He deposits me in the doorway, his hands lingering on my shoulders for a moment before he steps back.
"Did you already put your stuff in here? Your toiletries and things?"
I nod slowly, still sniffling pathetically.
"Okay. Good. Do your morning routine. Take a warm shower. Let the water help wake you up." His voice is soft, reassuring, like he is talking someone off a ledge. "You will feel better, I promise. If you do not want to deal with your hair afterward, just tell me. I can help with that."
He can help with my hair?
Can he actually do hair? Or is he just being nice? Does he have secret hairstylist skills along with the writing and the hockey and the tattoos?
I do not have the mental capacity to ask questions right now. I just nod again, accepting his instructions like gospel from a caffeinated deity.
"Okay," I mumble. "Shower. Routine. Hair. I can do that. Probably."
He gives me an encouraging smile before stepping back and closing the door, giving me privacy to fall apart and put myself back together in peace.
Okay, Mae. You can do this. You have survived worse than a coffee-less morning. You have survived your mother's disappointment. You have survived sixth grade. You have survived years of scraping by on nothing. You can survive a shower.
I turn on the water, letting it heat up while I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Yikes.
Yikes on several bikes.
The woman staring back at me looks like she has been through several wars and lost all of them decisively. Dark circles under her eyes that could qualify as bruises. Hair that has given up on life and is now actively rebelling against all known principles of gravity and hygiene. Skin that is somehow both pale and blotchy at the same time, like a watercolor painting that got left out in the rain.
No wonder they thought you were a zombie. You look like death personified. You look like death's less attractive cousin who got rejected from the family photos.
The hot shower helps.
It helps more than I expected, actually. The warm water sluices over my skin like a blessing, washing away some of the tension, some of the exhaustion, some of the lingering despair over the coffee situation. The steam fills my lungs and clears some of the fog from my brain. I let myself stand under the spray for longer than strictly necessary, just breathing, just existing, trying to center myself.
Today is a new day. A fresh start. Your first real day at Valenridge. You are going to make it through this. You aregoing to be fine. You are going to survive like you have always survived.
I do the basic essentials. Soap and water on the face because I know nothing about skincare beyond the fact that it exists and other people seem very passionate about it. Shampoo and conditioner for the rat's nest masquerading as hair, working through tangles that feel like they have been planning this coup for months. Brushing teeth until the minty freshness tricks my brain into feeling slightly more awake and human.
Fixing my hair is the next adventure.
It takes forever. The tangles have evolved into sentient creatures with personal vendettas against me, fighting back against my brush with determination and spite. I wrestle with knots that seem to multiply the more I attack them, cursing under my breath and occasionally yelping when I pull too hard.
By the time I am done, thirty minutes have passed.
But my hair is somewhat presentable. Smooth enough to not look like I survived a wind tunnel. Contained enough that I will not be mistaken for a creature from a horror movie. Good enough for a first day of classes at a prestigious academy.
I shuffle out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, steam following me into the hallway like a dramatic entrance I did not ask for.
Rafe is coming down the hall from the opposite direction.
He stops. Looks me up and down with those storm-gray eyes. Takes in the towel situation, the damp hair, the slightly less zombie-like expression that I have achieved through the miracle of hot water and determination.
Then he huffs.
"At least you look slightly more human now," he mutters, pushing past me toward the bathroom. "Jeez. Not even a morning person. You are going to be real fun to live with for six weeks."
I roll my eyes at his retreating back, too tired to come up with a witty comeback.
Who is a morning person? Morning people are not real. They are a myth invented by coffee companies to sell more product. They are a conspiracy.
