“I should take the couch,” I said, already clocking how aggressively narrow it was.
“You’ll take the bed,” Arthur said.
“I don’t have to,” I said. “We can flip a coin. Or rotate. Or do some kind of medieval watch schedule.”
He looked at the couch, then the bed, then at me. “You’ll sleep on the bed.”
“That’s not one of the options I presented.”
“It’s the correct one.”
I crossed my arms. “You needsleep too.”
“I do.”
“So why am I getting the bed?”
“Because you’re human,” he said calmly. “You have a longer recovery time.”
“That feels rude.”
He shrugged. “It’s factual.”
I stared at him, but he looked completely unbothered.
“I can handle uncomfortable,” I said. “I’m very adaptable.”
“I know, but I want you to be comfortable.”
He walked me to the small bedroom like it was a formal event. I had the sudden impulse to curtsy like a fucking weirdo but managed to restrain myself.
He stepped toward the bed and pulled down the covers, then fluffed the pillows with the same care he seemed to apply to everything else.
“Goodnight,” I said.
“Goodnight,” he replied.
Both of us kept standing there. Nothing happened. No dramatic moment. No sudden impulse. Just the quiet awareness of him in the doorway, shoulders nearly brushing the frame, filling it so completely the room felt smaller, and me at the side of the bed.
“I’m going to take a quick shower,” he said eventually. “You should sleep.”
“I can do that.” I climbed into the bed, pulled the quilt up, and was asleep almost instantly.
I woke to a loud crack of thunder that sounded like the sky was tearing apart directly above my head. The cabin shook.The walls creaked. Rain hammered the roof so hard, for a second I thought we were under attack.
My heart kicked into my throat before my brain could catch up.
I lay there, rigid, listening, counting the seconds between thunderclaps, and trying to convince myself that this was fine. That I was safe. That I had willingly chosen to sleep in a wooden cabin in the middle of Iceland during a storm.
It didn’t work.
Another thunderclap hit, closer this time, and the rational part of me lost ground.
“Arthur,” I called, hating the way my voice gave me away. “Arthur?”
The door opened, and he was suddenly in the room, hair damp, shirtless, eyes filled with concern.
“I’m here,” he said.
