Geneva, 1964 – International Superhero Diplomatic Summit

You knew this assignment was going to be hell the moment the front desk clerk, with her aggressively perfect French twist and pitying smile, said:

“Ah, yes… room 427. One bed.”

There was a beat of silence. You blinked. Beside you, Johnny Storm let out a low whistle like a man discovering buried treasure.

“One bed?” he repeated, turning toward you with the full wattage of that movie-star smirk. “Well. I guess diplomacy really does bring people together.”

You smiled at the clerk. “Is there any way we can—”

“So what’s our bedtime protocol?” Johnny interrupted, swinging his duffel over one shoulder like a GI on shore leave. “We flipping a coin? You take odd nights, I take evens? Or should we just cut to the chase and spoon now to save time?”

You stared at him. Then at the keycard in your hand. Then back to him.

“Touch me in my sleep and I will snap your fingers off one by one,” you said.

He looked delighted. “See, this is already the most honest relationship I’ve ever had.”

12:06 a.m.

The floor was colder than it looked.

You’d done your best: two bath towels, your trench coat folded into a pillow, and one of those tiny throw blankets that was more decorative than useful. You looked like a fashionably miserable orphan in a Bond film.

Meanwhile, Johnny was spread across the mattress like it owed him rent.

“D’you want the other pillow?” he asked helpfully, head popping up from the plush bedding like a golden retriever in a silk robe. “Or is that too intimate?”

“I want you to choke on that pillow.”

He chuckled. “You’re grumpy when you’re tired. I find it charming.”

You groaned. “Why are you still talking?”

“Because I’m a giver.”

He paused.

“Also, because I feel bad. You’re down there like Cinderella before the fairy godmother. I’m up here like the Sultan of Sheets.”

Another pause.

“...Wanna join the harem?”

You sat up just enough to glare at him. “Say one more word and I will drag this mattress into the hallway and sleep on it myself.”

“Oh no,” he whispered. “She’s feisty. And inventive.”

12:44 a.m.

The bed creaked.

“Just for the record,” Johnny said into the dark, “I’m not even stretched out all the way. I’m keeping to my half. A full six inches from the edge.”

“How noble.”

“And I’m not shirtless.”

“You want applause?”

He exhaled dramatically. “I’m just saying... I’m being very respectful for a guy with internationally insured cheekbones.”

You let the silence answer that one.

Then—

“Also,” he added, “I sleep hot. You’re missing out on nature’s heating pad.”

“You are one more sentence away from a diplomatic incident.”

1:00 a.m.

You broke.

Not because you were cold. Not because of his constant commentary.

But because he wouldn’t stop humming.

Some jazzy little riff, like he was the star of his own noir mystery and not just the human equivalent of a car commercial.

You stood up.

Marched over.

Pulled the blanket off him.

Got into the bed.

Faced the opposite direction with all the fury of a woman rethinking her entire career.

There was a moment of silence.

Then—

“…Well well well. Look who came crawling into—”

“I will end you.”

He grinned into the dark.

“Don’t worry, sugar. I’m a perfect gentleman.”

“You called me ‘sugar’ and offered me a spot in your harem twelve minutes ago.”

“I evolve fast.”

You clutched the blanket tighter. “No touching. No snuggling. No breathing suggestively.”

He mimed zipping his lips. “Scout’s honor.”

A minute passed.

Then—

“…I am the big spoon, though, right?”

You kicked him in the shin.

He groaned.

And still—still—he laughed.

“Totally worth it.”