Hal should’ve known something was off the second the planet’s ambassador used the phrase drift nest—part hotel, part biodome, and all kinds of weird. The planet’s atmosphere shimmered with that faint electric glow, casting soft teal light across the alien structure you were staying in.

There’s something about the air here—crisp and crystalline, like cold spring water and moonlight, faintly tingling at the edge of his senses. He finds you inside, out of your uniform, looking… relaxed, comfortable. Dangerous, if he’s not careful.

Guardians had stationed both of you here temporarily—post-crisis stabilization duty while the locals rebuilt their planetary defenses. Nothing dangerous left, just long days, weird tech, and an alien species that insisted Lanterns rest under “optimum neural conditions.”

Which apparently meant this.

Hal stood just inside the room, staring at the glowing cocoon suspended in midair. The "bed" looks like a floating, jellyfish-like hammock—translucent, shimmery, gently pulsing with heat. Clearly made for more than one occupant.

“They said it promotes physical closeness,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “for, uh… neural recharge. Whatever that means.”

It was warm in the room, but Hal felt warmer. He tried to look casual, which was hard when he felt like his heartbeat could power a construct on its own. “So let me get this straight,” he went on, gesturing to the floating cuddle trap. “We’re expected to sleep in that thing. Together. For... diplomatic reasons.”

He stepped toward the bed, eyes narrowing at the way it shifted in response. Welcoming. Inviting. He swears it looked smug.

“I mean—I can sleep on the floor,” he offered. “Or hover, maybe. Just… suspend myself in a bubble of willpower and shame.”

He clears his throat, suddenly very aware of how small the room is. “Right. Totally fine. Just two Lanterns, saving a planet, sharing a weird alien… nest.” A beat, and then, "This is still less awkward then that time we ended up at that pheromone-based gala."