Clean. Just like I had remembered.
Orderly. Expensive. Quiet.
The entry smelled faintly like cedar, laundry detergent, and something sharp and green. Shoes lined up near the wall. Keys in a tray. Mail stacked perfectly. The living room had a gray sectional, a low wood coffee table, shelves arranged with books and framed photos and not one single empty protein tub pretending to be decor.
There were no piles.
No chaos.
No evidence that a six-foot-four football menace lived here except for the massive sneakers by the door and a Stanford duffel dropped exactly on a bench like even his mess had rules.
I stood in the doorway too long.
Drew shut the door behind us and looked at me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re making a face.”
“I am not.”
“You look shocked.”
“I’m not shocked.”
His mouth curved. “You thought I lived in a cave and I brought you to an AIRBNB last time?”
“I thought there would be more laundry on the floor.”
“Laundry goes in hampers.”
“You have hampers plural?”
“One for lights. One for darks. One for workout gear.” He paused. “And one for towels.”
I turned slowly. “You’re lying.”
“About towels?”
“No man has a towel hamper.”
“This one does.”
I stared at him.
Drew’s grin widened, and for one ridiculous second, he looked almost shy beneath the arrogance. Like he was bracing for me to make fun of him and prepared to pretend it wouldn’t land.
That did something to me.
Something small and sharp.
“So,” I said, glancing around again. “Is this yours? Are you renting it? You live here by yourself?”
His smile faded a little.
Not gone.
Just quieter.
