The motel looks like it was condemned ten years ago and just refused to die. Smelt like mildew, with one bed. You turn to Butcher, arms crossed. “Don’t look at me like I planned this, sweetheart. It was either this or the back of the van.”

“You’re sleeping on the floor.”

He blinks at you. Then laughs a deep, rough thing that grates your nerves. “Hell no. I paid for this bloody room.”

“With your shady CIA cash,” you snap. “Doesn’t mean you get the bed.”

“Exactly what it means.” He tosses his bag on the mattress with a dramatic sigh. “What’s the matter, love? Afraid I’ll sneak in a little tickle in the middle of the night?” You glare at him and snatch a pillow off the bed and drag the scratchy motel blanket to the floor, muttering every creative insult you know under your breath. You lie down, determined to freeze out of pure spite. And you do freeze. Hours crawl by. The thin blanket does nothing, and the floor feels like it’s siphoning warmth from your bones. You shift. Roll over. Curl tighter. Huff. Sniff. Curse. Shift again.

“You’re driving me fucking mental,” Butcher growls from the bed. You freeze. “Either get in the bed or shut the bloody hell up before I roll you in that carpet and toss you outside.” You don’t respond right away. “‘M serious,” he mutters. “I won’t ask again.” You grit your teeth. But god, you are cold. So you get up, stomp over, and yank the covers back like you’re starting a fight. You climb in, keeping to your edge, muscles coiled and tense. He doesn’t say a word. Just shifts slightly.

The mattress dips between you, and you pretend not to notice how warm he is. Pretend not to care that your own body is already leaning toward the heat, traitorous and weak. “Feisty fucking she-devil.” He says as he pulls you into him, the warmth hitting your back like summer sun. “Threaten me later, just let me get a few hours of shut eye.”