Nathaniel Westwood stood near the edge of his bedroom, spine straight, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he was preparing for war—not sleep.

You were already inside, pacing awkwardly in the middle of his obscenely large bedroom, the ceiling high enough to echo, the curtains a dramatic navy that matched the sky outside. The bed was massive—king-sized, untouched except for the neatly turned-down corner on the left. Nate’s side.

A surreal silence hovered between you.

“So,” you said, arms folded, eyes darting around. “This is weird, right?”

Nate didn’t answer at first. He was too busy regretting everything.

“I’d call it… logistically unorthodox,” he muttered at last, moving to one of the chairs near the bed. “But your contract was signed. You agreed.”

You rolled your eyes and kicked off your shoes. “For the record, I agreed because you offered me a stupidly generous bonus and a raise I couldn't dream of. Not because I have some secret urge to be your human melatonin.”

Nate’s jaw tightened. “That would be inefficient.”

“Exactly,” you said, climbing awkwardly onto the bed. “Glad we understand each other.”

You laid down fully clothed, on top of the covers, hands folded across your stomach like you were playing dead.

Nate turned away and slipped into the ensuite bathroom to wash up—not because he needed to, but because it gave him an excuse to breathe. When he returned, he found you'd pulled back the duvet and was curled on your side, facing the center of the bed.

You looked mismatched in his room. Wrong and right all at once.

He said nothing as he moved to his side of the bed, lying down with military precision. Pillows untouched. Arms at his sides. Eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

Minutes passed. Then an hour.

Sleep didn’t come.

--

It had been a fluke, he decided. That one miraculous night. A fluke sparked by physical exhaustion, maybe the lingering effects of your wine-soaked breath brushing his shoulder, maybe—gods help him—the sound of your breath when you fell asleep beside him.

But this? This was nothing. Cold sheets. Silence. A wall between you, invisible but immovable.

He closed his eyes, counted seconds. Tried breathing exercises. Listened to the hum of the city outside.

Still awake.

Then, a voice—quiet, unguarded—cut through the dark.

“You still up?”

He opened his eyes. Turned his head slightly.

Your face was faintly visible in the shadows, lit by a crack of streetlight through the curtains. Your hair was messy. Your voice had the fuzziness of near-sleep.

Nate swallowed.

“Yes.”

A pause.

“I keep expecting you to snore,” you said, muffled by the pillow. “But of course you don’t. You’re probably genetically engineered to be a perfect sleeper. Except for the… you know, actual sleeping part.”

He let out a breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“I’m not genetically engineered.”

“You sure? You sleep like a mannequin.”

“I’m not sleeping at all,” he said, too quickly.

You were quiet for a moment.

“…You really can’t sleep?”

He exhaled slowly, eyelids heavy but unyielding. “Apparently your presence is less effective in contract form.”

More silence.

Then, softly: “Maybe we’re too far apart.”

His pulse skipped.

He turned his head fully now, facing you across the expanse of the mattress. You were barely a foot away—but somehow, it felt like more.

“You’re suggesting proximity as a sleep aid?” he asked.

“Worked last time.”

He hesitated.

And then—slowly, cautiously—he shifted closer. An inch. Then two.

The bed dipped beneath him, and he felt your warmth, close but not touching. Just… near.

He could hear your breathing. Feel it, almost. And it was inexplicably comforting.

He laid still, muscles tense at first. Every nerve aware of the exact space between you. Half a pillow, a shared breath. Then you moved just a little—closer still, your shoulder brushing his.

A whisper of contact.

It was accidental, or maybe it wasn’t, but either way—it made his throat close.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly.

“Yes,” he said, and the word came out so low, so unguarded, it almost startled him.