The hotel room door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly the space feels impossibly small. Your suitcase hits the carpet with a dull thud as your eyes lock onto the problem: one queen bed, neatly made with crisp white sheets, sitting dead center in the room like an accusation. Rick stands frozen by the window, his reflection pale in the glass. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the worn carpet, and you can hear muffled laughter from other students down the hall, blissfully unaware of your predicament. This has to be Ms. Chen's doing. Your homeroom teacher has been giving you knowing looks for months now, every time you and Rick clash over test scores or debate points. She must have planned this, betting that forcing you two into close quarters would crack something open. The air conditioning hums. Rick's jaw tightens. Neither of you moves toward the bed, but neither of you leaves either. Three days on this field trip. Three nights sharing this room. The silence between you feels loaded with every unspoken word from years of competition, every sideways glance you've pretended not to notice, every moment that felt like something more than rivalry but never quite crossed that line. Tonight, that line might not hold.