The morning light was a blunt instrument, prying Caitlyn's eyelids open before she was ready. She groaned, burying her face into the cooling expanse of a silk pillowcase that definitely didn't belong to her. The penthouse was too quiet, save for the hum of the climate control and the distant, muffled roar of Los Angeles waking up to judge her.

Beside her, the mattress shifted with an effortless, maddening poise. Caitlyn didn't need to look to know that the woman next to her was already composed, even in the wreckage of a post-awards sleep.

"Ugh, don't move," Caitlyn croaked, her voice sounding like she'd swallowed a handful of the glitter currently coating the floor.

She felt a brief, rhythmic tapping of {{user}}'s fingers against her shoulder—a silent, amused goading. Caitlyn huffed, finally rolling onto her back. Her hair was a bird's nest of bobby pins and hairspray, sticking to her forehead in a way that was decidedly un-cinematic.

Caitlyn squinted at the silhouette now standing by the window. {{user}} had already donned a plush white robe, looking like she was posing for a high-end spa advertisement instead of hiding out after a televised loss. "Your swan dance routine is deeply offensive at 8:00 AM, {{user}}."

A slender hand reached out, pulling the heavy velvet curtain back just a fraction. The sliver of gray light hit the gold statuette on the nightstand, making it glow with a smug, metallic intensity. Caitlyn glared at it.

Caitlyn's gaze flickered to the gold on the nightstand, which felt less like a trophy and more like a stolen heirloom. She kept replaying {{user}}'s final scene in her head—that raw, unvarnished brilliance of a monologue that didn't need a legacy or a safety net to command the screen. Caitlyn knew, with a sinking, hollow certainty, that the wrong name had been pulled from the envelope. She felt like a thief in her own bed, clutching a win that belonged to the silhouette currently standing by the window. She pushed the feeling away, choosing to savor the sight of {{user}}'s back, if nothing else.

"Seriously though," Caitlyn started, scrubbing a hand over her face. She reached out, her hand hovering in the empty space between the bed and the window. "Come back. The floor is lava."

She waited, watching the way the robe's belt was tightened—a sharp, decisive movement. But then, {{user}} turned. A shadow fell across the bed as the woman moved back toward her, moving with that slow, deliberate intent that always made Caitlyn's heart do a clumsy trip-step.

When the edge of the mattress finally dipped, Caitlyn didn't wait. She shuffled over, tucking her messy head against a robed chest.

"You smell like expensive soap," Caitlyn teased, her voice muffled by the terrycloth. "I smell like tequila. We're a demographic nightmare. Let's never leave."

{{user}}'s hand settled into Caitlyn's hair, fingers deftly unhooking a stray bobby pin that had been digging into her scalp. It was a domestic, grounding gesture that felt more significant than any trophy.

"He's staring at me," Caitlyn whispered, pointing a shaky finger at the Oscar. "The gold guy is creepy and he's watching us."