
Something in his chest sank in a stupidly irrational way.
- “You’re doing it again” - Karl said around a sip of coffee.
- “Doing what?”
- “Looking for spy mommy.”
Jack laughed so hard he almost spilled orange juice on himself.
- “Spy mommy is insane, Karl.”
- “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Jensen shook his head, fighting a smile.
- “You people are unbelievable.”
But even as the conversation moved on, he caught himself glancing one last time toward the restaurant entrance.
Still nothing.
❈
Outside the hotel, the morning air was cold and buzzing with energy. Fans crowded behind barriers, screaming the second the cast stepped out through the revolving doors. Cameras flashed nonstop, security trying to keep a path open toward the black SUVs waiting by the curb.
- Jensen! Over here! - Soldier Boy!! - We love you!!
He slipped easily into the familiar rhythm of it all. Smiling, signing posters, taking phones for selfies, touching hands stretched desperately toward him.
A girl nearly cried when he hugged her.
Another handed him a tiny plastic Dean Winchester keychain.
- “This is for luck!” - she said breathlessly.
- “Thank you sweetheart” - he smiled warmly. - “I think I might actually need it after last night.”
The fans laughed, not understanding the joke but loving it anyway.
Then, between flashes and voices and sharpie signatures, his attention drifted.
To the side entrance of the hotel.
A small group emerged first. Men and women in tailored coats, talking quietly among themselves. Security moved differently around them, more discreet but more alert. Two black official cars waited near the curb, small flags attached to the front.
And then she appeared.
Jensen forgot the autograph he was signing halfway through his own name.
Irina walked beside two older diplomats, dark sunglasses covering her eyes, long hair perfectly sleek over her shoulders. The white pinstriped suit fit her like it had been made exclusively for her body, sharp and elegant and devastatingly expensive. Gold jewelry glinted softly against her skin every time she moved her hands while speaking.
She was laughing politely at something one of the men said, confident and composed, one hand holding her phone and leather gloves.
Not the barefoot woman in silk pajamas anymore.
Not warm.
Not sleepy.
Not teasing him in a hotel corridor at midnight.
This woman looked untouchable.
Important.
Dangerous, even.
And somehow that made her even hotter. Across the street, Irina turned slightly while one of her colleagues spoke to her.
For one suspended second, Jensen thought she might look toward him.
Instead, one of the drivers opened the car door for her and she disappeared smoothly inside the black vehicle.
The door shut.
The convoy pulled away.
And Jensen stood there smiling automatically for photos while feeling strangely… off balance.
- “Jensen!”
He blinked, turning back to a fan waiting nervously for a selfie.
- “Sorry sweetheart” - he smiled automatically. - “Of course.”
A few more photos, a few more autographs, and finally security started guiding them toward the cars.
Jensen exhaled quietly as he climbed into the SUV, rubbing a hand over his beard.
Beside him, Karl adjusted his sunglasses and glanced sideways.
- “Hey… you good?” - he asked casually. - “Ya kinda zoomed out back there.”
- “Yeah, I just… “- Jensen looked out the window for a second before shaking his head lightly. - “Nothing.”
Karl followed his gaze toward the street where the official cars had disappeared moments ago.
A slow grin appeared on his face.
- “Ahhhh. Mystery woman?”
Jensen looked down, trying and failing not to smile a little.
- “Shut up.”
Karl laughed quietly, leaning back against the seat.
- “Mate, she looked expensive.”
That finally pulled a real laugh out of Jensen.
- “Yeah” - he muttered, glancing once more toward the street outside. - “She really did.”
The convention center was loud from the moment Jensen stepped inside.
Fans screaming, people in cosplay, cameras everywhere, handlers trying to keep everything on schedule while panels changed every hour. It was the kind of chaos he knew by heart after years of conventions, something almost automatic by now. Smile here. Hug there. Tell a funny story. Make the crowd laugh.
And apparently, now he had a new one.
- “So I’m standing there at, like, one in the morning - he told the audience during the panel, leaning back in his chair while the crowd laughed already in anticipation - exhausted, locked out of my own hotel room, and the hotel staff is looking at me like I’m supposed to know how electronic locks work.”
The audience laughed.
- “And then this woman opens the door next to mine wearing silk pajamas looking like she walked straight out of a Bond movie”—
More screams.
— “speaks russian on the phone with some mysterious guy and unlocks my door in thirty seconds.”
The crowd exploded.
Jack leaned toward his mic dramatically.
- “Jensen got rescued by a spy.”
- ”That’s exactly what I said! “- Jensen pointed at him laughing. - “I literally asked if she was KGB.”
- “Was she?” - someone screamed from the crowd.
Jensen made an exasperated clueless expression
- “I still don’t know!”
The audience made a collective ooooohhhh sound.
- “See?” - Jack spread his arms. - “Sexy spy.”
Jensen laughed and shook his head, moving on before anybody could notice the way the memory still sat warm somewhere in the middle of his chest.
But through the whole day, between photo ops and backstage breaks and panels, she kept slipping into his thoughts at random moments.
A flash of black silk.
Her laugh in the corridor.
“You owe me a drink. For real.”
And the worst part was that he still didn’t know her name.
❈
The ride back to the hotel was quieter.
Everyone looked exhausted, spread lazily across the SUV seats while the city lights passed outside the windows. Jack had headphones on already. Someone in the back was half asleep.
Jensen sat by the window with his phone in hand, frowning slightly at the screen.
Karl glanced sideways from behind his sunglasses.
- “What the hell are ya doing?” - “Nothing.”
Karl leaned slightly to peek at the screen.
Searches:
UN conference Monaco
Female diplomats Monaco event hotel
Karl blinked slowly.
- “Mate… why are ya googling geopolitics?”
Jensen snorted quietly.
- “I’m trying to figure out who that woman was.”
- “The spy one?”
- “She helped me last night. I wanna thank her properly.”
Karl stared at him for two full seconds before bursting into laughter.
- “You absolute idiot.”
- “What?”
- “Didn’t she tell ya her room number?”
Jensen paused.
Silence.
Then:
- “…fuck.”
Karl slapped the seat laughing.
- “Ya spent all day searching “hot european diplomats” instead of just asking the front desk?”
- “Shut up.”
- “Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless.”
Even Jensen laughed then, rubbing a hand over his beard.
- “Okay, yeah, maybe I’m tired.”
- “Maybe your brain stopped working after the silk pajamas.”
- “Karl.”
- “ I’m just saying.”
❈
The hotel lobby buzzed softly with elegant evening noise when they arrived back.
Rolling suitcases. Quiet piano music. Expensive perfume lingering in the air.
Jensen barely waited for the others before walking toward the reception desk.
The young receptionist smiled immediately in recognition.
- “Good evening, Mr Ackles.”
- “Hey. Uh… I actually wanted to ask you something.”
- “Of course.”
He rested his forearms casually against the marble counter.
- “The woman staying in room 1480… dark hair, european accent… she helped me last night with the door situation?”
Recognition flashed across her face instantly.
Then hesitation.
- “Ah… I’m not sure I can give personal information about guests, sir.”
- “Right, no, of course” - Jensen nodded quickly, charming smile appearing naturally. - “Totally understand. I just wanted to thank her properly. She kinda saved my night.”
The receptionist bit back a smile.
Jensen leaned a little closer conspiratorially.
- “And honestly? I think she might actually be some kind of international spy, so this may be my only chance.”
That made her laugh.
- “Her name is Ms. Irina Marković.”
There it was.
Irina.
Something about finally hearing her name made her suddenly feel more real.
Less like some strange fever dream from the middle of the night.
- “Marković” - he repeated softly.
The receptionist smiled knowingly now.
- “Would you like me to leave her a message?”
Jensen looked down for a second, thinking.
Then he grabbed one of the hotel pens.
❈
Ms. Diplomat,
Thank you again for saving me from committing a felony against my own bedroom door.
I’ll be at the hotel bar at 9PM if you’d like to let me repay my debt properly.
- Jensen
❈
- “Could you give this to her if she passes by?”
- “Of course.”
He thanked her and headed toward the elevators feeling significantly more pleased with himself than he should.
❈
An hour later, Jensen stood in front of the bathroom mirror fastening the last buttons of a dark charcoal shirt.
The shower steam still lingered through the room. His beard was trimmed, hair still slightly damp, expensive cologne warm against his skin.
On the bed beside him, his phone screen glowed softly.
IRINA MARKOVIĆ
Croatian diplomat.
Former advisor to the Croatian Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Specialized in Eastern European relations and post-war negotiations.
There were photos too.
Irina standing beside presidents and ambassadors.
Irina speaking at conferences.
Irina in elegant coats and sharp suits, always composed, always untouchable.
And somehow none of those pictures looked as beautiful as she had looked barefoot in silk pajamas laughing in that hotel corridor.
Jensen locked the phone and exhaled quietly.
This was ridiculous.
He was a grown man getting nervous over drinks with a woman he met less than twenty-four hours ago.
Still, he sprayed a little more cologne on his neck.
Just in case.
❈
The hotel bar was quieter than Jensen expected for a Friday night. Low jazz drifted through the room, mixing with the soft clinking of glasses and the muted hum of expensive conversations happening in dark corners. Warm amber lights reflected against polished bottles behind the counter, making everything feel softer than it really was.
