Okay. So I moved into my new room. It was smaller, cozier, less like a furniture showroom. No chandeliers. No intimidating silence. No faint scent of cologne that messed with my thoughts.
This was my space now.
Mine.
Which lasted, like, all of three hours before Claude started his campaign of "accidental run-ins."
The first day? He "forgot" that the guest room I picked was next to the linen closet. So of course he had to come by every morning at 7:30 sharp to grab fresh towels. Loudly.
"Morning," he said on day one, completely shirtless, a white towel slung over his shoulder like a Calvin Klein ad.
"Seriously?" I squinted at him, half-asleep in the doorway. "You don't have twenty other bathrooms in this house?"
He tilted his head. "This one has the best light."
"Light for what? Posing for a shampoo commercial?"
He smirked. "Maybe. Want to watch?"
I slammed the door in his face. And maybe—I'm not admitting anything—but maybe I giggled behind it.
