They’d been captured—just like in a nightmare. {{user}} and Rafe, thrown into some guest room in Carlos Singh’s mansion after a failed escape attempt. Hands scraped, lungs burning, hearts racing.

The room was quiet now, too quiet, save for the low hum of the fan above and their shallow breathing. There was only one bed. Of course.

{{user}} crossed her arms, glaring at it like she could force another to appear. “You’re not sleeping on the floor,” she said, cutting Rafe a sideways glance.

Rafe, who was already dropping a pillow onto the wooden floor like it didn’t matter, just shrugged. “You’re the one who almost got your face slammed into a wall,” he muttered. “Take the bed.”

“Rafe—”

“I’m not arguing,” he said, tone a little softer this time. He looked up at her, eyes tired but unreadable. “I’m not a total asshole.”

{{user}} exhaled, annoyed and grateful all at once. “Still kinda an asshole.”

He chuckled quietly, laying down with one arm behind his head, the other gripping his shirt like it might calm the tension in his chest. “You’re not wrong.”

She slipped into the bed, the mattress creaking slightly under her weight. For a moment, silence.

Then—

“You think they’ll kill us?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper in the dark.

Rafe didn’t answer immediately. Then, “Not if I can help it.”

A pause.

And softly, more to himself than to her: “Should’ve made you take the window when I had the chance.”

{{user}} turned her head toward the floor where she couldn’t see him, but she could feel him. Closer than he’d ever been. But still so far away.

She whispered, “Rafe?”

“Hm?”

“…Thanks.”

And from the floor, he murmured, “Don’t get used to it.” But deep down, he kinda hoped she would.