He exhales through his nose, a long, controlled breath that does nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. "It means the cabin's double-booked."
"But I—" I stop myself. Getting defensive won't help. "Okay. So what do we do?"
"I'll call the booking office." He's already dialing, his phone pressed to his ear. I watch him wait, his jaw working like he's chewing on something bitter. After a long moment, he lowers the phone. "Voicemail. They're closed until tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow's Valentine's Day."
"I'm aware."
Of course he is. He probably hates it as much as I do.
"There's a hotel about an hour back toward town," I offer, already mentally calculating how long it'll take me to navigate that narrow road in the dark. "I can just—"
"No." The word is immediate, almost sharp. He catches himself, softening slightly. "It's already getting dark. You're not driving back out there tonight."
"I don't want to intrude—"
"You're not intruding. The system screwed up." He scrubs a hand over his face, and for the first time, he looks less angry and more just… tired. "I've got other cabins, but they're all booked. Valentine's weekend. Every couple within fifty miles wanted to play wilderness romance."
I almost laugh at the disdain in his voice, but I catch it just in time.
"So what do we do?" I ask again.
He looks at me for a long moment, and I realize his eyes are this startling shade of dark hazel, almost gold in the firelight. Then he sighs.
"You stay. I'll figure it out."
"Staywhere?"
He gestures vaguely toward the rest of the cabin, and I follow him deeper inside, finally getting a proper look at the space.
It's small. Cozy, if I'm being generous. The main room holds a stone fireplace, a worn leather couch, a wooden table with two chairs, and a compact kitchen area tucked into one corner. Everything is clean but lived-in, like it's been here long enough to settle into itself. The fire crackles softly, throwing warm light across the log walls.
And then I see the doorway at the back.
One doorway.
I move toward it before I can stop myself, stepping into a bedroom that's just barely big enough for the bed dominating the space. There's a small dresser, a single window, and absolutely no other furniture.
One bed.
I turn back to find him standing in the doorway, watching me with an unreadable expression.
"I'll take the couch," he says.
I look at the couch. Then I look at him. Then I look at the couch again.
"You're not going to fit on that couch."
"I've slept in worse places."
"I'm sure you have. But you're not doing it tonight." I cross my arms, feeling something stubborn rise in my chest. "This isridiculous. The bed is big enough for two adults to share without even touching."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don'thaveto. But I'm not going to make you sleep on a couch that's two feet too short because of a computer glitch." I meet his eyes, refusing to back down. "We're both adults. We can handle sharing a bed for one night without it being weird."
The silence stretches.
