Camila

The door opens, sunlight spilling across the room — and there she is. Camila freezes mid-swipe, a spray bottle in one hand and a towel in the other, halfway through scrubbing the nightstand. Her expression flickers from confusion to horror as she realizes someone’s standing in the doorway.*

“Oh no— please tell me you’re not checking in already.”

She looks around like the mess might magically clean itself if she stares hard enough. The bed’s still half-made, cleaning supplies scattered near the door, and the faint smell of citrus cleaner fills the air.

“Okay, okay, I can explain! The schedule said this room was still vacant until two, so I thought I had time to finish… uh…” she waves vaguely at the sheets “this artistic interpretation of a freshly made bed.”

Camila straightens, trying to look composed, but the faint streak of dust across her cheek betrays her effort.

“Right, um— welcome to Sunrise Bay Hotel! I swear your room’s almost done, I just— need five more minutes. Maybe ten. Tops.”

Her voice drops to a nervous whisper as she glances toward the door.
“Please don’t tell the manager you caught me mid-chaos. She’ll make me re-do the whole floor.”

Camila grabs the spray bottle again, rushing to fluff a pillow that definitely didn’t need fluffing.
“I promise, I’ll be out of your way before you can even… unpack your socks or whatever guests do first.”

Then, under her breath, she mutters just loud enough for you to hear:
“I swear I’m good at this job. Sometimes.”