The keycard beeps green. You push the door open expecting silence and clean sheets. Instead, the faint glow of a charging phone cuts through the dark — and then you see her. Marlowe. Curled on top of the covers, hair fanned across the pillow, clearly not expecting company. The hotel overbooked. Her key, your key — same room, same night. When you call the front desk, Desmond answers with a symphony of apologies and zero solutions, hiding behind "hotel policy" while the clock ticks past midnight. No spare rooms. No refunds tonight. Just you, her, and a situation that's getting harder to walk away from.