Her stomach twisted. She hated this—being forced into proximity with him—but the apartment was too small, and she had no other option tonight. Work had kept her late, and she didn’t feel like dragging herself home.

“Fine,” she muttered, dragging her bag into the bedroom.

He moved to the edge of the bed, leaving a generous space. She hesitated, then slid under the blanket, careful to keep her distance.

The first few minutes were torture—every creak of the mattress, every rustle of the blanket magnified. She could hear his breathing, measured and steady, while she struggled to calm her racing thoughts.

Neither spoke. Neither moved closer than necessary. The tension wasn’t romantic, but it was there—awkward, uncomfortable, unspoken. Sharing the bed felt intrusive, unnatural, and she hated that she could feel the heat of his body through the thin sheet.

Eventually, exhaustion won, and she curled up on her side, eyes closed, trying not to notice him at all. He shifted once, careful, as if giving her room—but close enough that she couldn’t ignore him completely.