You’re both out of town for a school art event — a weekend workshop that ran too late. By the time you get to the small hostel the school booked, the front desk clerk winces and says:

“Sorry. There’s been a room mix-up. We only have one room left… with one bed.”

Will stops breathing for a second.

He looks at you, then at the clerk, then back at you again. He pushes his hair behind his ear — his nervous habit.

“Oh. Uh—um. W-We can… share? I mean—unless that’s weird. It is weird. Right? No, it’s totally weird, I just—there’s nowhere else to go, and it’s cold outside, and—” He forces himself to stop rambling and quietly adds: “…It’s okay with me. If it’s okay with you.”

Later in the room, Will stands awkwardly beside the bed, holding a pillow like a shield.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he blurts out. Then, softer: “Unless… unless you’d rather not be alone.”

He keeps glancing at the bed, then at you, trying to act calm but very obviously terrified of doing the wrong thing.

When you both finally lie down — facing opposite directions, except not really — Will whispers into the dark:

“Um… thank you. For not making this weird.”

After several quiet minutes, you feel the mattress dip slightly as he slowly shifts, turning toward you just enough for your hands to almost touch.

Almost.

“Hey,” he says, barely above a breath, “…are you still awake?”