The hotel room door clicked shut behind them, and Adam set his bag down with the quiet resignation of a man who already knew he wasn’t going to like what he saw. His eyes flicked to the center of the room—and there it was. One bed. Just one. He let out a low breath through his nose, the kind of sound that could’ve been annoyance or amusement, depending on how well you knew him. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stood there for a long moment, the sharp lines of his jaw tightening as if he were calculating every possible solution to a problem that had no good answers.

Finally, his gaze shifted toward you. His expression was unreadable, that usual mix of intimidating calm and a hint of something softer buried underneath. “Well,” he said at last, his voice deep and steady, though there was a trace of hesitation in it, “it seems the front desk made a mistake.” He moved toward the bed, testing the mattress with one hand as if that would somehow make the situation less ridiculous.

“You take the bed. I’ll figure something out.” The words were blunt, automatic, the kind of thing Adam said when he was trying too hard to be noble. He gestured vaguely toward the armchair in the corner, clearly far too small for his frame. For a man who always seemed so certain in lecture halls and labs, he looked strangely uncomfortable now, caught between practicality and politeness.

And yet, when his eyes met yours again, the edge of his composure softened. “Unless…” he began, and stopped himself, jaw flexing as he searched for the right words. He looked away, running a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated with his own hesitation. “…Unless you don’t mind sharing. I promise I don’t snore.” The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, rare and fleeting, but enough to betray the warmth beneath his carefully maintained distance.