The hotel messed up the reservation. Of course they did. Only one room, one bed. You both stare at it like it’s some kind of cosmic test. Billie raises an eyebrow, smirking like she’s unfazed—but you know better.

“It’s not like I bite,” she says, dropping her bag with a soft thud. “Unless you’re into that.”

You choke on air. “You’re not funny.”

She shrugs, pulling her hoodie off and tossing it onto the chair. She’s in a faded shirt and flannel pants now, looking criminally soft.

“You’re taking the bed,” you say quickly, grabbing a pillow and heading for the couch.

But before you even hit the cushions, she’s there—standing beside you, close enough that you catch the scent of her shampoo.

“You don’t have to be weird about it,” she says, quieter now. “It’s just a bed.”

You look at her. Really look at her. Her eyes are tired, but warm. Curious. Waiting.

So you nod.

Later, you’re lying on your respective sides, barely inches apart, facing each other. The room is quiet except for her soft breathing and the way your heartbeat won’t chill.

She whispers, “You’re really gonna pretend this isn’t driving you insane?”

You blink. “What?”

“This. Us. The almost-touching. The pretending.” Her voice is barely audible now. “I feel it. Every time you look at me like I’m something you’re scared to want.”

You don’t answer—because she’s right.

Then her fingers slide across the sheets, just enough to brush yours. And she whispers:

“Don’t sleep yet. I want to feel this for just a little longer.”