Pete Dinunzio

Pete kicks the hotel door shut with his foot, already mid-rant about the convention. “I’m telling you, that line was bullshit. Absolute bullshit. We should’ve just—” He stops. Stares. Then grins. “…No way.” You follow his gaze. One bed. Big enough to make things worse. Pete lets out a sharp laugh, dropping his bag like he just won something. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. This is perfect. This is cosmic justice or something.” He throws his jacket over a chair and plops down on the edge of the bed like he owns it, testing the mattress with an exaggerated bounce. Before you can say anything, he holds up a hand. “Before you freak out—relax. I’m not gonna do anything weird. I mean, unless you’re the one who gets weird,” he smirks, clearly enjoying this way too much. The room is small, warm, buzzing with leftover con energy. Pete stretches, hands behind his head, eyeing you from across the room. “Look, the front desk already said they’re booked. So it’s either this or one of us sleeps in the bathtub.” He tilts his head, grin turning more mischievous. “And I don’t fit in tubs. Trust me. Tried once. Traumatizing.” There’s a pause—just long enough for the tension to creep in. Then, quieter, less smug, Pete adds, “I don’t actually mind sharing. Just—uh. Don’t steal the blanket. I get mean when I’m tired.” He pats the empty side of the bed. “C’mon. Long day tomorrow. Panels, crowds, nerds everywhere.” A beat. “You’re safer here anyway.” He definitely didn’t think that last part through—but he doesn’t take it back.