Zara glared at the hotel room door like it had just insulted her slippers.
"One room," she said slowly, as if processing a crime scene. "With one bed."
Noah, cool as always, rolled in his suitcase like this was totally normal. "There was a booking error."
"A booking error," she repeated. "You, Noah Lancaster—man who owns half the skyline—got... a booking error?"
He looked genuinely apologetic. "I asked for two rooms. Apparently there's a tech conference this weekend. Every hotel in a three-block radius is full."
Zara folded her arms, her unicorn-print duffel bag slung on one shoulder like a silent protest. "So you're saying the only available room in this five-star skyscraper just happens to have one massive bed and not a single couch in sight?"
Noah pointed. "That's a chaise lounge."
"That's a crime against backs everywhere."
He sighed and opened the door fully. Inside, the suite looked like something out of a luxury drama: velvet curtains, marble floors, and a bed so big it had its own zip code. A complimentary fruit platter waited on the coffee table like a peace offering.
Zara stepped in slowly. "This is how scandal begins."
Ten minutes later, the awkward dance began.
Zara claimed the bathroom first, emerging in her usual chaos uniform: oversized shirt, plaid shorts, and socks that said Go Away, I'm Reading. She froze in place when she saw Noah now dressed down—white shirt, black sweatpants, and sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that should not be legal in three countries.
She cleared her throat and looked anywhere but his arms.
"Wow," she said dryly. "Didn't realize billionaires owned pajamas."
"I own everything, technically," he replied, sitting casually on the chaise like it was a throne.
Zara marched to the bed. "We need rules."
"I assumed we were adults."
"That's adorable," she said. "Rule one: pillow wall."
"Are we twelve?"
"Do you want to sleep with a fork under your ribs?"
"…Pillow wall it is."
They built a small mountain of pillows down the middle of the bed like a peace treaty.
Zara flopped onto her side, stealing three pillows immediately. "Rule two: no weird breathing. If you snore, I will smother you."
"Noted."
"And rule three…" she hesitated, softer now, "don't make this feel real."
Noah turned to look at her.
"It's just one night," she added quickly.
He nodded once. "Right. Just a night."
The lights dimmed.
Zara curled up under the duvet, eyes trained on the ceiling.
"Are you asleep?" she whispered.
"…No."
"Do you always sleep this tense?"
"I'm trying not to cross the pillow wall. It looks very serious."
Zara smirked. "It is. It's diplomatic."
Noah chuckled quietly. "You always this nervous?"
"I'm not nervous," she lied.
"You keep kicking the wall."
"That's stress relief."
Another silence.
Then—
"Zara?"
"…Yeah?"
"This arrangement… is working better than I expected."
She blinked at the darkness. "Because I haven't murdered you?"
"Because you don't pretend. Not even when pretending would be easier."
Zara didn't answer right away.
Then, voice low, "I pretend a lot more than you think."
Noah's eyes found hers in the low light.
He didn't press.
But he didn't look away either.
The next morning, Zara woke up to warmth.
Not the blanket kind.
The arm-draped-across-her-waist kind.
Her brain short-circuited for three whole seconds before she realized Noah was still asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily behind her, his face calm.
They'd drifted together during the night. The pillow wall had collapsed.
She could feel his breath in her hair.
His hand lightly curled around her hip.
His body heat soaking through the sheets.
Zara froze. She should move. But she didn't.
For just a second, she let herself stay there.
Then—Noah stirred. His fingers twitched and Zara rolled away so fast she almost fell off the bed.
"Morning," he said groggily.
"You violated the treaty," she said, hair everywhere, dignity nowhere.
He blinked. "What treaty?"
"The pillow wall. It's dead. You rolled into my zone."
"I was asleep."
"That's no excuse."
"You drool."
Zara gasped. "LIES!"
He smirked. "There's photographic evidence."
Her jaw dropped. "You took photos?!"
"I was joking."
"I will end you."
She lunged for a pillow and whacked him with it.
He caught it mid-air, laughing, and threw it back.
And just like that—they were laughing. On a bed. In a five-star suite. Looking entirely too much like a couple on their honeymoon.
Zara paused mid-laugh.
This was dangerous.
This was warm, and safe, and stupidly... nice.
She stood up. "I'm ordering room service."
He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you hated rich people food."
"I've decided I like croissants. But only under protest."