Chapter 11 The One-Bed-Only
the one-bed-only [trope]
a diabolical plot device crafted by the romance gods to force two characters into unbearably close proximity; defined by awkward negotiations, sleepless nights (for one or both), and an inevitable wake-up cuddle no one will admit to initiating.
often accompanied by an inexplicably small hotel budget or the phrase “we’re adults, we can handle this. ” guess what? they can’t.
“Shit,” Rafael mutters, glancing at the couch where he left his jacket. He takes a hesitant step toward it, then stops in his tracks. I sneak a peek at Sherlock sprawled out across it, his tail flicking lazily.
He lets out a slow breath and rubs the back of his neck. “Scarlett, your cat is giving me the look.”
I bite back a laugh. “Careful. Wouldn’t want him to scratch your pretty face, now, would we?”
“I just need my keys, Sherlock. Be reasonable,” he pleads, but Sherlock doesn’t budge, and instead he stretches languidly, dragging his claws ever so lightly across the black leather of Rafael’s jacket.
“You’re going to have to bribe him.”
“With what? My dignity?”
“You could try sweet-talking him. Maybe he’ll find your charm irresistible.”
He groans but kneels next to the couch anyway, leveling a serious look at the cat. “Sherlock, you’re very cute. Truly, a vision of feline grace. Your fur is so… fluffy, and, uh, lustrous? But I really, really need my jacket, ’cause, you see, that’s where my keys are.”
Sherlock narrows his eyes and lets out a low warning chirp before flicking his tail harder against the cushion.
Rafael looks up at me, defeated. “Plan B?”
“Would you like a spare blanket?”
He sits back on his heels. “You know, I used to climb in.”
“Climb in?”
“Yeah. Into my place. Through the bathroom window.”
I turn, locating the tiny bathroom window in the house next door. Not the porch or even a low-level window—the one barely big enough to fit Sherlock on the upper floor.
He’s not suggesting he do that now, is he?
I stand and reach for the jacket, but Sherlock immediately hisses, ears flat, and swipes at my hand with surprising speed. I jerk back, narrowly avoiding his claws as he growls and sprawls even more possessively over the leather like it’s his new throne.
“Okay. Wow. Apparently it’s his favorite jacket now.”
Rafael presses his lips together, trying not to laugh.
“Give him a few minutes. He’ll forget about it.”
“Sure.”
“Or you could… stay here,” I suggest, walking away from the cat. I can feel myself blush instantly, but the thought of sleeping in this big house alone with a serial killer out there is not exactly soothing.
“You got an extra room, right?” He grins, eyes sweeping over me. “I firmly believe anyone over twenty-five shouldn’t sleep on a couch.”
My parents’, not exactly accessible, and my brother’s, but I’d never let anyone in there. It’s Ethan’s room—his bed, his desk. It’s waiting for him.
“Uh, not really.” Thoughts running back to the book, I grimace. I can practically hear Paige’s singsong You live in a romance book. “But we could… share the bed.” My heart picks up speed, but I keep my tone casual. “For sleeping only. Since, you know, we’re taking things slow.”
He doesn’t say a word, watching me with the face of someone who just found the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.
“It’s just a bed.”
“No, it’s not that.” He smiles widely. “This is the first time you acknowledge we’re taking things slow. That we’re doing something.”
Oh. Well, we are. I’m not sure what we’re doing, but something’s definitely happening between us. “So will you stay?”
“I shouldn’t. I don’t want you to think this was a ploy to—”
“I guess I am a little on edge,” I insist, looking out the window. “And I’d feel better if you stayed.”
He tilts his head. “Well, since you’re being so honest…” Teeth pinching his bottom lip, he holds his keys up.
“Seriously?” I squeak.
“I didn’t think you’d admit you were worried.” He laughs, stepping closer. “Can I stay over?”
I scowl. “You can have the couch.”
“I don’t think so. But I promise no cuddling of any kind will take place—not human-on-human cuddling, anyway. I’m a sound sleeper, and I don’t mind the light on, so you can read as late as you like.” He snaps his fingers. “We’ll use Sherlock as a wall. Huh? What do you think?”
This guy, I swear.
How annoying that I’d like the scent of his aftershave on my pillow.
“There’s some of my dad’s clothes in the laundry,” I say, walking past him. “I’ve been planning to donate them, so I was washing them. You’ll find something that fits.”
“Sure you don’t mind?”
“All yours.”
“All right. I’ll see you upstairs in a minute.”
I turn and head up the stairs, quickly followed by Sherlock, who, leather jacket long forgotten, watches me like he’s waiting for an explanation.
“Don’t give me that look.” I sigh, collapsing onto the bed beside him.