He sat alone at the bar, one elbow resting against the wood, fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of whiskey.
9:07 PM.
The bartender had already asked twice if he wanted another drink.
- “Not yet,” Jensen had said the second time, glancing toward the entrance again.
No sign of her.
He told himself he didn’t care that much. It was just a drink. A thank you. A funny story to tell later.
Still, every time the elevator doors opened, his eyes lifted automatically.
His phone buzzed against the counter.
Danneel
The little warmth he’d built inside himself cooled immediately.
Jensen exhaled quietly before answering.
— “Hey.”
— “Finally.” Her voice came tired first. Then sharp. “I’ve been trying to call you for over an hour.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
— “We were finishing the convention stuff.”
— “You’re always finishing something.”
There it was.
He leaned back slightly on the stool, staring at the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar.
— “Dee…”
— “No, seriously, Jensen. I’m exhausted.” He could hear movement on the other side, drawers opening and closing aggressively. “The kids barely saw you this month. JJ had a school thing yesterday, Arrow keeps asking when you’re coming home, and I’m here doing everything alone while you fly around the world pretending this schedule is normal.”
His jaw tightened.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
That was the worst part.
— “I know.”
— “Do you?” she snapped. “Because every time we have this conversation you say you know, but nothing changes.”
He rubbed his hand down his face slowly, exhaustion settling into his bones.
— “What do you want me to do, Dee? Quit working?”
A bitter laugh came through the line.
— “You always do that.”
— “Do what?”
— “Make it sound impossible so we stop talking about it.”
Silence.
Heavy. Familiar. Old.
The bartender silently placed another whiskey in front of him after one look at his face.
Jensen mouthed a tired thank you.
— “We need to have a serious conversation when you get back,” Danneel said finally, quieter now. More dangerous somehow. “Because I can’t keep pretending this marriage is functioning normally.”
The word marriage lingered between them like smoke.
Jensen stared down at the amber liquid in his glass.
— “Okay.”
Another silence.
Then:
— “Goodnight, Jensen.”
The line went dead.
He stayed still for a few seconds, phone still pressed against his ear before lowering it slowly.
- “God.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, then over his mouth, exhaling hard through his nose. The whiskey suddenly tasted sharper, heavier.
9:40 PM.
He glanced at the entrance one more time and let out a humorless little laugh to himself.
Of course.
The mysterious diplomat had probably come to her senses.
He took another sip of his drink, eyes fixed on the glass now, already preparing himself to go upstairs looking vaguely pathetic—
— “Oh hi.”
Her voice hit him before his brain could process the rest.
Jensen turned immediately.
And there she was.
Thank you for checking into our little hotel in Monaco. New chapters every Sunday and Wednesday eve. 🥃
Sometimes you meet a person and you just click - you're comfortable with them, and you don't have to pretend to be anyone or anything.
Alexandra Adornetto
“Why is it that the best people seem to hide themselves away?”
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Original Female Character
Genre: angst, romance, emotional affair, tension, mature
Warnings: emotional infidelity, marriage issues, yearning, alcohol
— ❈ —
The breakfast room was already crowded when Jensen walked in, baseball cap low over his eyes, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his Henley. The smell of coffee, butter and expensive hotel perfume filled the air, mixed with low conversations in different languages.
Karl Urban was the first one to notice him.
- “Oi oi, look who survived the great hotel tragedy of last night.”
Jack Quaid nearly choked on his coffee laughing.
- “Dude, I still can’t believe you got locked out of your room. That’s so embarrassingly old-man coded.”
- “Fuck off “- Jensen muttered, grabbing a coffee pot from a nearby table. - “It wasn’t my fault, the damn lock died.”
- “Sure grandpa” - Karl said, not even looking up from his plate. - “Did ya forget the password too?”
Jensen rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he sat down with them.
- “I’m serious. Nobody could open the damn thing. Hotel staff, technician, everybody looked completely clueless.”
- “So what happened?” - Erin asked, curious.
Jensen poured coffee into his mug, leaning back on the chair.
- “Woman next door. She came out because of the noise. Asked what was going on.”
- “Hot?” - Karl asked instantly.
The table burst out laughing.
Jensen tried to hide his smile behind the mug.
- “I mean… yeah.”
- “Ahhhhh there we go.” - Karl pointed at him dramatically. - “There’s the important detail.”
- “She somehow knew a guy who taught her how to override electronic locks.” - Jensen ignored them. - “Called someone speaking fucking russian in the middle of the night, crouched in front of my door and unlocked it in thirty seconds.”
- “That sounds incredibly sexy” - Karl corrected casually, cutting into his pancakes.
Jensen shook his head with a quiet laugh.
- “Apparently she’s a diplomat too.”
- “A diplomat?” - Erin repeated, surprised.
- “Yeah. That’s literally what she told me when I asked if she was KGB or something.”
The table burst out laughing.
- “See?” - Karl pointed his fork dramatically. - “That is objectively hot.”
Jensen looked down at his coffee for a second, smiling despite himself.
He could still see her crouched in front of the door in black silk pajamas, long hair, messy from sleep, completely calm while everyone else around her looked useless.
The memory pulled an involuntary smile from him.
Jack pointed immediately.
- “Oh no. You’re smiling. This is serious.”
- “Brother… “- Karl leaned back dramatically. - “A mysterious hot diplomat hacker and ya didn’t even ask her bloody name?”
- “It was past midnight! I was tired.”
- “Excuses. Weak excuses.”
Jensen laughed under his breath, but before he could answer, his eyes instinctively drifted across the breakfast room again.
Slowly. Casually.
Scanning.
Businessmen. Families. Convention guests. Hotel staff.
No black silk pajamas.
No deep brown eyes.
No amused little smirk.
Nothing.
Something in his chest sank in a stupidly irrational way.
- “You’re doing it again” - Karl said around a sip of coffee.
- “Doing what?”
- “Looking for spy mommy.”
Jack laughed so hard he almost spilled orange juice on himself.
- “Spy mommy is insane, Karl.”
- “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Jensen shook his head, fighting a smile.
- “You people are unbelievable.”
But even as the conversation moved on, he caught himself glancing one last time toward the restaurant entrance.
Still nothing.
❈
Outside the hotel, the morning air was cold and buzzing with energy. Fans crowded behind barriers, screaming the second the cast stepped out through the revolving doors. Cameras flashed nonstop, security trying to keep a path open toward the black SUVs waiting by the curb.
- Jensen! Over here! - Soldier Boy!! - We love you!!
He slipped easily into the familiar rhythm of it all. Smiling, signing posters, taking phones for selfies, touching hands stretched desperately toward him.
A girl nearly cried when he hugged her.
Another handed him a tiny plastic Dean Winchester keychain.
- “This is for luck!” - she said breathlessly.
- “Thank you sweetheart” - he smiled warmly. - “I think I might actually need it after last night.”
The fans laughed, not understanding the joke but loving it anyway.
Then, between flashes and voices and sharpie signatures, his attention drifted.
To the side entrance of the hotel.
A small group emerged first. Men and women in tailored coats, talking quietly among themselves. Security moved differently around them, more discreet but more alert. Two black official cars waited near the curb, small flags attached to the front.
And then she appeared.
Jensen forgot the autograph he was signing halfway through his own name.
Irina walked beside two older diplomats, dark sunglasses covering her eyes, long hair perfectly sleek over her shoulders. The white pinstriped suit fit her like it had been made exclusively for her body, sharp and elegant and devastatingly expensive. Gold jewelry glinted softly against her skin every time she moved her hands while speaking.
She was laughing politely at something one of the men said, confident and composed, one hand holding her phone and leather gloves.
Not the barefoot woman in silk pajamas anymore.
Not warm.
Not sleepy.
Not teasing him in a hotel corridor at midnight.
This woman looked untouchable.
Important.
Dangerous, even.
And somehow that made her even hotter. Across the street, Irina turned slightly while one of her colleagues spoke to her.
For one suspended second, Jensen thought she might look toward him.
Instead, one of the drivers opened the car door for her and she disappeared smoothly inside the black vehicle.
The door shut.
The convoy pulled away.
And Jensen stood there smiling automatically for photos while feeling strangely… off balance.
- “Jensen!”
He blinked, turning back to a fan waiting nervously for a selfie.
- “Sorry sweetheart” - he smiled automatically. - “Of course.”
A few more photos, a few more autographs, and finally security started guiding them toward the cars.
Jensen exhaled quietly as he climbed into the SUV, rubbing a hand over his beard.
Beside him, Karl adjusted his sunglasses and glanced sideways.
- “Hey… you good?” - he asked casually. - “Ya kinda zoomed out back there.”
- “Yeah, I just… “- Jensen looked out the window for a second before shaking his head lightly. - “Nothing.”
Karl followed his gaze toward the street where the official cars had disappeared moments ago.
A slow grin appeared on his face.
- “Ahhhh. Mystery woman?”
Jensen looked down, trying and failing not to smile a little.
- “Shut up.”
Karl laughed quietly, leaning back against the seat.
- “Mate, she looked expensive.”
That finally pulled a real laugh out of Jensen.
- “Yeah” - he muttered, glancing once more toward the street outside. - “She really did.”
The convention center was loud from the moment Jensen stepped inside.
