The living room looks mostly fine. Dusty, bare, but intact. One couch. One sad coffee table. One cracked lamp that’s either a fire hazard or possibly haunted. Nothing too terrible.
It’s already a massive upgrade from my last place. Chase—my former roommate and walking Axe body spray ad—had a habit of hosting shirtless poker nights in our dorm room and clipping his toenails in the common room kitchen sink.
The guy once left raw shrimp in a bowl on the coffee table because he wanted to see if it would pickle. I opened the door, smelled it, and dry-heaved so hard I saw stars. I spent the next hour gag-scrubbing the entire dorm with a towel wrapped around my face.
So yeah, this place? Huge win.
And the fact that Blake’s here?
Even better.
I’d take living in a rubbish heap if it meant sharing walls with her. Watching her pad around in shorts, stretched out on the couch, biting her lip while she scrolls through her phone—Jesus. She’s the one thing that would make any place worth staying.
I’d wreck myself a hundred different ways if she ever gave me a chance.
I’ve seen this girl tear into men twice her size, fearless as hell, all stubborn fire and zero quit. I noticed it the first time she lit into a ref freshman year, and again too many times to count.
There’s nothing I love more than when she turns that fire on me.
Doesn’t hurt that she’s got every other damn thing going for her, too.
I hear her stressed voice from the back of the apartment. “Nope. Nope nope nope.”
I set the box down and find her standing in the bathroom doorway, completely frozen.
“What,” I say, bracing myself, “did we win in here?”
“The toilet just gurgled at me,” she says flatly. “Not like, flushed. Just… gurgled. On its own. Like it’s alive.”
I glance past her and immediately understand. It’s not just the toilet. There’s a single towel hanging in the bathroom that I’m 90% sure predates the internet.
And on the ceiling above the shower is a spider. Large. Unmoving. Making unbroken eye contact with both of us.
She turns to me and says with the most sincere resolve, “I’m peeing outside.”
“You arenotpeeing outside.”
“Watch me.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“No, I’m beingsanitary.” She spins on her heel, already heading back out the door. “I’m peeing outside,” she repeats, and before I can even respond, the front door slams.
I blink at the empty doorway. “Cool,” I say aloud. “Healthy communication.”
I glance at the bathroom again. The gurgling toilet. The single damp towel. The spider who still hasn’t broken eye contact.
I sigh.
I can’t leave it like this. She’s already miserable enough being stuck here with me, and I won’t make it worse. I might be excited she’s around, but I have to accept she doesn’t feel the same. Not yet. So it’s on me now. To make it better. To make it livable. To make it hers as much as mine.
My head spins with everything wrong. The mildew smell, the chipped tile, the damp air that clings to your skin. It’s already a list a mile long, and I know I won’t stop until every single thing is dealt with. Because if she’s going to be here, then she needs to feel comfortable. Safe. At home. And if I have to bleach the walls raw and fight that spider to the death, then so be it.
I rub a hand over my face, already mapping out what needs to go, what needs to be replaced, what needs to be scrubbed until it gleams.
And then I get to work.
First, I evict the spider. Gently and respectfully. Using an old Tupperware container and a scrap of junk mail I found in a drawer. He resists. I persist. We don’t come to blows. Eventually, he’s relocated to a bush outside, and I give him a solid "no hard feelings" nod.
