You didn’t sign up for this business trip.

You definitely didn’t sign up to share a room with Bokuto Koutarou—your sunshine coworker with shoulders too broad for his own shirt and a smile that makes HR nervous.

But the hotel “ran out of rooms,” and somehow that means you and Bokuto are stuck with one king bed, a coffee machine that doesn’t work, and a schedule full of back-to-back presentations you’re supposed to rehearse together.

Perfect.

He’s thrilled. You’re suffering. He calls it “team bonding.” You call it torture.

Especially when he walks around the room without thinking—shirt half unbuttoned after his shower, hair damp, tie hanging loose around his neck.

He’s innocent about it. Too innocent.

“Hey, can you help me fix my tie? It keeps—uh—doing the twisty thing.”

He stands in front of you, too close, smelling like cedar body wash and mint toothpaste, looking down at you with big golden-retriever eyes like he doesn’t realize what he’s doing to your sanity.

“You’re really good at this,” he says softly while you redo the knot, voice dropping without meaning to. “Your hands are… steady.”

Your hands aren’t steady. Your heart isn’t steady. None of you is steady.

And the worst part? He’s not flirting. He’s just like this—warm, gentle, clingy, and devastatingly unaware of how easily he fills the space around him.

Every night, you both lie on opposite sides of the same bed. Every night, you feel the mattress dip when he turns. Every night, you swear you can hear his breath hitch when your legs brush under the sheets.

Work says “professional.” Proximity says “inevitable.” And Bokuto? He just smiles at you like he has no idea he’s the reason you can’t sleep