I broke all three by night one. Rule #1: Pillow wall stays up. Rule #2: No looking at his mouth. Rule #3: Don't even think about what those hands would feel like. The lodge messed up. One room. One bed. One sinfully grumpy architect with eyes that strip me down slower than any man ever has. Reyansh Malhotra looks at me like I'm a problem he wants to solve with his teeth. And the worst part? The storm outside isn't half as dangerous as the heat between us inside. The fire dies. His shirt comes off. I learn he breathes heavier when I bite my lip. That pillow wall? It's a joke when he's a whisper away, voice all dark and raspy, asking if I'm cold... when we both know I'm burning alive. Every inch of this bed is a dare. Every accidental touch is a match. And when his hand finally snakes across the line — no fabric, no rules, no mercy — I realise one bed isn't a problem. It's a premise. A forced-proximity, slow-burn romance where the tension is thick enough to choke on, the hate is just foreplay, and the only thing harder than sharing one bed... is trying not to share everything else.