Fans screaming, people in cosplay, cameras everywhere, handlers trying to keep everything on schedule while panels changed every hour. It was the kind of chaos he knew by heart after years of conventions, something almost automatic by now. Smile here. Hug there. Tell a funny story. Make the crowd laugh.
And apparently, now he had a new one.
- “So I’m standing there at, like, one in the morning - he told the audience during the panel, leaning back in his chair while the crowd laughed already in anticipation - exhausted, locked out of my own hotel room, and the hotel staff is looking at me like I’m supposed to know how electronic locks work.”
The audience laughed.
- “And then this woman opens the door next to mine wearing silk pajamas looking like she walked straight out of a Bond movie”—
More screams.
— “speaks russian on the phone with some mysterious guy and unlocks my door in thirty seconds.”
The crowd exploded.
Jack leaned toward his mic dramatically.
- “Jensen got rescued by a spy.”
- ”That’s exactly what I said! “- Jensen pointed at him laughing. - “I literally asked if she was KGB.”
- “Was she?” - someone screamed from the crowd.
Jensen made an exasperated clueless expression
- “I still don’t know!”
The audience made a collective ooooohhhh sound.
- “See?” - Jack spread his arms. - “Sexy spy.”
Jensen laughed and shook his head, moving on before anybody could notice the way the memory still sat warm somewhere in the middle of his chest.
But through the whole day, between photo ops and backstage breaks and panels, she kept slipping into his thoughts at random moments.
A flash of black silk.
Her laugh in the corridor.
“You owe me a drink. For real.”
And the worst part was that he still didn’t know her name.
❈
The ride back to the hotel was quieter.
Everyone looked exhausted, spread lazily across the SUV seats while the city lights passed outside the windows. Jack had headphones on already. Someone in the back was half asleep.
Jensen sat by the window with his phone in hand, frowning slightly at the screen.
Karl glanced sideways from behind his sunglasses.
- “What the hell are ya doing?” - “Nothing.”
Karl leaned slightly to peek at the screen.
Searches:
UN conference Monaco
Female diplomats Monaco event hotel
Karl blinked slowly.
- “Mate… why are ya googling geopolitics?”
Jensen snorted quietly.
- “I’m trying to figure out who that woman was.”
- “The spy one?”
- “She helped me last night. I wanna thank her properly.”
Karl stared at him for two full seconds before bursting into laughter.
- “You absolute idiot.”
- “What?”
- “Didn’t she tell ya her room number?”
Jensen paused.
Silence.
Then:
- “…fuck.”
Karl slapped the seat laughing.
- “Ya spent all day searching “hot european diplomats” instead of just asking the front desk?”
- “Shut up.”
- “Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless.”
Even Jensen laughed then, rubbing a hand over his beard.
- “Okay, yeah, maybe I’m tired.”
- “Maybe your brain stopped working after the silk pajamas.”
- “Karl.”
- “ I’m just saying.”
❈
The hotel lobby buzzed softly with elegant evening noise when they arrived back.
Rolling suitcases. Quiet piano music. Expensive perfume lingering in the air.
Jensen barely waited for the others before walking toward the reception desk.
The young receptionist smiled immediately in recognition.
- “Good evening, Mr Ackles.”
- “Hey. Uh… I actually wanted to ask you something.”
- “Of course.”
He rested his forearms casually against the marble counter.
- “The woman staying in room 1480… dark hair, european accent… she helped me last night with the door situation?”
Recognition flashed across her face instantly.
Then hesitation.
- “Ah… I’m not sure I can give personal information about guests, sir.”
- “Right, no, of course” - Jensen nodded quickly, charming smile appearing naturally. - “Totally understand. I just wanted to thank her properly. She kinda saved my night.”
The receptionist bit back a smile.
Jensen leaned a little closer conspiratorially.
- “And honestly? I think she might actually be some kind of international spy, so this may be my only chance.”
That made her laugh.
- “Her name is Ms. Irina Marković.”
There it was.
Irina.
Something about finally hearing her name made her suddenly feel more real.
Less like some strange fever dream from the middle of the night.
- “Marković” - he repeated softly.
The receptionist smiled knowingly now.
- “Would you like me to leave her a message?”
Jensen looked down for a second, thinking.
Then he grabbed one of the hotel pens.
❈
Ms. Diplomat,
Thank you again for saving me from committing a felony against my own bedroom door.
I’ll be at the hotel bar at 9PM if you’d like to let me repay my debt properly.
- Jensen
❈
- “Could you give this to her if she passes by?”
- “Of course.”
He thanked her and headed toward the elevators feeling significantly more pleased with himself than he should.
❈
An hour later, Jensen stood in front of the bathroom mirror fastening the last buttons of a dark charcoal shirt.
The shower steam still lingered through the room. His beard was trimmed, hair still slightly damp, expensive cologne warm against his skin.
On the bed beside him, his phone screen glowed softly.
IRINA MARKOVIĆ
Croatian diplomat.
Former advisor to the Croatian Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Specialized in Eastern European relations and post-war negotiations.
There were photos too.
Irina standing beside presidents and ambassadors.
Irina speaking at conferences.
Irina in elegant coats and sharp suits, always composed, always untouchable.
And somehow none of those pictures looked as beautiful as she had looked barefoot in silk pajamas laughing in that hotel corridor.
Jensen locked the phone and exhaled quietly.
This was ridiculous.
He was a grown man getting nervous over drinks with a woman he met less than twenty-four hours ago.
Still, he sprayed a little more cologne on his neck.
Just in case.
❈
The hotel bar was quieter than Jensen expected for a Friday night. Low jazz drifted through the room, mixing with the soft clinking of glasses and the muted hum of expensive conversations happening in dark corners. Warm amber lights reflected against polished bottles behind the counter, making everything feel softer than it really was.
He sat alone at the bar, one elbow resting against the wood, fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of whiskey.
9:07 PM.
The bartender had already asked twice if he wanted another drink.
- “Not yet,” Jensen had said the second time, glancing toward the entrance again.
No sign of her.
He told himself he didn’t care that much. It was just a drink. A thank you. A funny story to tell later.
Still, every time the elevator doors opened, his eyes lifted automatically.
His phone buzzed against the counter.
Danneel
The little warmth he’d built inside himself cooled immediately.
Jensen exhaled quietly before answering.
— “Hey.”
— “Finally.” Her voice came tired first. Then sharp. “I’ve been trying to call you for over an hour.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
— “We were finishing the convention stuff.”
— “You’re always finishing something.”
There it was.
He leaned back slightly on the stool, staring at the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar.
— “Dee…”
— “No, seriously, Jensen. I’m exhausted.” He could hear movement on the other side, drawers opening and closing aggressively. “The kids barely saw you this month. JJ had a school thing yesterday, Arrow keeps asking when you’re coming home, and I’m here doing everything alone while you fly around the world pretending this schedule is normal.”
His jaw tightened.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
That was the worst part.
— “I know.”
— “Do you?” she snapped. “Because every time we have this conversation you say you know, but nothing changes.”
He rubbed his hand down his face slowly, exhaustion settling into his bones.
— “What do you want me to do, Dee? Quit working?”
A bitter laugh came through the line.
— “You always do that.”
— “Do what?”
— “Make it sound impossible so we stop talking about it.”
Silence.
Heavy. Familiar. Old.
The bartender silently placed another whiskey in front of him after one look at his face.
Jensen mouthed a tired thank you.
— “We need to have a serious conversation when you get back,” Danneel said finally, quieter now. More dangerous somehow. “Because I can’t keep pretending this marriage is functioning normally.”
The word marriage lingered between them like smoke.
Jensen stared down at the amber liquid in his glass.
— “Okay.”
Another silence.
Then:
— “Goodnight, Jensen.”
The line went dead.
He stayed still for a few seconds, phone still pressed against his ear before lowering it slowly.
- “God.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, then over his mouth, exhaling hard through his nose. The whiskey suddenly tasted sharper, heavier.
9:40 PM.
He glanced at the entrance one more time and let out a humorless little laugh to himself.
Of course.
The mysterious diplomat had probably come to her senses.
He took another sip of his drink, eyes fixed on the glass now, already preparing himself to go upstairs looking vaguely pathetic—
— “Oh hi.”
Her voice hit him before his brain could process the rest.
Jensen turned immediately.
And there she was.
Thank you for checking into our little hotel in Monaco. New chapters every Sunday and Wednesday eve. 🥃
“Why is it that the best people seem to hide themselves away?”
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Original Female Character
Genre: angst, romance, emotional affair, tension, mature
Warnings: emotional infidelity, marriage issues, yearning, alcohol
— ❈ —
The breakfast room was already crowded when Jensen walked in, baseball cap low over his eyes, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his Henley. The smell of coffee, butter and expensive hotel perfume filled the air, mixed with low conversations in different languages.
Karl Urban was the first one to notice him.
- “Oi oi, look who survived the great hotel tragedy of last night.”
Jack Quaid nearly choked on his coffee laughing.
- “Dude, I still can’t believe you got locked out of your room. That’s so embarrassingly old-man coded.”
- “Fuck off “- Jensen muttered, grabbing a coffee pot from a nearby table. - “It wasn’t my fault, the damn lock died.”
