It was late when you both got in—too late to argue, and too cold to care. The place wasn’t much: tiny room, creaky floorboards, heater that groaned more than it worked. But it was dry. That was enough.

Dante dropped his duffel near the wall, letting out a slow breath before shrugging off his coat. The day had dragged. His back ached. His arms were still buzzing from the fight earlier, and he could feel the bruises blooming under his shirt.

Then his eyes landed on the bed. Singular.

“Huh,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “Guess the ‘two beds’ part of the listing was just for show.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just stood there, looking at it. One pillow. One blanket. Definitely not big enough for two people who didn’t like brushing up against each other.

He looked over at you, brows lifting. “Well… I can sleep on the floor if you want.” A beat passed. “Won’t be the first time. Won’t be the worst, either.”

He didn’t move, though. Not yet. Just leaned against the wall, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, letting the silence settle.