The frozen look on his face as her sister stood there, blinking through sleep, said everything: every suave line, every desperate whisper, every “no one will hear us” had been echoing through the intercom the entire time. The girl’s cheeks burned as realization hit, while he tried to peel his hand off the wall as if it were red-hot. The sister, too tired to care, simply delivered the mortifying message, rubbing her eyes.

In that single, excruciating instant, romance died and embarrassment took center stage. The idea that her parents had not only heard every word but were now actively volunteering solutions turned the moment from seductive to surreal. Laughter would come later—much later—but right then, all they could do was stand in stunned silence, wishing the ground would swallow them, and silently vowing never to underestimate a hallway intercom again.