Kruk steps out first, scanning the hallway like he expects snipers to be hiding behind the potted ferns. When he's satisfied, he gestures for me to follow.
Room 304 is at the end of a long hallway decorated with more reclaimed barn wood and tasteful landscape paintings. There's a small placard next to the door with two interlocking hearts and the words "Where Love Blooms" in that same swirly script.
I want to die asI slide the key card through the lock. The door swings open. And there it is. The heart-shaped bed.
It's massive. King-sized, at minimum, covered in white silk sheets and approximately six thousand pillows. There are rose petals scattered across the comforter. A bottle of champagne sits in an ice bucket on the nightstand. The headboard is tufted velvet. The whole thing looks like it was designed by someone who learned about romance exclusively from Valentine's Day commercials.
"Fuck," I whisper.
Kruk steps past me into the room, his tactical assessment clearly taking priority over the interior design choices.
He checks the bathroom. The closet. The balcony.
"Perimeter is secure," he announces.
"Great. That's great. Very secure. With our one giant heart-shaped bed that we're definitely going to share platonically like normal professional people who definitely didn't meet because I hired you while drunk."
Kruk turns to look at me.
I'm still standing in the doorway, gripping the door frame like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
His gaze drops to where my fingers are wrapped around the wood, then back to my face.
"You are distressed."
"I'm fine."
"Your heart rate has increased. Your breathing is shallow. These are signs of acute anxiety."
"I'mfine."
He crosses the room in three strides and stops directly in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
This close, I can see the individual lines of ink that make up his tattoos, the way they curve around the muscle and bone beneath. Can smell him, something clean and faintly metallic, like steel and cold air.
"The mission parameters have not changed," he says quietly. "I am here to ensure your safety and project an image of strength to deter your former partner. Sleeping arrangements do not alter this objective."
"Right. Okay. That's very logical." My voice comes out higher than intended, almost squeaky. I clear my throat and try again. "Very reasonable. Professional. Mission-focused."
"I will take the floor," he states, as though the matter is already settled. He's already scanning the room, probably calculating the optimal defensive position between the door and the bed.
"You can't sleep on the floor for three days." Words fall before I can stop them. "That's insane. You're like, what, six-five? Six-six? The floor is hard. And probably not even clean. Do you know how rarely hotel staff actually vacuum properly? I read this article once about hotel carpets and the bacterial count?—"
"I have slept in worse conditions."
Of course he has. He probably slept in a ditch during some tactical operation while monitoring a perimeter or whatever orcs do. My complaining about carpet cleanliness probably sounds ridiculous to him.
"Kruk." I don't know what I'm trying to say. His name just comes out, half plea, half frustration.
"Affirmative." He's still looking at me with that steady, unreadable expression, waiting for further orders like I'm his commanding officer instead of the disaster human who hired him while drunk.
I take a breath, feeling it catch somewhere. Another breath, deeper this time, trying to find something resembling composure in the wreckage of my nervous system.
"We can share the bed. Like adults. It's fine. It's huge. We probably won't even notice each other."
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. Something I can't quite name.
"If you are certain."
