The bed was smaller than Killian's king-sized monstrosity back at the penthouse.
Not uncomfortably small. Just—intimate. The kind of bed where two people couldn't help but touch, couldn't maintain distance even if they tried, couldn't pretend they weren't hyperaware of every breath and shift and accidental brush of skin against skin.
Isla discovered this around midnight.
They'd spent the afternoon and evening doing normal things. Unpacking. Making dinner together in the tiny kitchen—Killian cooked surprisingly well for someone who usually had staff do everything. Talking about inconsequential things, carefully avoiding anything heavy.
Viktor. Roman. Natasha. The training that started tomorrow.
All of it pushed aside for a few hours of pretending they were just a normal couple on a normal vacation in a normal cabin.
