The door handle rattled.

“Shit,” he whispered.

“Don’t—don’t panic,” she hissed back, already moving.

Too late for thinking. Too late for excuses. The hallway light sliced under the door like a blade, and whoever stood outside wasn’t going to wait long.

“Bed,” she said.

“What?”

“Bed. Now.”

He blinked at her like she’d suggested arson, but she was already yanking back the covers, kicking off her shoes, dragging him by the wrist with a strength that didn’t match her size.

The handle jerked again. Louder this time.

“Are you in there?” a voice called. Suspicious. Close.

She shoved him down. “Lie down. Face me.”

“This is insane—”

“Do you want to get caught?”

That did it.

He swallowed and dropped beside her, stiff as a board. She cursed under her breath, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him closer until their knees knocked.

“Closer,” she mouthed.

“I am close—”

“Not ‘we’re discussing taxes’ close. Close.”

The handle turned halfway.

He moved.

Too fast. Too awkward. His arm landed around her like a misplaced prop, hovering instead of holding. She grabbed it and pressed it properly against her waist.

“Relax your shoulders,” she whispered. “You look like you’re being held hostage.”

“I am being held hostage.”

She rolled her eyes and reached up, fingers brushing his jaw, tilting his face down toward hers. For a second, the world narrowed—her breath, warm and quick; his heartbeat, suddenly traitorous.

“Look at me like you mean it,” she murmured.

The door creaked open.

They froze—then she shifted again, burying her face into his neck, her hand clutching his shirt like it had every right to be there.

“Oh—sorry,” the voice said from the doorway.

He forced himself to breathe slower, deeper. His hand—somehow no longer awkward—rested firmly at her back now. “Mm,” he mumbled, half-asleep, or something like it.

“Didn’t know the room was… occupied.”

She let out a soft, sleepy sound, barely a word, more a suggestion of one, and tightened her hold on him.

Silence stretched.

Then the door clicked shut.

Footsteps retreated.

They didn’t move.

Not immediately.

His heart was still racing, but now it wasn’t just fear. Her hand was still twisted in his shirt. His thumb had started tracing slow, absent circles against her side without permission from the rational part of his brain.

“You can let go now,” he whispered.

“You can too.”

Neither of them did.

A second passed. Then another.

“This is part of the alibi,” she said finally, though her voice had softened.

“Right,” he replied. “Of course. Very thorough alibi.”

She huffed quietly against his neck, something like a laugh. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Saving you.”

He tilted his head just enough to look at her. She didn’t pull back this time. Their faces were closer than before—close enough that the lie they’d just sold felt dangerously unfinished.

“Pretty convincing,” he said.

Her eyes flicked to his mouth, then back. “We didn’t get caught.”

“No,” he agreed. “We didn’t.”

Another pause. Not awkward. Not exactly.

Then, softer, almost like a challenge—

“Good thing we’re such good actors.”

His hand stilled at her side.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Actors.”

Neither of them moved away.