- “Sure grandpa” - Karl said, not even looking up from his plate. - “Did ya forget the password too?”
Jensen rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he sat down with them.
- “I’m serious. Nobody could open the damn thing. Hotel staff, technician, everybody looked completely clueless.”
- “So what happened?” - Erin asked, curious.
Jensen poured coffee into his mug, leaning back on the chair.
- “Woman next door. She came out because of the noise. Asked what was going on.”
- “Hot?” - Karl asked instantly.
The table burst out laughing.
Jensen tried to hide his smile behind the mug.
- “I mean… yeah.”
- “Ahhhhh there we go.” - Karl pointed at him dramatically. - “There’s the important detail.”
- “She somehow knew a guy who taught her how to override electronic locks.” - Jensen ignored them. - “Called someone speaking fucking russian in the middle of the night, crouched in front of my door and unlocked it in thirty seconds.”
- “That sounds incredibly sexy” - Karl corrected casually, cutting into his pancakes.
Jensen shook his head with a quiet laugh.
- “Apparently she’s a diplomat too.”
- “A diplomat?” - Erin repeated, surprised.
- “Yeah. That’s literally what she told me when I asked if she was KGB or something.”
The table burst out laughing.
- “See?” - Karl pointed his fork dramatically. - “That is objectively hot.”
Jensen looked down at his coffee for a second, smiling despite himself.
He could still see her crouched in front of the door in black silk pajamas, long hair, messy from sleep, completely calm while everyone else around her looked useless.
The memory pulled an involuntary smile from him.
Jack pointed immediately.
- “Oh no. You’re smiling. This is serious.”
- “Brother… “- Karl leaned back dramatically. - “A mysterious hot diplomat hacker and ya didn’t even ask her bloody name?”
- “It was past midnight! I was tired.”
- “Excuses. Weak excuses.”
Jensen laughed under his breath, but before he could answer, his eyes instinctively drifted across the breakfast room again.
Slowly. Casually.
Scanning.
Businessmen. Families. Convention guests. Hotel staff.
No black silk pajamas.
No deep brown eyes.
No amused little smirk.
Nothing.
Something in his chest sank in a stupidly irrational way.
- “You’re doing it again” - Karl said around a sip of coffee.
- “Doing what?”
- “Looking for spy mommy.”
Jack laughed so hard he almost spilled orange juice on himself.
- “Spy mommy is insane, Karl.”
- “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Jensen shook his head, fighting a smile.
- “You people are unbelievable.”
But even as the conversation moved on, he caught himself glancing one last time toward the restaurant entrance.
Still nothing.
❈
Outside the hotel, the morning air was cold and buzzing with energy. Fans crowded behind barriers, screaming the second the cast stepped out through the revolving doors. Cameras flashed nonstop, security trying to keep a path open toward the black SUVs waiting by the curb.
- Jensen! Over here! - Soldier Boy!! - We love you!!
He slipped easily into the familiar rhythm of it all. Smiling, signing posters, taking phones for selfies, touching hands stretched desperately toward him.
A girl nearly cried when he hugged her.
Another handed him a tiny plastic Dean Winchester keychain.
- “This is for luck!” - she said breathlessly.
- “Thank you sweetheart” - he smiled warmly. - “I think I might actually need it after last night.”
The fans laughed, not understanding the joke but loving it anyway.
Then, between flashes and voices and sharpie signatures, his attention drifted.
To the side entrance of the hotel.
A small group emerged first. Men and women in tailored coats, talking quietly among themselves. Security moved differently around them, more discreet but more alert. Two black official cars waited near the curb, small flags attached to the front.
And then she appeared.
Jensen forgot the autograph he was signing halfway through his own name.
Irina walked beside two older diplomats, dark sunglasses covering her eyes, long hair perfectly sleek over her shoulders. The white pinstriped suit fit her like it had been made exclusively for her body, sharp and elegant and devastatingly expensive. Gold jewelry glinted softly against her skin every time she moved her hands while speaking.
She was laughing politely at something one of the men said, confident and composed, one hand holding her phone and leather gloves.
Not the barefoot woman in silk pajamas anymore.
Not warm.
Not sleepy.
Not teasing him in a hotel corridor at midnight.
This woman looked untouchable.
Important.
Dangerous, even.
And somehow that made her even hotter. Across the street, Irina turned slightly while one of her colleagues spoke to her.
For one suspended second, Jensen thought she might look toward him.
Instead, one of the drivers opened the car door for her and she disappeared smoothly inside the black vehicle.
The door shut.
The convoy pulled away.
And Jensen stood there smiling automatically for photos while feeling strangely… off balance.
- “Jensen!”
He blinked, turning back to a fan waiting nervously for a selfie.
- “Sorry sweetheart” - he smiled automatically. - “Of course.”
A few more photos, a few more autographs, and finally security started guiding them toward the cars.
Jensen exhaled quietly as he climbed into the SUV, rubbing a hand over his beard.
Beside him, Karl adjusted his sunglasses and glanced sideways.
- “Hey… you good?” - he asked casually. - “Ya kinda zoomed out back there.”
- “Yeah, I just… “- Jensen looked out the window for a second before shaking his head lightly. - “Nothing.”
Karl followed his gaze toward the street where the official cars had disappeared moments ago.
A slow grin appeared on his face.
- “Ahhhh. Mystery woman?”
Jensen looked down, trying and failing not to smile a little.
- “Shut up.”
Karl laughed quietly, leaning back against the seat.
- “Mate, she looked expensive.”
That finally pulled a real laugh out of Jensen.
- “Yeah” - he muttered, glancing once more toward the street outside. - “She really did.”
The convention center was loud from the moment Jensen stepped inside.
Fans screaming, people in cosplay, cameras everywhere, handlers trying to keep everything on schedule while panels changed every hour. It was the kind of chaos he knew by heart after years of conventions, something almost automatic by now. Smile here. Hug there. Tell a funny story. Make the crowd laugh.
And apparently, now he had a new one.
- “So I’m standing there at, like, one in the morning - he told the audience during the panel, leaning back in his chair while the crowd laughed already in anticipation - exhausted, locked out of my own hotel room, and the hotel staff is looking at me like I’m supposed to know how electronic locks work.”
The audience laughed.
- “And then this woman opens the door next to mine wearing silk pajamas looking like she walked straight out of a Bond movie”—
More screams.
— “speaks russian on the phone with some mysterious guy and unlocks my door in thirty seconds.”
The crowd exploded.
Jack leaned toward his mic dramatically.
- “Jensen got rescued by a spy.”
- ”That’s exactly what I said! “- Jensen pointed at him laughing. - “I literally asked if she was KGB.”
- “Was she?” - someone screamed from the crowd.
Jensen made an exasperated clueless expression
- “I still don’t know!”
The audience made a collective ooooohhhh sound.
- “See?” - Jack spread his arms. - “Sexy spy.”
Jensen laughed and shook his head, moving on before anybody could notice the way the memory still sat warm somewhere in the middle of his chest.
But through the whole day, between photo ops and backstage breaks and panels, she kept slipping into his thoughts at random moments.
A flash of black silk.
Her laugh in the corridor.
“You owe me a drink. For real.”
And the worst part was that he still didn’t know her name.
❈
The ride back to the hotel was quieter.
Everyone looked exhausted, spread lazily across the SUV seats while the city lights passed outside the windows. Jack had headphones on already. Someone in the back was half asleep.
Jensen sat by the window with his phone in hand, frowning slightly at the screen.
Karl glanced sideways from behind his sunglasses.
- “What the hell are ya doing?” - “Nothing.”
Karl leaned slightly to peek at the screen.
Searches:
UN conference Monaco
Female diplomats Monaco event hotel
Karl blinked slowly.
- “Mate… why are ya googling geopolitics?”
Jensen snorted quietly.
- “I’m trying to figure out who that woman was.”
- “The spy one?”
- “She helped me last night. I wanna thank her properly.”
Karl stared at him for two full seconds before bursting into laughter.
- “You absolute idiot.”
- “What?”
- “Didn’t she tell ya her room number?”
Jensen paused.
Silence.
Then:
- “…fuck.”
Karl slapped the seat laughing.
- “Ya spent all day searching “hot european diplomats” instead of just asking the front desk?”
- “Shut up.”
- “Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless.”
Even Jensen laughed then, rubbing a hand over his beard.
- “Okay, yeah, maybe I’m tired.”
- “Maybe your brain stopped working after the silk pajamas.”
- “Karl.”
- “ I’m just saying.”
❈
The hotel lobby buzzed softly with elegant evening noise when they arrived back.
Rolling suitcases. Quiet piano music. Expensive perfume lingering in the air.
Jensen barely waited for the others before walking toward the reception desk.
The young receptionist smiled immediately in recognition.
- “Good evening, Mr Ackles.”
- “Hey. Uh… I actually wanted to ask you something.”
- “Of course.”
He rested his forearms casually against the marble counter.
- “The woman staying in room 1480… dark hair, european accent… she helped me last night with the door situation?”
Recognition flashed across her face instantly.
Then hesitation.
- “Ah… I’m not sure I can give personal information about guests, sir.”
- “Right, no, of course” - Jensen nodded quickly, charming smile appearing naturally. - “Totally understand. I just wanted to thank her properly. She kinda saved my night.”
