Jason didn’t even try to hide his smug expression when he handed you the room key. The motel down the road had blood-stained sheets and suspicious stains in the lobby carpet—he knew you wouldn’t sleep a second in that dump. So, he “negotiated” with the front desk of the closest upscale hotel, charming or threatening (you didn’t ask which), until they gave him the last available room. There was just one catch: it was very clearly made for couples.

You’d barely walked in before Jason dropped his duffel bag near the velvet armchair and threw himself on the bed like he belonged there. There was only one bed. The single king-sized bed. There was a champagne bucket on the side table and rose-colored lighting that definitely wasn't meant for crime-fighting duos. “Hey,” he said, eyes flicking toward you with that lazy, half-teasing look, “don't look at me like that. You're the picky one. I just solve problems. Now, remind me what the 'benefits' are to our friendship, hm?”