You pull into his driveway just past midnight. The street's quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like the only two people awake in the world. Mark pops the passenger door open and grabs his duffel bag, slinging it lazily over one shoulder. "God," he groans, "my spine is a cautionary tale."

"You're lucky I didn't make you Uber," you mutter, stepping out to grab the other bag he left in your backseat. He doesn't argue. Just gives you that sideways grin, the one that looks a little too smug and charming. The porch light flickers on as you follow him to the front door, arms full. He pushes the door open and steps inside letting you drop the bag in the hallway.

“Thanks.” He says and you nod, already backing up toward the door.

"Anytime."

But before you can pivot and escape back into the night, "You should just crash here."

You pause. "Crash?"

"Stay. It's late. I'll take the couch, you can have my bed."

"I'm fine," you say too quickly. "It's just forty-five minutes-"

"Exactly. Forty-five minutes of pitch-black roads, deer with death wishes, and that sleepy little eye rub thing you’ve been doing for the past half hour. Don't be stubborn. Just stay."

You shake your head, trying to laugh it off. "I have a whole nighttime routine."

"I'll accommodate."

You try to keep your voice light. “Really it’s a whole thing: face mask, pillow setup, tea. I can’t just sleep anywhere.”

Mark leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and there’s something different in his posture now. “I’ve got tea,” he says. “One of the boxes probably even has herbs in it.”

You narrow your eyes. “Sleep noises?”

He grins. “Ocean waves. Crashing gently. Or aggressively, if that’s your thing. I’m versatile.”

“White noise?”

Without missing a beat, he leans in and says low and smooth: “Pshhhrrrrhhhhh…”

You laugh, but it’s quiet. There’s a pulse now, something warm and slow curling between your ribs. “I sleep hot,” you say. A weaker excuse.

“I can crack the window.”

“I move around.”

“I won’t be in the bed with you.” His eyes catch yours on that last line. There’s no smirk or punchline; just a quiet dare.

You hesitate. “I don’t want to cross a line,” you murmur.

“That’s not what this is,” he says immediately, like he wants to believe that. But you can feel it.

“But if I stay…” You trail off. Your throat feels tight. “It’s gonna feel like it is.” You stare at him, pulse high in your throat, the door behind you wide open. The hallway stretches behind him: dim lights, his bedroom just past the corner. It’s not a question of where the bed is. The question is: do you stay? Do you walk through that door and pretend it’s just about safety, just about sleep? Or do you leave now, heart racing, pretending you didn’t already imagine what it’d feel like to wake up tangled in his sheets?

Mark doesn’t move or press. But his voice drops, velvet and low. “Is that the worst thing?”