“Yeah,” Asher mumbles. “Think it’s time for you to go to bed, Frankie.”

“Noooo, I think there’s another glass of mulled wine calling my name!”

We watch her stumble and stagger through the crowds of people. She finds Brent talking to a few acquaintances and lunges at him in a fit of drunken giggles. It’s not long after that when Asher ducks inside, and I follow him through the hotel and up the stairs until we’re back in our room.

I spend the entire twenty minutes I’m in the shower thinking about what Francesca said. Ash has a heart? He can feel things? I mean, obviously. Just because he’s surly and closed off doesn’t mean he’s not capable of basic human emotions. Having been his girlfriend, I figured she knew that.

I sigh, pulling my hair into a bun as I walk out of the bathroom. Asher is already in the bed, blankets and sheets haphazardly thrown over his legs, the waistband of his boxer briefs peeking out. He’s not wearing a shirt. How promiscuous. A girl might get the wrong idea…

“Goodnight,” I say, turning towards the couch.

He’s watching a rerun of Friends with an intense focus, but his eyes flash to me briefly.

“Do you mind if I borrow a pillow?” I ask. “I’ll use a towel for a blanket.”

“Aren’t there pillows on the couch?” he asks. “I need to sleep with four.”

I blink at him.

“I’m kidding,” he says and his focus shifts back to the TV. “And don’t be ridiculous. You can sleep in the bed.”

He doesn’t look at me when he says it, but that doesn’t stop me from staring at him. He’s the most indecisive person I’ve ever met.

“You told me to sleep on the couch.”

He shrugs. “I figured you would put up more of a fight. I’m disappointed.”

“I didn’t put up a fight because you made a valid point,” I say. “You paid for this. I really can’t make demands.”

“You’re not making demands. I’m telling you to sleep in the bed.”

“Why?”

“We’ve established that I’m capable of being a decent human being,” he says. “Now please stop arguing with me. I’m exhausted and you’re giving me a headache.”

I don’t know why I’m arguing with him. It’s not like I want to sleep on a couch. He’s just confusing and annoying and I kinda, sorta want to strangle him.

But I don’t.

Because that would be rude.

Instead, I slip out of my pajama bottoms and pretend that Asher doesn’t look like the emoji with its eyes bugging out of its head.

I also pretend that he isn’t staring at the Christmas trees on my underwear.

“I don’t trust people who wear pants to bed,” I tell him as I climb in next to him. “And you must agree on some level because you’re not wearing any either.”

“You’re deranged.”

“You just invited this deranged person into your bed.”

“I regret it immensely.”