Suddenly, spending the night together feels like the most intimate, nerve-racking thing in the world, and my mind spins with everything I haven’t considered. What if I roll over and accidentally brush against him? What if my hair ends up all over his face? What if I snore?
Oh God, what if he snores? Do I even know how to sleep next to someone else? I’m used to stretching out with Sherlock curled somewhere around my feet, his snooty little huffs the only sound I ever need to worry about.
Just thinking about lying there in the dark, trying to settle down and relax with Rafael right next to me—relax being the key word here—it’s almost laughable.
Besides, do I want him to see me in my regular mismatched pajamas? The ones I don’t care about getting cat hair on, the ones that are just a soft oversize T-shirt with that faded print of a cartoon llama and sweats with a hole at the hem?
Should I take out the sexy ones Paige got me for my birthday a few years back?
I open the drawer, debating. I think there’s still a tag on them, and putting them on would probably send the wrong message, wouldn’t it? That this isn’t “just sleep,” at least not to me.
I settle on my regular pajamas as if I’m gearing up for a battle of wills—with myself. This is fine. It’s just a bed. I tug at my faded llama T-shirt, eyeing the poor cartoon creature as though it’s offering me courage. Right. The llama stays.
There’s a knock at the door, and before I can talk myself out of it, I call, “Come in.”
Rafael steps inside. I recognize the gray T-shirt from the pile, and it’s slightly loose on him, the sleeves hugging his upper arms while the rest drapes down over his shoulders.
He’s traded his jeans for a pair of black athletic shorts that hang low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of his thick thighs.
Ink curls up his leg and disappears under the fabric: a skeletal hand holding a bouquet of roses on one leg, a minimalist hummingbird mid-flight on the other leg, and a band of barbed wire wrapping around just above his knee among many other tattoos.
He looks like some model from a magazine shoot titled “The Bad-Boy Pajamas.”
His gaze moves down to my shirt and the little llama, and to my relief, he seems more charmed than judgmental.
“You have thigh tattoos,” I mumble, dazed.
“Uh-huh.” He lifts his shorts, showing me more ink.
On one thigh, there’s a matchbook, a single flame rising from the torn edge.
On the other, there’s a half-finished chessboard disappearing into negative space, and near the hem, barely visible, there’s a tally of five slashes inked onto the inside of his thigh.
“Chest too,” he says, voice low and smug.
Then, with a cocky tilt of his mouth, “Like ’em? ”
Oh, I like them. His body looks like a canvas painted with his favorite art. And those thick, muscular thighs… Jesus. Maybe I should have worn my sexy pajamas.
“The broccoli T-shirt,” I blurt out.
“Huh?”
I point at the T-shirt he’s wearing, hoping I’m not as flushed as I feel.
“My dad, he… he used to wear that when I was a kid. My mom had one, too, and they’d put them on every time Ethan refused to eat his veggies, and they’d do this stupid broccoli dance.
” I shake my head at the memory of my mom and dad wiggling their arms in the weirdest performance.
“We ended up eating our vegetables just to make them stop.”
He pinches the big head of broccoli on the front of his T-shirt. “Should I—”
“No, you don’t need to change.”
“I was going to ask if I should dance, actually.”
“Rooo,” Sherlock interjects from the bed, his little growl effectively cutting through our conversation. He sits upright, watching Rafael with narrowed, accusing eyes.
“Oh, hey, Sherlock.” Rafael extends his hand toward him cautiously, palm open. “Guess we’ve got to win each other over, huh?”
Sherlock edges forward, sniffing Rafael’s hand with all the suspicion of a tiny security guard. He finally deigns to tap his hand with a dismissive paw, and when the nails make Rafael flinch, I warn, “Sherlock, claws in, or you’re getting the boot.”
“It’s okay,” Rafael says, chuckling as he rubs his hand. “I understand.”
I arch a brow. “Yeah? You’re territorial, too?”
He tilts his head, giving me a slow once-over that sends a shiver through me right down to my mismatched pajama bottoms. “Oh, you bet.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I quickly gesture to the bed, trying to brush his comment off. “So, um, which side do you usually sleep on?”
“Your bed, your rules,” he replies with an easy shrug.
“I sleep in the middle.”
He huffs out a deep, low chuckle. “Me too. Maybe I’ll meet you there.”
Always. So. Smooth.
I climb onto the right side of the bed, trying to keep my movements casual, though every nerve feels like it’s conspiring against me.
I turn the light off, and then the mattress dips as Rafael settles on the left side, shifting just enough to remind me he’s right there—so close that his warmth radiates through the sheets.
Here we are. Not too weird, right?