It sounded like a good idea at the time.

The work trip was mandatory, the cabin was cheaper than two separate rentals, and splitting the cost was the only practical option. You and Addison might roll your eyes at each other every morning, but you’re both adults — surely you could manage a few nights without strangling each other.

But you didn’t expect this.

The first thing you see when you walk through the dusty cabin door is… well, nothing. No bed. Just a sagging pull‑out couch that looks older than the paint on the walls.

Addison drops her overnight bag with a dull thud. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she mutters, running a hand through her hair.

“Guess we should’ve read the listing better,” you say, trying not to sound as tense as you feel.

“I thought you read it,” she snaps back, but it’s tired, not truly angry.

You both stand there a second, the summer light fading behind the trees outside, listening to the crickets starting up.

Finally, Addison sighs. “Well. We have to be at the conference thing early. I’m not driving back to town tonight.”

You nod, resigned. “Same.”

Later, after the world's most awkward attempt to set up the couch.

It’s barely big enough for one person, let alone two. The mattress squeaks like it’s protesting every move. You stretch out flat, but there’s nowhere for your arm to go; Addison mutters something about your elbow being in her ribs; your knee bumps her thigh.

“Just… turn over,” she grumbles finally, voice muffled by the pillow.

“You turn over,” you snap, but you do it anyway.

She turns too, and somehow your back ends up pressed to her chest, your head just under her chin. Her breath tickles your hair, slow and uneven.

It’s too hot for blankets, but the air has cooled enough to make the warmth from her skin noticeable. Neither of you speaks.

Her arm hovers, unsure, then slides around your waist — purely for balance, you tell yourself. Just so neither of you falls off the stupid couch.

You swallow, staring at the wall, your heart beating harder than it should. You don’t even like her. You remind yourself of that. At least twice.

Behind you, Addison shifts slightly. You feel her exhale — quiet, shaky, almost relieved.

“This doesn’t leave this couch,” she murmurs, voice low, almost teasing but softer than you’ve heard it before.

“Trust me,” you whisper back. “Never happened.”