Then I tackle the rest of the bathroom. I find cleaning supplies under the sink that probably expired during the Blair era, but I mix what’s left of them carefully enough not to gas myself and scrub until the grout is no longervisiblysentient.I clean the toilet. Ifixthe toilet. Turns out the gurgling was a loose fill valve. Thank you, YouTube.
I toss the cursed towel in the trash and stock the closet (that I had to pry open) with fresh ones.
By the time I’m done wiping down every gross surface in this sad little flat, I’m sweating through my clothes and kind of impressed with myself.
Blake comes back almost an hour later, flushed and breathing hard, with her shirt clinging to her. I think it’s safe to assume she went for a run to clear her head as opposed to actually peeing outside.
She pauses in the doorway, sniffs, and blinks at the faint scent of lemon cleaner.
“You cleaned,” she says slowly, like she doesn’t quite trust it. Which is fair. I wouldn’t trust me if I were her either.
Still, I should probably come up with small ways to keep pranking her while we’re stuck here. Can’t exactly abandon the Rites completely, even if I’d much rather redirect all that energy into proving I’m worth fantasizing about instead of tolerating. Right now, she’s got me pegged as the resident nuisance, when I’d prefer her pegging me for something else entirely.
Fuckable.
“I also fixed the toilet,” I add, tossing a Clorox wipe in the trash. “And relocated the spider. We’re all safer now.”
She looks at me, then around the space, then back at me. Her jaw ticks. “I don’t know whether to thank you or be suspicious.”
“I can think of several ways you could thank me,” I say, smirking.
“Fat chance,” she replies, flipping me off and disappearing into the freshly sanitized bathroom. She’s got her overnight bag with her, packed for easy access so she won’t have to dig through the bigger stuff until later. Smart. I wish I’d thought to do the same.
I grin.
Progress.
BLAKE
I step out of the shower feeling mildly less homicidal. The bathroom is clean. Actually, that’s an understatement. It looks like it was exorcised while I was gone. I don’twantto admit I’m impressed, but part of me is definitely wondering if Mads secretly moonlights as a janitor or something.
I didn’t actually pee outside. I stormed out with full commitment, but two minutes into my rage-jog, I realized I didn’t hate myself enough to squat behind a bush like a feral animal. So I ran to the campus library instead, used their pristine second-floor restroom, washed my hands twice, and rage-jogged back with slightly less righteous fury and a lot more thigh sweat.
My hair’s detangled, my skin smells like coffee-scented body scrub, and the plumbing is survivable, so I’m finally ready to crawl into bed and pretend this day never happened.
Until I see it.
I left my overnight bag zipped, clothes folded tight so I could live out of it for a day or two. Now it’s sitting open on the counter, half my stuff spilling out like someone rifled through it. Shirts unfolded, shorts inside-out, underwear I definitely didn’t leave on top.
I freeze, uncertain.
Mads was probably digging for ammo—something pathetic he could lord over me until I lost it. A bra he could “accidentally” leave hanging from the goalpost, one of my jerseys he could duct tape to the locker room ceiling, maybe even my cleats, so he could lace them together and toss them over a power line. Juvenile and exactly the brand of chaos he lives for.
It pisses me off more than anything to even imagine him barging into the bathroom while I’m naked in the showerwithout my permission, and it freaks me out that I didn’t even hear him.
But the thought doesn’t last. I squash it as soon as it shows up. For all the ways he gets under my skin, I can’t picture him actually doing that. He’s the guy who turns his back when I change my shirt after practice, who makes a point of announcing himself before stepping into a room if he knows any of the girls are in it. The guys’ and girls’ teams end up crammed together on buses and in hotels often enough that those rules matter, and he actually follows them. I hate admitting it, but I respect that about him.
Infuriating, yes. Boundary-stomping, no.
My running shorts are on top, even though I always pack them at the bottom. The folded stack is out of order, pieces jammed in like whoever went through it didn’t care how they left it.
Wasit him? I don’t want to believe he’d cross that line, especially not since we’re living together now, but I can’t explain how else it ended up like this.
“Nope,” I whisper, grabbing my towel and storming out of the bathroom. I don’t care if this is just Mads trying to freak me out. If that’s what it is, he’s succeeded.
He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, scrolling on his phone like he didn’t just set the stage for a psychological thriller or something.
“Seriously?” I snap. “Seriously?”
