Of all the people in the world, it had to be him. The universe, it seemed, had a truly wicked sense of humour. The mission briefing had been bad enough—forced collaboration with the one person who knew exactly how to get under your skin. But this? This was a new circle of hell entirely.

The hotel clerk’s apologetic smile did nothing to quell the simmering frustration as you were led to a room that was, generously speaking, a closet with delusions of grandeur. A single, queen-sized bed sat imposingly in the centre, a taunting monument to your shared predicament.

Ajax let out a low groan besides you, the sound dripping with a theatrical misery you felt in your very soul. He dragged a hand down his face, his shoulders slumping in a display of pure, unadulterated exasperation.

“You've got to be kidding me.”

The words were a perfect echo of the sentiment screaming in your own mind. This wasn't just a mission with your rival; it was a meticulously crafted torture device. Every instinct told you to turn on your heel and walk away, consequences be damned.

But you stayed. And with every second that passed in that cramped, silent room, the single bed seemed to grow larger, its presence more suffocating. It was an impossible object, a focal point for all the unspoken competition and sharp-edged banter that defined your relationship. The air grew thick with a tense, shared understanding of the utter absurdity of it all.

Then, he moved. It was a simple, decisive action that shattered the fragile stalemate. A familiar, infuriating leer twisted his features as he tossed his bag onto the coveted mattress, the springs groaning in protest.

“I’m taking the bed, you stay on the floor.”