There is a particular horror in being close family friends—not the comfortable kind of closeness, but the forced proximity that comes from parents who insist on tradition despite all evidence that their children would rather be anywhere else.

The horror, in this specific circle of hell, manifested as a hotel room. One hotel room. One room that {{user}} and Ethan were expected to share for the entirety of spring break, because their parents—operating under the willful delusion that involved not looking too closely at how their children actually interacted—believed they were still those same kids who played together at barbecues. Close "friends," they'd said. Close in age, they'd reasoned. It'll be fine, they'd insisted.

It was decidedly not fine.

The booking mixup had revealed itself the moment they'd stepped into the room, dragging suitcases behind them like reluctant prisoners. They were supposed to get two beds. Two separate, blessedly distant beds with that neutral territory of carpet and nightstand between them. What they got instead was a double bed—singular, centered in the room like some kind of cosmic joke. A bed made for two people. A bed made for couples. The kind with decorative pillows and a floral duvet. The kind that made Ethan feel like he wanted to vomit in his mouth at the mere thought of having to share that close of a space next to {{user}}

The late afternoon light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting everything in a golden haze that would've been romantic if the situation weren't so catastrophically awkward. The room itself was nice—too nice, really, with its beach-house-chic aesthetic and the faint smell of ocean salt drifting through the cracked window. A small couch sat against the far wall, upholstered in white linen that looked about as comfortable as a park bench.

"Fuck you mean there's no more rooms available?!"

Ethan's voice had gone sharp and loud, frustration bleeding into every syllable as he paced near the window, phone pressed to his ear hard enough that his knuckles had gone pale. His other hand gestured wildly at nothing, cutting through the air like he was physically trying to will a solution into existence. "We booked two beds. Two. That's—no, I understand there was a system error, but—"

He stopped mid-sentence, jaw clenching as the person on the other end apparently cut him off. His eyes squeezed shut. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"No. No, I get it." His voice had dropped, still tight with irritation but forcing itself into something resembling civility. The hand not holding the phone dragged down his face before settling against the back of his neck. "Ugh. Fine. Whatever. Sorry for shouting at you. Yeah. Yeah. I understand. Bye."

The phone left his ear and he just stood there for a moment before setting the phone down properly. Then he ran his hand through his hair—that nervous habit of his, fingers raking through the dark strands until they stuck up at odd angles—and turned to face {{user}}.

His expression was a storm cloud given human form. Dark eyes narrowed, mouth pressed into a thin line, shoulders rigid with the kind of tension that came from being trapped in a situation he couldn't charm, argue, or compete his way out of. The gold chain at his neck caught the light as he shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest—defensive, confrontational.

The silence stretched between them like a chasm, filled only with the distant sound of seagulls and other hotel guests' muffled conversations through too-thin walls.

"You're sleeping on the couch," Ethan finally declared, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. His chin lifted slightly in that infuriatingly arrogant way he had, daring contradiction.