The Inn
Series Masterlist
Plot: The one bed trope strikes again.
Chapter 3: Shanks
The room had one bed.
Of course it did.
Behind you, Shanks leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and looked past you into the room.
There was a pause.
Then he said, “Well.”
You closed your eyes. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was taking in the accommodations.”
“You were about to make this worse.”
His mouth curved. “I might still.”
You turned to glare at him.
That was your first mistake.
Shanks looked far too pleased for a man who had spent the day negotiating with a mayor who kept pretending not to be afraid of him and getting soaked by a storm.
His red hair was damp and pushed back from his face. His cloak hung heavy over his shoulders.
He looked tired.
He also looked entertained.
That combination was dangerous.
“There is one bed,” you said.
“So I noticed.”
“One.”
“Sharp eye.”
“Shanks.”
He lifted his right hand in surrender. “I’d offer to sleep on the floor, but then you’d worry about me. I’m considerate that way.”
You stared at him.
He smiled.
Slow, easy, shameless.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“Shanks.”
“Not the bed.” His eyes moved over your face. “Your expression.”
You walked into the room before he could see you smile.
The inn had been full because of the storm. The innkeeper had nearly fainted when he realized who Shanks was, then had offered the last room with panicked apologies.
Shanks had accepted with a polite smile.
You had accepted with the slow internal collapse of someone who had spent the last several months pretending your feelings for him were manageable.
They were not manageable.
They were inconvenient, badly timed, and becoming harder to hide every time he looked at you.
You set your bag beside the wall and looked around.
The bed sat against the far wall, larger than you expected but not large enough to make this harmless.
Nothing about Shanks in a bed could ever be harmless.
He stepped in behind you and shut the door.
Just you and Shanks.
And the bed.
Shanks glanced at it again.
You pointed at him. “Do not look amused.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Maybe.” He moved toward the table, unbuckling his sword belt with the casual confidence of a man utterly unaware—or far too aware—of the way your attention followed him.
You looked away quickly.
Not quickly enough.
Shanks noticed.
He set his sword within reach beside the bed. “You can have the wall side,” he said.
You glanced at him. “Why?”
“In case you feel safer.”
Something in your chest shifted.
He said it lightly. Almost carelessly. Like it was nothing.
“You always do that,” you said before you could stop yourself.
His brow lifted. “Do what?”
“Say things like they’re jokes when they’re not.”
For once, he did not answer immediately.
Then his smile returned, softer at the edges. “Can’t let you catch me being thoughtful. Ruins the reputation.”
“You have a reputation for being thoughtful?”
“I was hoping to start one tonight.”
You huffed a laugh.
His smile deepened.
After that, the room became full of small tasks.
Boots off. Hair shaken loose. Weapons placed within reach. Your damp shirt traded for the dry one from your bag.
When you came out of the bathroom, he had changed into a dry shirt too.
He caught you looking.
You looked away.
He did not tease you.
That was worse too.
“Well,” he said.
“If you say that again, I’m making you sleep in the hall.”
“With your concern for my comfort? I doubt it.”
“Shanks.”
He smiled, but it softened quickly. “We’re adults.”
You gave him a look. “That sounds like something someone says before making a terrible decision.”
“I’ve made plenty of those.”
“I know.”
You turned down the blanket on the wall side and climbed in before your nerves could turn the whole thing into a production. “Fine. Bed. Sleep. No making this weird.”
Shanks crossed the room with lazy amusement. “I would never.” He chuckled under his breath and sat on the edge of the mattress.
The bed dipped.
You became very interested in the wall.
Behind you, Shanks shifted, settling his weight with more care than he usually showed for anything involving his own comfort.
He was close.
Not too close.
He had left enough space between you to be respectful, but Shanks was not a small man, and the bed was not a large one.
You lay on your side facing the wall.
Shanks lay on his back beside you.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke.
You listened to the rain. To the inn settling. To Shanks’ breathing, slow and even enough that it almost convinced you he was relaxed.
Almost.
