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Naturally.

Athlete housing apparently decided men over six feet require furniture designed for minor royalty.

The mattress looks enormous.

Dark sheets.

Too many pillows.

A thick comforter folded across the bottom.

I stare.

“No.”

The bed does not respond.

“I’m not making this weird.”

Still nothing.

Excellent listener.

I take off Kane’s hoodie and fold it over the chair.

Then climb beneath the covers and immediately move toward the far side.

Not because I’m scared.

Strategic positioning.

I curl onto my side facing the wall and pull the blanket beneath my chin.

There.

Perfectly normal.

A door opens behind me.

Kane laughs.

I turn my head.

He’s standing in the doorway holding a toothbrush.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

His gaze travels over the enormous empty stretch of mattress between us.

“Hannah.”

“What?”

“You’re five-four.”