I follow automatically.
The elevator ride is crowded and loud. Too many bodies. Too much heat. Jake stands beside me, silent, solid, a quiet wall in the chaos.
When the doors open on our floor, the group spills out into the hallway.
Room numbers are called out. Doors open. Guys disappear inside, still talking and laughing.
Jake stops in front of a door near the end.
He swipes the keycard.
The lock clicks.
He opens the door and steps inside.
I follow.
And stop.
Because there’s one bed.
One. Large. Very unmistakable bed.
My brain freezes.
Jake sets the suitcase down slowly, like he’s buying himself time.
The room is beautiful. Neutral tones. Soft lighting. A bathroom visible through a partially open door.
I close the door behind me automatically, sealing us inside.
Neither of us speaks for a second.
I whistle softly through my teeth. “Well,” I say. “I bet you didn’t think of that.”
Jake exhales slowly but doesn’t look at me.
He stares at the floor like it personally offended him.
“We can share the bed,” he says finally. “And sleep.”
Sleep. Like it’s that simple. Like I won’t be hyper-aware of every inch between us. Like my body won’t remember the pool. His hands. His mouth.
I tilt my head. “Just sleep,” I repeat, as if testing the words.
“Yes.”
I study him.
He’s rigid. Controlled. Holding himself together through sheer force of will.
“Okay,” I say slowly, even though I don’t agree at all.
He nods once, relief flickering across his face. He thinks the decision is made.
So I add, very calmly, “And if we don’t just sleep?”
His head snaps up. Our eyes lock.