The receptionist bit back a smile.
Jensen leaned a little closer conspiratorially.
- “And honestly? I think she might actually be some kind of international spy, so this may be my only chance.”
That made her laugh.
- “Her name is Ms. Irina Marković.”
There it was.
Irina.
Something about finally hearing her name made her suddenly feel more real.
Less like some strange fever dream from the middle of the night.
- “Marković” - he repeated softly.
The receptionist smiled knowingly now.
- “Would you like me to leave her a message?”
Jensen looked down for a second, thinking.
Then he grabbed one of the hotel pens.
❈
Ms. Diplomat,
Thank you again for saving me from committing a felony against my own bedroom door.
I’ll be at the hotel bar at 9PM if you’d like to let me repay my debt properly.
- Jensen
❈
- “Could you give this to her if she passes by?”
- “Of course.”
He thanked her and headed toward the elevators feeling significantly more pleased with himself than he should.
❈
An hour later, Jensen stood in front of the bathroom mirror fastening the last buttons of a dark charcoal shirt.
The shower steam still lingered through the room. His beard was trimmed, hair still slightly damp, expensive cologne warm against his skin.
On the bed beside him, his phone screen glowed softly.
IRINA MARKOVIĆ
Croatian diplomat.
Former advisor to the Croatian Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Specialized in Eastern European relations and post-war negotiations.
There were photos too.
Irina standing beside presidents and ambassadors.
Irina speaking at conferences.
Irina in elegant coats and sharp suits, always composed, always untouchable.
And somehow none of those pictures looked as beautiful as she had looked barefoot in silk pajamas laughing in that hotel corridor.
Jensen locked the phone and exhaled quietly.
This was ridiculous.
He was a grown man getting nervous over drinks with a woman he met less than twenty-four hours ago.
Still, he sprayed a little more cologne on his neck.
Just in case.
❈
The hotel bar was quieter than Jensen expected for a Friday night. Low jazz drifted through the room, mixing with the soft clinking of glasses and the muted hum of expensive conversations happening in dark corners. Warm amber lights reflected against polished bottles behind the counter, making everything feel softer than it really was.
He sat alone at the bar, one elbow resting against the wood, fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of whiskey.
9:07 PM.
The bartender had already asked twice if he wanted another drink.
- “Not yet,” Jensen had said the second time, glancing toward the entrance again.
No sign of her.
He told himself he didn’t care that much. It was just a drink. A thank you. A funny story to tell later.
Still, every time the elevator doors opened, his eyes lifted automatically.
His phone buzzed against the counter.
Danneel
The little warmth he’d built inside himself cooled immediately.
Jensen exhaled quietly before answering.
— “Hey.”
— “Finally.” Her voice came tired first. Then sharp. “I’ve been trying to call you for over an hour.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
— “We were finishing the convention stuff.”
— “You’re always finishing something.”
There it was.
He leaned back slightly on the stool, staring at the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar.
— “Dee…”
— “No, seriously, Jensen. I’m exhausted.” He could hear movement on the other side, drawers opening and closing aggressively. “The kids barely saw you this month. JJ had a school thing yesterday, Arrow keeps asking when you’re coming home, and I’m here doing everything alone while you fly around the world pretending this schedule is normal.”
His jaw tightened.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
That was the worst part.
— “I know.”
— “Do you?” she snapped. “Because every time we have this conversation you say you know, but nothing changes.”
He rubbed his hand down his face slowly, exhaustion settling into his bones.
— “What do you want me to do, Dee? Quit working?”
A bitter laugh came through the line.
— “You always do that.”
— “Do what?”
— “Make it sound impossible so we stop talking about it.”
Silence.
Heavy. Familiar. Old.
The bartender silently placed another whiskey in front of him after one look at his face.
Jensen mouthed a tired thank you.
— “We need to have a serious conversation when you get back,” Danneel said finally, quieter now. More dangerous somehow. “Because I can’t keep pretending this marriage is functioning normally.”
The word marriage lingered between them like smoke.
Jensen stared down at the amber liquid in his glass.
— “Okay.”
Another silence.
Then:
— “Goodnight, Jensen.”
The line went dead.
He stayed still for a few seconds, phone still pressed against his ear before lowering it slowly.
- “God.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, then over his mouth, exhaling hard through his nose. The whiskey suddenly tasted sharper, heavier.
9:40 PM.
He glanced at the entrance one more time and let out a humorless little laugh to himself.
Of course.
The mysterious diplomat had probably come to her senses.
He took another sip of his drink, eyes fixed on the glass now, already preparing himself to go upstairs looking vaguely pathetic—
— “Oh hi.”
Her voice hit him before his brain could process the rest.
Jensen turned immediately.
And there she was.
Thank you for checking into our little hotel in Monaco. New chapters every Sunday and Wednesday eve. 🥃
“There are moments when one is ready to spend whole years in the hope of a single minute of happiness.”
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Original Female Character
Genre: angst, romance, emotional affair, tension, mature
Warnings: emotional infidelity, marriage issues, yearning, alcohol
— ❈ —
It was past midnight when Irina finally closed her laptop and leaned back against the pillows with a long, exhausted breath.
“Well,” she murmured to herself, rubbing tired eyes, “it can’t get any better than that.”
She tossed the laptop aside onto the large hotel bed, switched off the lights, and sank deeper into the soft mattress with relief. Pulling the silk sleep mask over her eyes, she finally allowed her body to relax.
“This is not possible, pal!”
A rough, frustrated male voice suddenly echoed through the corridor outside.
“Monsieur, there’s nothing we can do…” another voice replied softly, thick with a French accent and already exhausted.
Irina pulled the mask back up immediately.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”
She stayed still for a moment, hoping the situation outside would solve itself.
It didn’t.
“Sir, I just—” the rough voice broke off in disbelief. “I just wanna sleep in my room, that’s all. I don’t want another room. I want my stuff.”
A third voice joined in now, colder, noticeably less patient.
“It’s past midnight, sir. There is nothing else we can do tonight. Tomorrow the company will come fix it.”
Irina sighed heavily and sat up in bed.
Not because she cared about the situation itself.
But because she desperately needed sleep.
With another annoyed exhale, she climbed out of bed and crossed the room barefoot. She didn’t even bother putting on a robe — the black silk pajamas were decent enough — and cracked the door open slightly, peeking into the hallway.
“Bonsoir,” she asked carefully. “Tout va bien ici?”
One of the hotel employees immediately turned toward her with an apologetic smile, assuring her everything was under control.
The man standing beside them, however, looked anything but fine.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Baseball cap pulled low.
Beard.
And painfully familiar green eyes.
Irina blinked once in surprise before a small involuntary smile curled at her lips.
“Well,” she said, opening the door a little wider, “you definitely don’t look okay.”
The tension in his expression softened instantly at the sound of English.
“Not really,” he admitted with a tired sigh. “I’m locked out of my room and apparently nobody can do anything about it.”
Irina glanced toward the electronic lock.
“That’s deeply concerning for a five-star hotel.”
That finally earned a laugh from him.
She stepped a little farther into the corridor, crossing her arms against the cold air conditioning. The movement tightened the silk fabric slightly against her body, though she didn’t notice.
“Did they already call a technician?” she asked.
“Apparently.” He dragged a hand through his hair before scratching his beard tiredly. “Guy showed up, stared at the door for ten minutes like it personally offended him, then left.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
His eyes dropped briefly before lifting back to her face again.
They exchanged a quick smile.
Trying not to make it obvious that she absolutely knew who he was, Irina turned toward the hotel staff and started asking questions in French, translating pieces of the conversation back to him as calmly as possible.
Every time she turned back toward him, though, she found those tired green eyes already on her.
Watching hopefully.
Like maybe she might somehow magically fix the entire situation.
“Wait,” she said suddenly, lifting a finger slightly. “I think I know someone who can help.”
Without thinking much about it, she squeezed Jensen’s arm lightly before turning toward her room.
He blinked in surprise, glancing briefly at her hand before looking back up at her with a tired grin.
“Oh, thank God,” he laughed. “Because I was about two seconds away from kicking that door down.”
Irina turned back dramatically.
“Well, if that’s the case, be my guest.”
She gestured toward the locked door with exaggerated politeness.
“Since I was fourteen, I’ve dreamed of seeing Dean Winchester kick a door open in real life.”
That made him laugh properly.
For a second, Jensen actually looked shy.
He lowered his head with a crooked smile, slipping his hands into his pockets before looking back up at her.
“Well… if you insist.”
But the hotel employee immediately stepped between them in alarm.
“Sir, please don’t do that.”
Then he turned toward Irina with a deeply judgmental look that clearly said:
Do not encourage him.
She and Jensen exchanged the exact same guilty glance like two teenagers about to do something stupid.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispered.
A minute later, Irina returned with her phone pressed against her ear.
A man’s voice echoed rapidly through the speaker in Russian while she crouched in front of the electronic lock.
“Да, да, я знаю,” she muttered back. “Именно поэтому я звоню вам в час ночи.”
The man laughed loudly on the other end.
Irina rolled her eyes immediately.
“Да заткнись. Если это взорвётся, я буду винить лично тебя.”
Behind her, silence.
She could practically feel Jensen and the hotel employees staring while she examined the keypad carefully.
