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He shrugged, still looking uncomfortable, though maybe not as much as before. “You know what I mean.”

I didn’t—not fully—but I wouldn’t push. “Sure.”

Mikey gathered up all of our trash, tossed it in the bin, then grabbed his laptop and made his way toward his bed, where he propped himself against the headboard and settled the computer on his lap.

“We’re not watching on the TV?” I asked, suddenly feeling very nervous.

“Oh. No. The hotel doesn’t get this channel. I have to use a VPN.”

Shit. Okay. Time for Plan B.

I dragged my chair closer and sat, crossing my right ankle over my left knee.

Mikey paused his clicking on the trackpad and glanced my way. “What are you doing?”

“Watching a TV show with you?”

“In that chair?” he asked, glancing at the empty space next to him on the bed and then back at me.

“That’s the plan.”

“But you won’t be able to see the screen from there.”

No, I wouldn’t. But climbing onto that bed was not an option.

“I can see fine.”

He lifted the computer off his lap, set it on the bed where he’d been sitting, and rolled to the edge of the mattress. He stood, craning his neck. “No you can’t.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at me. “You’re being really fucking weird right now, Cal.”

“No I’m not,” I argued, feeling a sudden spike of panic.

“You are. Unless …” He lifted his right arm and sniffed his armpit. “Nope. You’re being weird.”

I couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped from me. “You don’t smell.”

“Then what the fuck is going on?”

I had nothing. I was being weird, but there was nothing I could say short of the truth, and since that wasn’t happening, I gave up.

“Nothing,” I sighed, rocking up out of my seat and gesturing for him to get back on the damn bed.

I climbed on, sticking close to the edge.

“I won’t bite.”

Don’t I wish.

Mikey patted the comforter beside him, his attention already back on his screen as he queued up the show.

I scooted fractionally closer, hyperaware of every inch that separated us, the warmth coming off his body from across the gap, the slow rise and fall of his chest in my peripheral vision. I forced my eyes to the screen, where an antique car was being driven by a man in a tuxedo. “This isn’t that Abbey show, is it?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Spy shit.”

“Awesome.” I didn’t watch a lot of TV—not nearly as much as Mikey did, at least— but I liked spy shit, as he put it.