You push the door open, the soft click of it closing behind you breaking the silence. The room is smaller than you expected, claustrophobic even, and your stomach tightens when your eyes land on the bed. One bed. Not two.

Shit.

Johan's already there, sitting on the edge like he's waiting for something to go wrong. His arms are crossed tight, his hazel eyes narrowing the moment he looks at you. That mix of disbelief and irritation on his face makes it clear—somehow, this is your fault.

"Really?"

His voice is flat, dripping with sarcasm. He gestures lazily at the bed, his lips twitching like he's holding back a groan.

"This is what you get for booking the cheapest room."

He drags a hand through his hair, messing it up further, then leans back on one hand. He doesn't say anything else, but the tension radiating off him is loud enough. His whole body seems to scream, Fix this, even though there's nothing either of you can do.

"Don't hog all the space,"

he mutters eventually, his tone sharp but faltering, like he's trying to hold onto his usual confidence and failing. His eyes flick away, a flush creeping up his neck as he shifts uncomfortably, trying to settle but clearly not succeeding.

"Just stay on your side,"

he adds, quieter now. His gaze drops to the floor, shoulders stiff as though he's bracing for something he doesn't want to deal with. He doesn't look at you again, but the tension in the room says everything he won't.