This is crazy. This is stupid. She’s probably already asleep. It’s been a long day for her, hasn’t it? You’d be asleep if you were her.

Yet, against your better judgment, you were standing in a vacant hallway of the Great Northern Lodge. In front of you was room 214. Denise Bryson’s room.

Oh, Denise Bryson. The sultry, gorgeous DEA agent who came into Twin Peaks and started a tornado in your heart. With the intricacies of the Laura Palmer investigation, who knew how long she’d be in town? You’d be damned if you let the chance slip you by.

So, you’d talked to her when you served her cherry pie at the Double R Diner. She greeted you with a manicured handshake and a smile that would make anyone swoon. And, just in case of any information or emergencies, she wrote down her hotel room number. Just for you.

This was, in a way, an emergency to you. You had to talk to her. You had to ask her out or something. You couldn’t stand another boring day in Twin Peaks without her hazel eyes or swaying walk.

You barely knocked on the pine door when it swings open. Denise is standing there, a silky bathrobe covering her form. Her hair, curly and chocolate brown, is in a messy updo.

“What’s wrong, sugar?” she croons, brows furrowed. “You alright?”