She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. "The point is that this is..." She gestures between us with a fluttering hand. "This is a romance novel trope. Forced proximity. One bed. It's literally a chapter in half the books I've written, and the irony is so thick I could spread it on toast."
The front desk woman looks between us with growing amusement. "So... do you want the room?"
"Yes," we say simultaneously.
Room 312 is small but clean—a king bed that dominates the space, a writing desk by the window, a bathroom that's barely wider than my shoulders. The storm howls against the building, but the walls are thick and the sound is muffled to a low, persistent roar.
Kassidy drops her bags on the desk chair, surveys the room, and lets out a breath that sounds like it's been locked in her chest since the window shattered.
"Okay," she says. "Ground rules."
"Ground rules."
"This is a professional arrangement. You're security, I'm a guest, and we're sharing space due to emergency circumstances."
"Agreed."
"Your side, my side." She draws an invisible line down the center of the bed, then stops. "Wait. You said you'd take the floor."
"I said I've slept on worse. I didn't say I wanted to."
"So you're suggesting we share the bed."
"I'm suggesting we're two adults who can handle a king-sized mattress with a pillow barrier. But if you'd prefer, I'll take the floor."
She stares at the bed, then at me, then at the bed again. The wheels behind her eyes are spinning—outlines, contingencies, risk assessments. This woman doesn't even sleep without a plan.
"Pillow barrier," she says finally. "And you stay on your side."
"Copy that."
"And stop saying copy that."
"Noted."
The wind picks up, rattling the windows, and the lights flicker once, twice, then hold. Outside, Tidehaven is battening down—I can hear distant voices, the clang of metal shutters, the thrum of a generator kicking in somewhere below us.
Kassidy sits on the edge of the bed—her side—and opens the laptop. The screen glows in the dim room, and her fingers hover over the keyboard. Whatever she was writing at Hargrove House, before the window blew, she's trying to find the thread again.
My phone buzzes. Channel 16.
Riggs: heard you're bunking with the writer. one bed??
Decker: I offered the couch. He declined.
Riggs: declined. interesting.
Calder: Update on Hartwell?
Tucker: Secure. Room 310. Decker has eyes on the hallway. All guests accounted for.
Riggs: but back to the one bed thing
Calder: Riggs.
Riggs: sorry. operational silence. starting now. probably.
I set the phone face down. Kassidy glances over.