Then he said, “You were quiet tonight.”
Your eyes opened.
You had thought he might make another joke. Something about the bed. Something about you stealing the blankets. Something safe enough to bat away.
Not that.
“Was I?”
“Mm.”
“You were negotiating. I wasn’t needed.”
“You’re always needed.”
You swallowed.
He said it like nothing.
Again.
Like it did not land somewhere soft and stupid inside you.
“You had it handled,” you said.
“For the most part.”
“You got what you wanted.”
His silence made you wish you had chosen different words.
“Did I?” he asked.
It was quiet.
Almost too quiet to be Shanks.
You turned your head slightly, not enough to face him fully. “Didn’t you?”
“I got the mayor to stop taking bribes from a man who thought using our flag without permission was a clever idea,” Shanks said. “I got three ships released and an apology I didn’t believe.”
“That sounds successful.”
“It was.”
“But?”
“But you were quiet.”
You turned back toward the wall.
Your heart was doing something unhelpful.
“I was tired.”
“You were tired yesterday. You still called a dock clerk a mildew-brained extortionist.”
“He was.”
“He cried after you left.”
“He needed character development.”
Shanks laughed softly.
You shut your eyes.
“I was quiet,” you said, “because sometimes it’s strange watching people be afraid of you.”
The room changed.
Shanks did not move.
“Ah,” he said.
You regretted it immediately. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
You stopped.
His voice was gentle. No accusation in it. No wound he was asking you to soothe.
That made it harder.
You stared at the wall. “They look at you like they’re scared of you and charmed by you at the same time.”
Silence.
Then Shanks said, “And how do you look at me?”
You should have joked.
You should have said something careless. Something easy.
Instead, you lay there in the dark, facing the wall, and found you were too tired to lie properly.
“Like you’re still you,” you said.
Behind you, Shanks went very quiet.
“You shouldn’t say things like that in the dark,” he said.
Your chest tightened.
“Why?”
His answer took a moment.
“Harder to pretend I didn’t hear them.”
You turned over before you could think better of it.
Shanks was still on his back, but his head had turned toward you. His eyes were shadowed in the lamplight, his expression stripped of the usual performance.
Not empty.
Not guarded.
Careful in a way that did not suit him.
Or maybe it suited him too well, and you were only now close enough to see it.
“Do you want to pretend?” you asked.
His gaze moved over your face.
“No,” he said.
Your breath caught.
His mouth curved faintly, but there was no humor in it. “But I’m trying to be decent.”
“That sounds difficult for you.”
That earned you the smallest huff of laughter.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Shanks looked at your mouth.
Then he looked back up at your eyes, and the restraint there was so clear it made your skin warm.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“That your solution?”
“Best one I’ve got tonight.”
“What’s the worst one?”
His expression shifted.
“Don’t ask me that,” he said softly.
You wondered what would happen if you reached for him.
You wondered if he would let you.
Then thunder rolled outside, low and distant.
You blinked first.
Shanks exhaled quietly and turned his eyes toward the ceiling again.
“Sleep,” he said.
This time, it sounded less like instruction and more like mercy.
You turned back onto your side, facing the wall.
Behind you, Shanks shifted onto his side too, facing your back but not touching you.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
And ruined everything.
You woke in the dark before dawn.
You were warm.
Too warm.
Your cheek rested against something solid.
Your hand was curled in fabric.
Your legs had drifted across the small space that had once separated you from Shanks, and at some point in the night, you had turned toward him completely.
You were tucked against his right side.
His arm was around you.
Your face was close to his chest, near enough that you could feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing. His chin almost brushed your hair.
You froze.
Not because you wanted to move.
Because you did not.
That was the problem.
His arm curved around you like he had been made to hold you there. Your fingers tightened once in his shirt.
His hand moved slightly against your back.
You stopped breathing.
Then his voice came, rough with sleep and something else. “Morning.”
Your eyes closed.
Oh no.
He was awake.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him.
Shanks’ hair was a mess over the pillow. His face was softer with sleep, jaw shadowed, eyes heavy and open. He did not look surprised.
