“It’s alright, darling.” he said, already looking for a spot where he could stretch out. “I’ll be fine, you need the bed. It’s your room, and there’s no way we’re both fitting on that thing.”?
I stepped closer, shaking my head. “You’re not sleeping on the floor,” I repeated, my voice softer this time, “I’ll always make room for you.” Well that made him pause. He turned to look at me, his brow furrowed like he was trying to contemplate whether I actually meant it.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice quiet now as I noticed a small smile tugging at his lips,
“You’re my best friend, of course!” I giggled.
“Don’t let Sydney hear you saying that,” he joked, shaking his head in disbelief, and I laughed. For a moment neither of us moved. I felt as though we were both awkward teenagers again.
For a moment when I glanced up, he was shorter, a mouthful of braces and bright eyes. Lanky and shy. He was seventeen again and I was fifteen and everything was still so new. So foreign. I wondered if those versions of ourselves couldcomprehend the complexities of what became of us, and that we were about to share a bed in my childhood bedroom.
Wynter was never the type to ask for space or comfort—hell, he was always the one offering it—and so this time I was the the one to make room for him.
“Alright then.” He cleared his throat, “It might be a bit of a tight fit, so do forgive me.”
We crawled into the bed—Charlie and Lolasheets, bold and dainty—both of us, laughing softly at the absurdity of the situation. It was indeed a tight fit. Our legs tangled awkwardly as we tried to find a position that didn’t leave one of us hanging off. The mattress creaked but it held regardless just that once for us.
“Cozy,” I said, resting my head against the pillow ?we shared.
“That’s certainly one way to view it.” He laughed.
“This is nice though…” I admitted, turning to face him. God, he was beautiful in every agonizing multitude.
“Yeah?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the dark.
“Yeah,” I replied, turning my head to look at him. His face was close, his features softened by the shadows. “It’s…different. Letting someone in like this. But it feels good.”
Wyn didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at me, his gaze steady and unguarded in a way that made my chest ache. “I’m glad,” he said finally, his voice so quiet it felt like a secret.
I reached for his hand under the blanket, intertwining my fingers with his. It was such a small gesture, but it felt like a promise. A way of saying you belong here without needing words.
“Sometimes I think I’m selfish,” I expressed to him. “Perhaps even conceited.”
“Why do you feel like that?”
“Because I have this insatiable desire to get what I want at all costs, without a care in the world for what I have to do to getthere,” I expressed, confessing to this silent sin. “Could you still be with me even after knowing this?”
“Even then,” he sighed, placing a kiss on my forehead.
“You know,” I said after a moment, “I never thought I’d be the kind of person who could do this. Share my space, my life. Let someone this close.”
His thumb brushed against my hand, a simple, grounding motion. “And now?”
I smiled, my heart feeling strangely full. “Now I can’t imagine not making room for you, I want to save a spot for you at every table, have special plates and cups for you at my apartment, let you use my things without asking, Wyn—I want walk into every room with you by my side.”
As the night wore on, the initial awkwardness faded, replaced by a quiet intimacy that felt more honest than anything I’d ever known. Wyn shifted slightly, his arm draping over me in a way that was both protective and gentle.
“You’re sure you’re comfortable?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.
I nestled closer, letting the warmth of his presence surround me. “I’m more than comfortable,” I said softly.
And I was. For the first time, the tiny confines of my childhood bed didn’t feel like a limitation. They felt like a place to start something new—a place where walls didn’t matter, and space didn’t define the closeness we were learning to share.
As I drifted off to sleep, the thought lingered in my mind: I’d always make room for him. Not just in this bed, but in my life, in my heart. Because Wyn wasn’t just anyone. He was the person who made me feel like letting someone in wasn’t a risk—it was a gift.
Jakarta stirred awake with its usual vibrancy. Even on a day when the sun hung heavy in the sky, the city was alive, its streets a patchwork of honking horns, fragrant food stalls, and voices that rose and fell in a rhythm as steady as the heartbeat of the ocean.
“Everyone ready?” I asked, hopping into the car as Soleh bounded in after me, his energy buzzing even before we’d left the driveway. Cahya was his usual composed self, slipping into the front passenger seat with a notebook tucked under his arm. Wynter climbed in last, his broad shoulders brushing against mine in the cramped back seat.
