We step into the cabin, and he locks the door behind us automatically, then checks the windows like it’s second nature. The fire is low but still alive, and the warmth hits my skin like a blanket.
Rhett shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it over a chair. He rolls his shoulders once, like he’s trying to shake off the day.
My chest tightens with something that isn’t fear for once.
It’s guilt.
Because every night since I got here, I’ve taken his bed.
And every night, he’s taken the couch.
Like that’s the logical arrangement. Like it doesn’t matter that he barely fits on that couch. Like it doesn’t matter that he probably sleeps with one eye open anyway. Like it doesn’t matter that he’s doing it for me.
I stand in the middle of the room, twisting my fingers together. “Rhett?” I say softly.
He looks at me, brows lifting slightly. “Yeah.”
“There’s room in the bed,” I blurt.
Silence.
His gaze sharpens, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious or setting a trap. “I’ll be fine,” he says.
“No.” I shake my head. “You won’t. That couch is like… a medieval torture device pretending to be furniture.”
His mouth twitches. “It’s functional.”
“Everything is ‘functional’ with you,” I mutter. Then I take a breath and force the words out. “I already feel like trouble. I showed up here out of nowhere. You’ve been babysitting me—don’t deny it, that’s exactly what it is—and now I’m taking your bed too.”
His jaw tightens at the wordbabysitting. “I’m not babysitting you.”
“You literally taught me how to elbow someone in the ribs today,” I say. “That’s like… Protective Daddy 101.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t call me that.”
I hold up my hands. “Okay. Fine. Protective… Grump 101.”
He exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to laugh. “Emma.”
“I’m serious,” I say, stepping closer. My voice drops. “We can share. We’re adults. We can lie on opposite sides like… civilized humans who don’t panic at proximity.”
Rhett’s gaze holds mine. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. He just looks at me like he’s weighing risk. Not tactical risk.Personal risk. Then his voice comes out low. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not proving,” I say. “I’m… offering. Because I don’t want you hurting yourself on that couch just to make me feel safe.”
His eyes flick down to my mouth and back up again so fast I almost think I imagined it. But I don’t think I did. Because the air shifts. Like the room gets smaller. Like the space between us suddenly has weight.
He steps closer—just one step—until I can feel his heat. “You’re safe,” he says, voice rough.
“I know.” My throat is tight. “But you deserve to sleep too.”
For a second, he looks like he’s going to say no again. Then he closes his eyes briefly, like he’s making a decision he doesn’t want to admit he’s making. “Okay,” he says finally.
My heart stutters. “Okay?” I echo, half shocked he agreed.
He opens his eyes, and they’re darker now. “We share the bed. We sleep. That’s it.”
“Totally,” I say too fast. “Just sleep. No weirdness. No… bed shenanigans.”
