“I’ll be quick,” Daisy promises, pulling out her polka-dot bag of toiletries.

“No rush,” I mumble. The cushions are so blissfully soft, the temperature pleasantly warm enough to forgo any blankets; maybe I could just sleep like this. Forget blow-drying my hair, or brushing my teeth. That can wait until morning—

But my eyes have barely fallen shut when Oliver’s and Cyrus’s voices travel from outside the room.

“… think that I would want to marry you?”

“Obviously not—”

“Because I’m in very high demand, Cyrus. I shit you not, there are at least thirty people I can name who would love to be married to me. Hell, there was a literal prince who proposed to me when we were both only fifteen, and I was promised an extravagant wedding on a private island.”

“That’s hardly the point here—”

“No, but I feel like I need to make this clear to you. You shouldn’t sound so disgusted—”

“You sounded disgusted too—”

“I was still polite about my disgust—”

I sit up, disoriented, and creep back over to the doorway. I remember hearing somewhere that exhaustion can produce vivid hallucinations, but even for a hallucination, this conversation is bizarre. Slowly, I push the door open and find Oliver and Cyrus standing apart in the dull yellow wash of the corridor, arms crossed, expressions tense.

“What’s going on?” I ask, sticking my head out.

“They gave us the honeymoon suite,” Oliver bursts out, his handsome features twisting in horror while I fight back the overwhelming urge to laugh. “It looks like Cupid hosted a massive party, got drunk, and threw up in there. Everything is all romantic and sensual. Sensual,” he emphasizes with a shudder, like the word contains within it a whole realm of unspeakable horrors. “There are rose petals covering every surface. The towels are folded into the shape of hearts. And there’s only one king-sized bed for the two of us. I need to sleep before my brain melts, and I can’t—”

“So do I,” Cyrus cuts in. “But your idea was terrible—”

“What’s wrong with sleeping face-to-feet?” he demands. “Would you rather we fall asleep staring deep into each other’s eyes, my dude?”

“I don’t want your feet anywhere within a five-foot radius of my face,” Cyrus says tightly.

“You see?” Oliver says to me, throwing his hands out like a defendant appealing to a jury. “This shit’s impossible. And don’t even get me started on that cursed bathroom wall—”

“It’s made of glass,” Cyrus says, also speaking to only me. “Pure glass. You can see everything on the other side of it. There might as well be no wall at all. The hotel simply doesn’t seem to believe that newlywed couples would care for something as frivolous as privacy.”