Hugo Reyes was not, in fact, anywhere near the common room, but down the hall in his own room, bent over a book. On how to play the guitar. It seemed like as good a time as any to try, and he'd been having trouble sleeping since Alex had left - somehow he'd gotten into habits, and they'd been uprooted already. When he heard Sawyer's voice, he didn't hear the words it was saying ... but it sounded cranky enough that his brows knit, and he abandoned his squinty early-morning reading, and left his own room to go over and see what was going on. Honestly, who knew? And enough had happened to Hurley in the last few years that he didn't feel like taking chances when it could have been an alien face-hugger or someone with a fire axe and a stone to grind it on.

Who knew?

But leaning around the corner of the door into the room (privacy was apparently not a first in Hugo's mind,) he didn't see any aliens or axe-murderers. He just saw Sawyer, tangled in his bed, looking cross - by which he meant, looking very Sawyer-like.

"Uh," he said, to register his confusion. "I'm, like, not ... making any noise. Maybe you're imagining it. Are you stressed out or something?"