“Ждать,” the voice instructed.
Irina pressed a sequence of buttons.
Nothing.
She stared at the lock blankly.
“Большой,” she deadpanned into the phone. “Вот так я и умру. В коридоре французского отеля.”
That earned an actual laugh from Jensen.
“Okay, seriously,” he asked, folding his arms while watching her work. “Who are you? Some kind of KGB spy?”
Still focused on the keypad, she smirked faintly.
“Almost,” she replied. “Diplomat.”
Another beep echoed through the corridor.
Then—
Click.
The lock released.
“Voilà.”
Irina stood up slowly, brushing her hands together in triumph.
Behind her, the hotel employees looked both horrified and impressed.
She thanked her friend in Russian, promising him a drink the next time they crossed paths in Geneva, then ended the call.
For a second, nobody moved.
Jensen simply stared at her with raised eyebrows.
“Well,” he said slowly, glancing from her to the unlocked door. “That was incredibly hot.”
Irina looked up at him in surprise.
His own eyes widened slightly right after the words left his mouth, like he hadn’t actually meant to say them out loud.
A laugh escaped her immediately.
“You owe me a drink,” she said, already stepping backward toward her room. “A real one.”
Jensen opened his mouth — probably to thank her — but she was already walking barefoot down the corridor.
“Room 1458,” she called casually over her shoulder. “I’ll wait for the invitation at reception.”
Her tone was light.
Playful.
But not entirely joking.
Before he could answer, she slipped back inside her room and quietly closed the door behind her.
Silence settled over the corridor again.
The two hotel employees slowly turned toward Jensen.
“Sir…” one of them asked carefully. “Is there anything else we can help you with?”
For a moment, Jensen didn’t answer.
Still staring at the closed door across the hallway.
Still trying to process whatever the hell had just happened.
Finally, he shook his head slightly, letting out a disbelieving laugh.
“No,” he muttered. “I think I’m good.”
He thanked them distractedly before stepping inside his room and shutting the door behind him.
Then he just stood there for a moment.
Exhausted.
Confused.
His exhaustion was still there, heavy behind his eyes — but underneath it now lived something sharper.
Warmer.
Restless.
Who the hell was that woman?
Comments, screams and emotional damage are always appreciated. 🖤
“There are moments when one is ready to spend whole years in the hope of a single minute of happiness.”
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Original Female Character
Genre: angst, romance, emotional affair, tension, mature
Warnings: emotional infidelity, marriage issues, yearning, alcohol
— ❈ —
It was past midnight when Irina finally closed her laptop and leaned back against the pillows with a long, exhausted breath.
“Well,” she murmured to herself, rubbing tired eyes, “it can’t get any better than that.”
She tossed the laptop aside onto the large hotel bed, switched off the lights, and sank deeper into the soft mattress with relief. Pulling the silk sleep mask over her eyes, she finally allowed her body to relax.
“This is not possible, pal!”
A rough, frustrated male voice suddenly echoed through the corridor outside.
“Monsieur, there’s nothing we can do…” another voice replied softly, thick with a French accent and already exhausted.
Irina pulled the mask back up immediately.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”
She stayed still for a moment, hoping the situation outside would solve itself.
It didn’t.
“Sir, I just—” the rough voice broke off in disbelief. “I just wanna sleep in my room, that’s all. I don’t want another room. I want my stuff.”
A third voice joined in now, colder, noticeably less patient.
“It’s past midnight, sir. There is nothing else we can do tonight. Tomorrow the company will come fix it.”
Irina sighed heavily and sat up in bed.
Not because she cared about the situation itself.
But because she desperately needed sleep.
With another annoyed exhale, she climbed out of bed and crossed the room barefoot. She didn’t even bother putting on a robe — the black silk pajamas were decent enough — and cracked the door open slightly, peeking into the hallway.
“Bonsoir,” she asked carefully. “Tout va bien ici?”
One of the hotel employees immediately turned toward her with an apologetic smile, assuring her everything was under control.
The man standing beside them, however, looked anything but fine.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Baseball cap pulled low.
Beard.
And painfully familiar green eyes.
Irina blinked once in surprise before a small involuntary smile curled at her lips.
“Well,” she said, opening the door a little wider, “you definitely don’t look okay.”
The tension in his expression softened instantly at the sound of English.
“Not really,” he admitted with a tired sigh. “I’m locked out of my room and apparently nobody can do anything about it.”
Irina glanced toward the electronic lock.
“That’s deeply concerning for a five-star hotel.”
That finally earned a laugh from him.
She stepped a little farther into the corridor, crossing her arms against the cold air conditioning. The movement tightened the silk fabric slightly against her body, though she didn’t notice.
“Did they already call a technician?” she asked.
“Apparently.” He dragged a hand through his hair before scratching his beard tiredly. “Guy showed up, stared at the door for ten minutes like it personally offended him, then left.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
His eyes dropped briefly before lifting back to her face again.
They exchanged a quick smile.
Trying not to make it obvious that she absolutely knew who he was, Irina turned toward the hotel staff and started asking questions in French, translating pieces of the conversation back to him as calmly as possible.
Every time she turned back toward him, though, she found those tired green eyes already on her.
Watching hopefully.
Like maybe she might somehow magically fix the entire situation.
“Wait,” she said suddenly, lifting a finger slightly. “I think I know someone who can help.”
Without thinking much about it, she squeezed Jensen’s arm lightly before turning toward her room.
He blinked in surprise, glancing briefly at her hand before looking back up at her with a tired grin.
“Oh, thank God,” he laughed. “Because I was about two seconds away from kicking that door down.”
Irina turned back dramatically.
“Well, if that’s the case, be my guest.”
She gestured toward the locked door with exaggerated politeness.
“Since I was fourteen, I’ve dreamed of seeing Dean Winchester kick a door open in real life.”
That made him laugh properly.
For a second, Jensen actually looked shy.
He lowered his head with a crooked smile, slipping his hands into his pockets before looking back up at her.
“Well… if you insist.”
But the hotel employee immediately stepped between them in alarm.
“Sir, please don’t do that.”
Then he turned toward Irina with a deeply judgmental look that clearly said:
Do not encourage him.
She and Jensen exchanged the exact same guilty glance like two teenagers about to do something stupid.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispered.
A minute later, Irina returned with her phone pressed against her ear.
A man’s voice echoed rapidly through the speaker in Russian while she crouched in front of the electronic lock.
“Да, да, я знаю,” she muttered back. “Именно поэтому я звоню вам в час ночи.”
The man laughed loudly on the other end.
Irina rolled her eyes immediately.
“Да заткнись. Если это взорвётся, я буду винить лично тебя.”
Behind her, silence.
She could practically feel Jensen and the hotel employees staring while she examined the keypad carefully.
“Ждать,” the voice instructed.
Irina pressed a sequence of buttons.
Nothing.
She stared at the lock blankly.
“Большой,” she deadpanned into the phone. “Вот так я и умру. В коридоре французского отеля.”
That earned an actual laugh from Jensen.
“Okay, seriously,” he asked, folding his arms while watching her work. “Who are you? Some kind of KGB spy?”
Still focused on the keypad, she smirked faintly.
“Almost,” she replied. “Diplomat.”
Another beep echoed through the corridor.
Then—
Click.
The lock released.
“Voilà.”
Irina stood up slowly, brushing her hands together in triumph.
Behind her, the hotel employees looked both horrified and impressed.
She thanked her friend in Russian, promising him a drink the next time they crossed paths in Geneva, then ended the call.
For a second, nobody moved.
Jensen simply stared at her with raised eyebrows.
“Well,” he said slowly, glancing from her to the unlocked door. “That was incredibly hot.”
Irina looked up at him in surprise.
His own eyes widened slightly right after the words left his mouth, like he hadn’t actually meant to say them out loud.
A laugh escaped her immediately.
“You owe me a drink,” she said, already stepping backward toward her room. “A real one.”
Jensen opened his mouth — probably to thank her — but she was already walking barefoot down the corridor.
“Room 1458,” she called casually over her shoulder. “I’ll wait for the invitation at reception.”
Her tone was light.
Playful.
But not entirely joking.
Before he could answer, she slipped back inside her room and quietly closed the door behind her.
Silence settled over the corridor again.
The two hotel employees slowly turned toward Jensen.
“Sir…” one of them asked carefully. “Is there anything else we can help you with?”
For a moment, Jensen didn’t answer.
Still staring at the closed door across the hallway.
Still trying to process whatever the hell had just happened.
Finally, he shook his head slightly, letting out a disbelieving laugh.
“No,” he muttered. “I think I’m good.”
He thanked them distractedly before stepping inside his room and shutting the door behind him.
Then he just stood there for a moment.
Exhausted.
Confused.
His exhaustion was still there, heavy behind his eyes — but underneath it now lived something sharper.
Warmer.
Restless.
Who the hell was that woman?
Comments, screams and emotional damage are always appreciated. 🖤
“There are moments when one is ready to spend whole years in the hope of a single minute of happiness.”
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Original Female Character
Genre: angst, romance, emotional affair, tension, mature
Warnings: emotional infidelity, marriage issues, yearning, alcohol
— ❈ —
It was past midnight when Irina finally closed her laptop and leaned back against the pillows with a long, exhausted breath.
