"...There's a mistake," Noa said, staring at the hotel receptionist's monitor like she could will a second bed into existence.
"I'm sorry, madame," the woman replied in a thick French accent. "But the booking was for une chambre—how you say—*intime.* One queen bed, very cozy, very romantic, yes?"
Ren coughed. Noa turned red.
"No," she said firmly. "Non. We are... not romantic. We are professional. Platonic. Completely."
The receptionist blinked. "Ah. Business partners... with chemistry."
"We'll take the room," Ren interrupted, grabbing the key.
Noa gave him a look that could curdle cream.
—
They rode the elevator in silence.
Ren held the key like it was radioactive. Noa crossed her arms and stared at the numbers ticking upward.
Finally, she said, "This is going to be fine."
"Totally fine."
"We're adults."
"Absolutely."
"We sleep. We don't die. End of story."
"Maybe we just build a pillow wall. Classic solution."
"Perfect."
Beat.
"Unless you snore."
"I don't. I talk in my sleep, though."
She groaned.
—
The room was, in a word, *romantic.*
Soft lighting. A velvet headboard. A single bed with exactly three too many throw pillows. A bottle of complimentary champagne and two glasses on the nightstand, judging them silently.
Noa dropped her bag by the armchair. "I call couch."
Ren raised an eyebrow. "That's not a couch. That's a decorative mistake."
"I'm small. I'll survive."
"You'll hate yourself in the morning."
"You mean more than usual?"
He sighed. "Let's just split the bed. We're not teenagers at camp."
Noa stared at him.
Ren stared back.
Eventually, she said, "Fine. But no touching. No rolling. No weird late-night confessions."
Ren grinned. "Define weird."
"Ren."
"Okay, okay. Just sleep. Promise."
—
They both changed in the bathroom—one after the other. Noa came out in an oversized shirt and leggings. Ren had somehow found the one t-shirt he owned with a hole in the collar.
They slid into bed, backs to each other, a canyon of pillows between them.
The silence was deafening.
So naturally, Ren broke it.
"What if we were actually dating?"
Noa stared at the wall.
"I said no weird questions."
"I'm just saying. Hypothetically."
She sighed. "Then we'd probably be doing exactly this, but with more lying to ourselves."
Ren chuckled. "You think we're lying now?"
"I think we're two idiots playing chicken with our feelings."
"Ouch."
"Not untrue."
He was quiet for a while.
Then: "It's easier this way, isn't it?"
"Easier than what?"
"Easier than risking everything by saying something we can't take back."
Noa turned slightly.
The glow from the bedside lamp lit up just enough of his face to show that he wasn't smiling anymore.
She said softly, "You're more honest in the dark."
"I can't see your face. It helps."
More silence.
Then she whispered, "Sometimes I want to say it. Just once."
Ren's breath hitched.
"Say what?"
She didn't answer.
And he didn't ask again.
—
Around 3 a.m., the pillow wall collapsed.
No one moved it. It just slowly gave up—gravity and time doing what emotions hadn't yet.
Noa woke up with Ren's arm loosely draped across her waist.
She didn't move.
Not because she was frozen.
But because it felt... okay.
Better than okay.
His breathing was steady.
She stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how natural it felt.
How terrifying that was.
—
At 7:30, she was still awake when Ren stirred.
He blinked groggily. Realized where his arm was. Then froze.
"I can move," he offered.
Noa shook her head, barely a whisper: "It's fine."
They stayed like that for another minute.
Then another.
Until she said, "Next time, we're booking separate rooms."
Ren smiled, eyes still half-closed.
"Sure," he said. "Next time."
She didn't ask what that meant.
But the thought stayed with her for the rest of the day.