Jesus Christ. She’s domesticated a monster.
“Elliot: Stop deleting my songs off the speaker queue.”
Battle of the playlists. Cute. Vomit-worthy.
“Noah’s night – bring snacks.”
Who the fuck is Noah and why does he get a whole night?
There’s a tiny Polaroid tucked into the top frame.
Juliet, middle of the kitchen, barefoot and smiling, biting into a strawberry. One of the men is in the background. Blurry. Not one of the three I’ve seen.
Must be Noah.
I take it. Evidence, I tell myself.
Truth: I’m keeping score like a jealous ex I’ve never actually dated.
Because who the fuck is he and how many damn men does this woman have in her kitchen?
I move to the hall.
Closet, bathroom, linen storage.
The bedrooms have nameplates.
Absurd ones.
Orion’s is carved wood shaped like a barbell.
Subtle as a sledgehammer.
Noah’s has musical notes burned into it, chaotic and scattered like he couldn’t commit to a key.
Elliot’s… I lean in. Is that a whip?
Jesus.
Callum’s is the worst. Cutesy fucking skulls, glitter-painted, one with a bow. Serial killer daycare aesthetic.
There’s two unmarked rooms.
Made-up. Unnerving.
Guest rooms dressed like hotel sets.
Beds turned down. Drawers empty.
No dust.
Like they’re waiting.
For who?
I step into the first.
Crisp sheets. Spare everything.