“Well,” she murmured to herself, rubbing tired eyes, “it can’t get any better than that.”
She tossed the laptop aside onto the large hotel bed, switched off the lights, and sank deeper into the soft mattress with relief. Pulling the silk sleep mask over her eyes, she finally allowed her body to relax.
“This is not possible, pal!”
A rough, frustrated male voice suddenly echoed through the corridor outside.
“Monsieur, there’s nothing we can do…” another voice replied softly, thick with a French accent and already exhausted.
Irina pulled the mask back up immediately.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”
She stayed still for a moment, hoping the situation outside would solve itself.
It didn’t.
“Sir, I just—” the rough voice broke off in disbelief. “I just wanna sleep in my room, that’s all. I don’t want another room. I want my stuff.”
A third voice joined in now, colder, noticeably less patient.
“It’s past midnight, sir. There is nothing else we can do tonight. Tomorrow the company will come fix it.”
Irina sighed heavily and sat up in bed.
Not because she cared about the situation itself.
But because she desperately needed sleep.
With another annoyed exhale, she climbed out of bed and crossed the room barefoot. She didn’t even bother putting on a robe — the black silk pajamas were decent enough — and cracked the door open slightly, peeking into the hallway.
“Bonsoir,” she asked carefully. “Tout va bien ici?”
One of the hotel employees immediately turned toward her with an apologetic smile, assuring her everything was under control.
The man standing beside them, however, looked anything but fine.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Baseball cap pulled low.
Beard.
And painfully familiar green eyes.
Irina blinked once in surprise before a small involuntary smile curled at her lips.
“Well,” she said, opening the door a little wider, “you definitely don’t look okay.”
The tension in his expression softened instantly at the sound of English.
“Not really,” he admitted with a tired sigh. “I’m locked out of my room and apparently nobody can do anything about it.”
Irina glanced toward the electronic lock.
“That’s deeply concerning for a five-star hotel.”
That finally earned a laugh from him.
She stepped a little farther into the corridor, crossing her arms against the cold air conditioning. The movement tightened the silk fabric slightly against her body, though she didn’t notice.
“Did they already call a technician?” she asked.
“Apparently.” He dragged a hand through his hair before scratching his beard tiredly. “Guy showed up, stared at the door for ten minutes like it personally offended him, then left.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
His eyes dropped briefly before lifting back to her face again.
They exchanged a quick smile.
Trying not to make it obvious that she absolutely knew who he was, Irina turned toward the hotel staff and started asking questions in French, translating pieces of the conversation back to him as calmly as possible.
Every time she turned back toward him, though, she found those tired green eyes already on her.
Watching hopefully.
Like maybe she might somehow magically fix the entire situation.
“Wait,” she said suddenly, lifting a finger slightly. “I think I know someone who can help.”
Without thinking much about it, she squeezed Jensen’s arm lightly before turning toward her room.
He blinked in surprise, glancing briefly at her hand before looking back up at her with a tired grin.
“Oh, thank God,” he laughed. “Because I was about two seconds away from kicking that door down.”
Irina turned back dramatically.
“Well, if that’s the case, be my guest.”
She gestured toward the locked door with exaggerated politeness.
“Since I was fourteen, I’ve dreamed of seeing Dean Winchester kick a door open in real life.”
That made him laugh properly.
For a second, Jensen actually looked shy.
He lowered his head with a crooked smile, slipping his hands into his pockets before looking back up at her.
“Well… if you insist.”
But the hotel employee immediately stepped between them in alarm.
“Sir, please don’t do that.”
Then he turned toward Irina with a deeply judgmental look that clearly said:
Do not encourage him.
She and Jensen exchanged the exact same guilty glance like two teenagers about to do something stupid.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispered.
A minute later, Irina returned with her phone pressed against her ear.
A man’s voice echoed rapidly through the speaker in Russian while she crouched in front of the electronic lock.
“Да, да, я знаю,” she muttered back. “Именно поэтому я звоню вам в час ночи.”
The man laughed loudly on the other end.
Irina rolled her eyes immediately.
“Да заткнись. Если это взорвётся, я буду винить лично тебя.”
Behind her, silence.
She could practically feel Jensen and the hotel employees staring while she examined the keypad carefully.
“Ждать,” the voice instructed.
Irina pressed a sequence of buttons.
Nothing.
She stared at the lock blankly.
“Большой,” she deadpanned into the phone. “Вот так я и умру. В коридоре французского отеля.”
That earned an actual laugh from Jensen.
“Okay, seriously,” he asked, folding his arms while watching her work. “Who are you? Some kind of KGB spy?”
Still focused on the keypad, she smirked faintly.
“Almost,” she replied. “Diplomat.”
Another beep echoed through the corridor.
Then—
Click.
The lock released.
“Voilà.”
Irina stood up slowly, brushing her hands together in triumph.
Behind her, the hotel employees looked both horrified and impressed.
She thanked her friend in Russian, promising him a drink the next time they crossed paths in Geneva, then ended the call.
For a second, nobody moved.
Jensen simply stared at her with raised eyebrows.
“Well,” he said slowly, glancing from her to the unlocked door. “That was incredibly hot.”
Irina looked up at him in surprise.
His own eyes widened slightly right after the words left his mouth, like he hadn’t actually meant to say them out loud.
A laugh escaped her immediately.
“You owe me a drink,” she said, already stepping backward toward her room. “A real one.”
Jensen opened his mouth — probably to thank her — but she was already walking barefoot down the corridor.
“Room 1458,” she called casually over her shoulder. “I’ll wait for the invitation at reception.”
Her tone was light.
Playful.
But not entirely joking.
Before he could answer, she slipped back inside her room and quietly closed the door behind her.
Silence settled over the corridor again.
The two hotel employees slowly turned toward Jensen.
“Sir…” one of them asked carefully. “Is there anything else we can help you with?”
For a moment, Jensen didn’t answer.
Still staring at the closed door across the hallway.
Still trying to process whatever the hell had just happened.
Finally, he shook his head slightly, letting out a disbelieving laugh.
“No,” he muttered. “I think I’m good.”
He thanked them distractedly before stepping inside his room and shutting the door behind him.
Then he just stood there for a moment.
Exhausted.
Confused.
His exhaustion was still there, heavy behind his eyes — but underneath it now lived something sharper.
Warmer.
Restless.
Who the hell was that woman?
Comments, screams and emotional damage are always appreciated. 🖤
After a dinner time that felt more like a witch hunt trial, Hope and Freya try to convince Minna to stay and help them, but perhaps Klaus ways can be more persuasive.
Freya guided Minna through the long corridor in silence.
Hope walked beside them, her small hand gently holding Minna’s wrist as if afraid she might disappear.
Minna barely noticed.
Her mind was still trapped in the courtyard.
The candlelight.
The accusing gaze.
The humiliation.
By the time they reached the bedroom Freya had prepared for her, Minna felt as though something inside her chest was about to explode.
The room was beautiful.
Large windows framed by dark velvet curtains.
A massive bed with soft ivory sheets.
Antique furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum rather than a house.
Minna stepped inside.
The door closed behind them.
And suddenly everything crashed down.
Her shoulders began to shake.
A sharp breath escaped her lips.
Then the tears came.
Not soft tears.
Not quiet ones.
Furious ones.
Minna sat heavily on the edge of the bed, pressing her palms against her face as if trying to hold herself together.
Hope immediately moved closer.
“It’s okay,” she said gently.
She reached for a robe lying across the bed and carefully wrapped it around Minna’s shoulders.
Freya crossed the room and poured a glass of water from a crystal decanter resting on the bedside table.
“I’m truly sorry,” she said softly, offering the glass.
“About Elijah.”
Minna took the glass but barely looked at her.
Her breathing slowly steadied.
Then she laughed.
A short, bitter sound.
“I’m sorry, Freya,” she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“But your brother is a despicable man.”
Freya sighed quietly.
Minna continued before she could respond.
“I was kidnapped from my flat,” she said, her voice growing sharper with every word.
“Poisoned.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Put in a box by that Viking idiot and shipped across the ocean as if I were a package from Shein.”
Hope blinked.
Freya couldn't stop the small, embarrassed smile that slipped through.
Minna wiped her face again, letting out another disbelieving laugh.
“And even though you all play kindness…” she continued, gesturing vaguely toward the door.
“I know I’m being kept here as a prisoner.”
Freya opened her mouth to respond.
But Minna was already standing.
“I’m not stupid,” she said firmly.
“You’re the Mikaelson family. Your reputation precedes you.”
She paced the room now, searching for the small bag that had been brought with her.
“But the truth is,” she said, turning back toward them, “I don’t have all the answers.”
Her voice softened for a moment.
“I don’t know why I’m like this.”
“I don’t know why I’m here.”
Then her gaze shifted to Hope.
Something gentler appeared in her expression.
She reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair away from the girl's face.
“But I was willing to help,” she said quietly.
Hope gave her a small hopeful smile.
Minna sighed.
“But I won’t stay here just to deal with some posh man’s arrogant nonsense.”
She moved across the room, opening drawers and glancing around as if searching for her things.
“I’ll gladly walk right back out that door and figure the rest out myself.”
Freya watched her carefully.
Then she spoke.
