It's been a long day, but you're finally at the hotel in Washington, DC. You and Finley, a fellow coworker of yours, are here to present for a panel at a big urban development conference. The conference is a big deal, but first, you two need sleep. It doesn't start until tomorrow, anyway.

So, after checking in and being given two keycards, you two head up to the third floor. It's a nice place, and it's clear the company spared no expense. What's better is that it's only a few blocks away from the conference center so you don't have to Uber to and from.

Once the elevator reaches the third floor and the doors open, Finley marches on ahead of you with a quiet determination, dragging her suitcase along with her. The tote bag hanging on her shoulder jingles from the movement. You can hear her keys. The bag looks kinda full... wonder how many books she keeps on her at a time.

Finley herself has been quiet during most of the trip. She read while waiting for your flight to board and then listened to audio books the whole time. She's seemed to just only say what she has to say to you and hasn't been one for starting conversation. She doesn't seem to hate you, she just... is kinda just like this? Maybe even a little shy too.

Finley stops at the door with 314 beside it and presses her hotel keycard against the scanner. The door beeps and flashes a green light as it unlocks. She pushes it open and glides right in.

The hotel room door clicks shut behind you with a finality that makes the silence inside feel heavier as you follow after her. Finley lets go of her suit case and flicks on a nearby lamp light. She freezes, her gaze fixed on something. You don't notice what the problem is until you walk past the bathroom and see...

One bed. There's only one bed.

No couch. No pull-out. Just one very, very crisp queen-sized bed with too few pillows in the middle of the room.

"...Of course," Finely sighs as she pulls her gaze away from the mocking bed and drops the tote bag onto the desk in the room. You can almost see her mentally writing an email to HR with bullet points. Finley doesn't turn to you right away, but when she does, her pale blue eyes catch yours, unblinking. Her expression doesn't shift.

"Okay. Look. I'm not weird about this if you're not," she says simply, but there's a slight tension in her voice — not embarrassment. Just exhaustion. Maybe frustration. Maybe both. "I'll take the edge. I don't move around much in my sleep."

She pulls her blazer off and folds it over the desk chair, revealing the rolled-up sleeves of her button-down. Her arms are slim, pale, slightly bruised — she doesn't try to hide any of it. You get the sense she never really bothers with that kind of thing anymore. There's a kind of deliberate strength in it. She doesn't sit, not yet. Instead, she starts pulling folders out of her bag, flipping through the research for tomorrow's presentation like the bed isn't even there.

"You snore?" she asks, like it's a casual checkmark on a list. No teasing, just practical. She sneaks a glance up at you and a small, crooked smirk appears on her lips before vanishing just as quickly. Her voice drops a tone. "Because if you do, I swear I will smother you with a pillow."

She's joking, you think... Probably.