That was worse than anything.
“Were you awake?” you asked.
His gaze held yours.
There were a dozen answers he could have given. A joke. A denial.
He gave you none of them.
“For a little while,” he said.
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.
His hand was still at your back.
His thumb moved once, barely there, an unconscious stroke against the fabric of your shirt.
Neither of you spoke.
“You didn’t wake me,” you said.
Shanks’ mouth curved faintly.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you looked comfortable,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
“That’s all?”
His smile faded.
His hand stilled against your back.
“No,” he said.
It landed between you with more force than a confession.
For once, he was not making this easier.
Maybe he could not.
Maybe he did not want to.
Your hand was still curled in his shirt.
You loosened your fingers.
Shanks noticed.
His gaze flicked down, then back to your face.
“You can move,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
You drew in a slow breath.
Then, carefully, before courage could abandon you, you touched him again.
Your fingers slid beneath the open edge of his shirt, slow enough that he could stop you, and rested against the warm skin over his heart.
His eyes changed.
“You shouldn’t do that,” he said.
Your voice came out softer than you intended. “Do you want me to stop?”
He looked at you for a long moment.
His hand stayed at your back.
When he answered, it was almost too quiet.
“No.”
The word moved through you, slow and hot.
Then someone slammed a door downstairs.
Both of you froze.
Shanks shut his eyes.
You pressed your lips together.
The laugh escaped anyway. Small. Helpless. Half embarrassment, half relief.
His eyes opened again, and this time the smile that tugged at his mouth was real.
“Well,” he said, voice low, “that ruined the dramatic silence.”
You let out another breathless laugh.
His smile widened.
And just like that, the danger shifted shape. He gave you the escape after all.
Not because he did not want more.
Because morning was cruel, and the world downstairs was waiting, and whatever this was had become too real to handle carelessly.
His arm slipped from around you.
Shanks sat up first, running his right hand through his hair. It did very little to fix it. His shirt was rumpled where your fingers had been. He looked down at himself, then over at you.
You looked away too late.
He noticed.
“You slept well,” he said.
You sat up and reached for your bag. “Don’t sound so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m pleased with the bed.”
“The bed did nothing.”
“Strongly disagree.”
You threw a pillow at him.
He caught it easily against his side and laughed, low and warm and annoyingly beautiful in the gray morning light.
“Careful,” he said. “This innocent pillow has already been through a lot.”
“It deserves better company.”
“So do you.”
The words came out lightly.
You paused with your hand in your bag.
Shanks looked toward the window as if he had not said anything worth noticing.
There he was again.
Hiding sincerity inside jokes.
You watched him stand. His expression had settled into something composed, but not entirely.
Shanks opened the curtains and looked down at the street.
“Road’s passable,” he said.
“Good.”
“Harbor will be delayed until afternoon.”
“Also good.”
He glanced back. “Is it?”
You met his eyes.
There was the question beneath the question.
A little while longer in town.
A little while longer before the crew, before the noise, before the roles you both knew how to play slid back into place around you.
You swallowed.
“Yes,” you said. “It’s good.”
Shanks looked at you and smiled.
He reached for his cloak and settled it over his shoulders. Then he picked up your cloak from the chair and held it out to you.
You took it.
Your fingers brushed his.
Both of you stopped.
His thumb brushed once against your knuckle.
Then he let go.
You fastened your cloak with far too much attention.
Shanks picked up Gryphon and moved to the door.
He opened it, then paused.
For one reckless second, you thought he might say something. Something clear. Something that would make the room impossible to leave unchanged.
Instead, he looked back at you and said, “For the record, I was right.”
You blinked. “About what?”
His smile returned, slow and terrible.
“If I’d slept on the floor, you would have worried.”
You stared at him.
Then you walked past him into the hall. “I’m leaving you behind.”
“Cruel woman.”
He laughed under his breath and followed you out.
The harbor waited.
The road waited.
Neither of you talked about the bed.
Not yet.