“Minna.”
Her tone was calm.
Steady.
“You’re not a prisoner.”
Minna stopped moving but didn’t turn around.
Freya continued gently.
“You're here because something very strange is happening to our family… and somehow, you’re connected to it.”
Minna slowly looked over her shoulder.
Freya met her gaze.
“And believe me,” she added softly, “if Elijah realizes he hurt someone who might be able to help Hope…”
A faint smile touched her lips.
“…he will regret it far more than you think.”
Hope nodded firmly beside her.
“He already looks like he swallowed a brick.”
The room had fallen quiet after Freya and Hope left.
Too quiet.
Minna stood in the middle of it, wrapped in the black satin robe Hope had placed around her shoulders. The fabric slid softly against her skin every time she moved, cool and light.
She hadn’t bothered tying it.
Outside the tall window, the last traces of sunset had faded into deep blue evening. The city lights of New Orleans shimmered faintly in the distance.
Minna stared out at them, arms loosely folded.
Her eyes were dry now.
But the faint redness beneath them betrayed the tears that had come before.
A soft knock broke the silence.
She didn’t turn.
The door opened slowly.
“May I come in?”
Klaus Mikaelson’s voice carried that familiar velvet tone — polite, smooth, but with something dangerous curled beneath it.
Minna exhaled softly.
“Well,” she said without looking back, “you already opened the door.”
Klaus stepped inside.
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
For a moment he simply observed her.
The robe had slipped slightly across her shoulders.
The satin parted just enough for the candlelight to trace the line of her collarbone… the curve of her waist… the long pale length of her back.
Klaus’s gaze lingered.
Predatory.
Curious.
Appreciative.
Finally he spoke.
“I came to apologize.”
That made Minna glance over her shoulder.
One eyebrow lifted.
“Did you now?”
Klaus walked further into the room, his movements slow, deliberate.
“My brother’s behavior at dinner was…” he paused briefly, choosing the word, “…unacceptable.”
Minna turned fully toward him now.
“Oh good,” she said dryly. “Because for a moment I thought humiliating your guests was part of the family tradition.”
A faint smirk touched Klaus’s lips.
“Only the ones we find interesting.”
Minna studied him carefully.
“You kidnapped me.”
“Yes.”
“You poisoned me.”
“A temporary inconvenience.”
“You shipped me across the Atlantic in a coffin.”
“Technically a box.”
Minna let out a tired laugh, rubbing her temple.
“And now you’re apologizing.”
Klaus tilted his head slightly.
“I am capable of manners when the situation calls for it.”
His eyes drifted again — briefly — to the robe.
Minna followed his gaze.
Then looked down at herself.
There was a pause.
Ah.
The robe was still very much open.
For half a second neither of them moved.
Then Minna calmly pulled the satin closed and tied the belt around her waist.
Not hurried.
Not embarrassed.
Just practical.
“Well,” she said, looking back up at him, “enjoy the view while it lasted.”
Klaus chuckled softly.
“I certainly did.”
Silence settled between them again, though it felt different now.
Charged.
Evaluating.
Klaus leaned casually against a nearby table, studying her with open fascination.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he observed.
Minna shrugged.
“Hm, well you do have a reputation..”
“And now?”
She tilted her head slightly.
“Now I’m mostly tired.”
That answer made Klaus laugh under his breath.
“Honesty. Refreshing.”
Minna walked slowly across the room and sat at the edge of the bed again.
“You wanted something,” she said. “People like you rarely visit rooms just to apologize.”
Klaus’s eyes glinted.
“You’re very perceptive.”
“I’ve had a strange evening.”
He pushed away from the table and stepped closer.
Not threatening.
But undeniably present.
“You intrigue me,” Klaus said simply.
Minna snorted softly.
“That makes one of us.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
She looked up at him.
“For the record,” she said, “your brother is still an insufferable snob.”
Klaus grinned.
“On that matter we are in perfect agreement.”
That surprised a small laugh out of her.
And for the first time since arriving at the compound, Minna relaxed slightly.
Klaus noticed.
Of course he did.
His gaze softened just a fraction.
“You defended yourself rather spectacularly tonight,” he added.
Minna groaned quietly.
“Please don’t remind me.”
“I assure you,” Klaus said, amusement dancing in his voice, “it will be remembered for centuries.”
She rubbed her face with both hands.
“Wonderful.”
Klaus watched her for a moment longer.
Then his tone shifted slightly.
More serious now.
“Tell me something, Minna.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“You truly do not remember who you were?”
Something flickered across her face.
A shadow.
“Nothing,” she said quietly.
Klaus studied her carefully.
And in that moment something unfamiliar stirred in him.
Not just curiosity.
Not just attraction.
Something deeper.
Something that made the game far more interesting.
He straightened slightly.
“Well,” he said smoothly, “in that case…”
His eyes held hers.
“…perhaps we’ll have to discover it together.”
Minna studied Klaus carefully after his question.
She leaned back slightly against the headboard, the candlelight flickering across her features.
“I’ve already told you what I know,” she said, her voice quieter now.
Klaus didn’t interrupt.
Minna exhaled slowly.
“The sisters who found me said I was dying when they brought me to the convent,” she explained. “They believed I had already been turned into a vampire… and that I threw myself into the river to end it.”
Her fingers absentmindedly traced the satin belt of the robe.
“They saved me. Or thought they did.”
Klaus watched her carefully.
“And before that?” he asked softly.
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
A small shrug followed.
“I don’t remember my mortal life. Not my name, not my family, nothing.”
She looked up at him again, almost amused by his intensity.
“Honestly? I’ve never thought it mattered much.”
Klaus tilted his head slightly.
“That is a rather unusual attitude.”
“Well,” she said dryly, “whatever tragic life I apparently had ended centuries ago. I’ve had quite enough time to move on.”
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the window.
“The only mystery I once cared about is why sunlight doesn’t burn me.”
Then she added with a faint smile,
“But even that… I’ve grown used to.”
Klaus remained silent for a moment.
Studying her.
Measuring every word.
Finally he spoke again.
“May I try something?”
Minna frowned slightly.
“What kind of something?”
Klaus’s voice softened, though his eyes remained sharp.
“I could look into your mind.”
Her brow lifted.
“You mean compel me.”
“Yes.”
Minna stared at him.
“You want to rummage through my head like a drawer?”
“Only briefly.”
She sighed and rubbed her eyes.
The exhaustion of the evening was finally catching up with her.
“You know what,” she muttered, “fine.”
Klaus blinked.
That had been easier than expected.
Minna gestured vaguely toward him.
“Go ahead. If there’s some grand conspiracy hiding in there, you’re welcome to find it.”
She shifted slightly on the bed, making space beside her.
Klaus approached slowly.
The mattress dipped as he sat down.
The space between them vanished.
Suddenly the air felt heavier.
Minna became very aware of how close he was.
His presence carried warmth… and something darker beneath it.
Klaus lifted his hands slowly.
For a brief moment he hesitated.
Then his fingers gently framed her face.
His touch was warm.
Unexpectedly gentle.
Minna’s breath caught slightly.
Her hands instinctively gripped the fabric of her robe.
Their eyes locked.
The tension between them was so sharp it almost felt visible.
Klaus leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low command.
“Look at me.”
Minna swallowed.
Her dark eyes remained fixed on his.
“You will tell me the truth,” Klaus murmured softly.
Her breathing slowed.
The subtle fog of compulsion slipped into her gaze.
“Yes.”
Klaus searched her face carefully.
“What do you remember about becoming a vampire?”
Minna spoke slowly, her voice calm beneath the spell.
“The sisters found me in the river. My body was dying. They believed I had already been turned… and that I jumped to escape it.”
Klaus’s thumbs rested lightly against her cheeks.
“And before that?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“What was your name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who turned you?”
“I don’t know.”
Every answer came steady.
Unchanged.
Truthful.
Klaus could feel it.
There was no deception.
No hidden resistance.
Only the quiet certainty of someone repeating the only story she had ever known.
His gaze lingered on her face.
On the soft curve of her lips.
The warmth of her skin beneath his hands.
The thin satin robe shifted slightly with her breathing.
He noticed the rise and fall of her chest.
The way her thighs had pressed together unconsciously.
Her fingers clutching the fabric just a little tighter.
A slow heat spread through him.
Dangerous.
Unexpected.
Klaus inhaled quietly, forcing his focus back.
He released her face.
The compulsion faded.
Minna blinked slowly, her thoughts clearing.
For a moment she looked slightly disoriented.
Klaus stood abruptly.
Creating distance.
“Interesting,” he said quietly.
Minna frowned faintly.
“So?” she asked.
“Apparently,” Klaus replied smoothly, “you were telling the truth.”
She let out a tired huff.
“I told you.”
Klaus studied her one last moment.
Then he offered a faint, almost amused smile.
“Good night, Minna.”
And before she could respond, he turned and slipped out of the room.
The door closed softly behind him.
Minna remained sitting on the bed, staring toward the place where he had been.
Her mind still felt slightly foggy from the compulsion.
Her heart, however, was beating much faster than before.
She exhaled slowly, pressing her palms against the mattress.
“Bloody hell,” she murmured to herself.
Somewhere in the corridor outside, Klaus Mikaelson disappeared into the darkness.
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