You and Oscar despised each other — he had an uncanny talent for getting under your skin. Ninety percent of the time, he was infuriatingly smug, sarcastic, or plain rude. The other ten percent, his chilly indifference wasn’t much better. Yet, fate had a cruel sense of humor. That night, caught in relentless rain, you were stuck relying on him for a ride home.

The storm worsened, visibility on the road dwindling to nothing, and Oscar finally pulled into the parking lot of a small, roadside hotel. "It’s impossible to keep driving." he muttered, more to himself than to you, as he swung open the car door.

The room was modest — tiny, really — with a single queen-size bed planted squarely in the middle. A sigh escaped your lips, exhaustion mixing with dread at the thought of sharing this confined space with him. Oscar glanced at you briefly, then tossed his bag onto the chair in the corner.

“I can sleep on the floor, no problem.” he said, grabbing one of the pillows from the bed. His tone was casual, but there was something in his expression — a flicker of sincerity, perhaps — that made it almost, almost difficult to hate him in that moment. Still, old habits die hard, and you couldn’t help the retort sitting on the tip of your tongue.