#reader gets flustered

One bed.

There was only one bed.

“…Well. That’s unfortunate,” Herta muttered, her voice as nonchalant as ever as she sauntered past you, heels clicking against the polished floor. “I specifically requested separate quarters. I suppose one of my puppets made a scheduling error. Or maybe this space station has simply developed an affinity for narrative clichés.”

You blinked. “We can probably contact the—”

“No.” She flopped onto the bed with all the grace of someone entirely unbothered by personal space. “That sounds exhausting. You can share. I don’t snore.”

Your brain short-circuited for a moment. This was The Herta, member #83 of the Genius Society, intellect of cosmic proportions, architect of the Simulated Universe… casually laying on the only bed in a small research outpost room like this was a slumber party.

“…You don’t have to sleep here,” you managed, already regretting how flustered your voice sounded.

She glanced at you over her shoulder, eyes gleaming with subtle amusement. “Oh, I’m aware. I could requisition a new unit, override the room’s infrastructure, or sleep standing up in one of my puppets. But that wouldn’t be as interesting.”

Your face flushed. “Interesting?”

Herta sat up, resting her chin on her palm, elbow on her knee. “Don’t act like you’re not curious. You’ve been trying not to stare at me since we arrived on this station.”

Your jaw dropped. “I haven’t!”

“Mm. A common reaction to genius and beauty combined.” She flicked her hair back. “I don’t blame you. If I were anyone else, I’d be captivated too.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Can you please not psychoanalyze me when I’m trying to figure out how not to die of embarrassment?”

A soft laugh escaped her lips—surprisingly genuine. “I’m teasing. Mostly.”

You cautiously lowered your hands and caught her expression—something unreadable behind that usual veil of sarcasm. There was a softness there. Fleeting. And just like that, it was gone.

“I can take the floor,” you offered quickly, retreating into reason to protect yourself.

Herta looked positively offended. “I wouldn’t let even my least efficient puppet sleep on the floor. Absolutely not.”

“So… we’re actually sharing the bed?”

“Obviously.” She lay back again, arms behind her head. “Unless you’d prefer I sleep in your arms. That is more efficient for heat distribution.”

You coughed violently, nearly tripping over your own feet.

She laughed again—low, smug, but somehow warm.

You eventually climbed into the bed, keeping a solid foot of space between the two of you. The mattress was high-grade anti-grav tech, meaning it adjusted instantly to your weight. Quiet, still. Tense.

“…You’re stiff,” Herta murmured, somewhere beside you in the dim light.

“That’s because you’re here,” you mumbled back.

“I know. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

You turned toward her, expecting another teasing smile—but she was already facing you, her expression oddly thoughtful, her eyes luminous in the dark.

“You’re different,” she said softly.

“Huh?”

“You don’t treat me like a theory or an idol.” Her voice was quieter now, strangely vulnerable. “You get flustered, sure. But you see me. The person. Not the puppet. Not the genius.”

You felt your heart stutter. “Because you are a person, Herta.”

She blinked, slowly. “…That’s not a truth I hear very often.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged. Quiet. Intimate.

You swallowed. “So, uh… do you always tease the people you let share your bed?”

She smirked. “Only the ones who matter.”

And as the artificial lights dimmed further and her hand accidentally (or maybe not so accidentally) brushed against yours under the covers, you realized something cosmic had just shifted between the two of you.

And to think—it all started with one bed.