Arabella didn't sleep that night.
She lay in bed with her silk bonnet on, staring at the ceiling, replaying Adrian's *completely unbothered face* over and over in her head. The way he just… walked past her fairy lights like they meant nothing. The way he *sat* on her freshly fluffed throw blanket with zero remorse.
Unacceptable.
By morning, she had a new plan. A *petty* plan.
She threw on her robe, tied her hair up in a high messy bun that somehow still looked expensive, and dragged out her gold pen and pink label stickers.
Operation: **Claim Everything.**
She started with the fridge handle. Carefully, she peeled a label and wrote in big, curly gold letters:
> **Property of Arabella
Then she moved on to the top shelf in the pantry. Then the couch. Then the bathroom mirror. Then—her personal favorite—the kettle.
Within thirty minutes, the apartment looked like it had been conquered by a rich girl's army.
She even labeled her fluffy slippers. *Just because she could.*
Arabella stepped back, hands on her hips, admiring her work. It was perfect. No one could ever mistake who ruled this dorm again.
The sound of the front door opening made her smile.
Adrian walked in with his backpack slung over one shoulder, hair slightly tousled, the early sunlight catching his blue eyes. He stopped dead in the doorway.
His gaze scanned the room slowly. Labels. Stickers. Gold cursive everywhere.
His lips parted. Not to yell. Not to complain. But to *laugh.*
"Are you—" he tilted his head, holding in a grin, "—labeling the air too, or just the furniture?"
Arabella spun around, all innocent sweetness. "It's called *organization.* I like things to be clear around here."
"Clear?" he echoed, walking further in. "You labeled the *couch pillow*, Arabella."
She lifted her chin. "That's *my* pillow."
He plucked one of the labels off the microwave, inspected the gold cursive, and stuck it on his T-shirt.
> **Property of Arabella
Arabella's jaw dropped. "You did *not* just—"
"Oh, I did," Adrian said with a smirk. "Guess I'm yours now."
Her face flushed. "You're not funny."
"Actually," he drawled, dropping his bag onto the *labeled* chair, "I kinda am."
She crossed her arms. "Adrian, I'm serious. These are boundaries. We need to respect each other's space."
He nodded once. "Cool. I respect yours. Just don't stick your name on my stuff."
Arabella blinked. "Like what?"
Without breaking eye contact, Adrian pulled out a label from the kettle handle and held it up between two fingers.
She gasped. "That's not yours, either!"
He raised an eyebrow. "It's *the* kettle, Arabella. Not your royal teapot."
She huffed dramatically, flipping her hair. "Whatever. Don't touch my things."
Adrian leaned against the counter, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. "Then stop labeling mine."
Arabella glared at him, but he didn't look away.
This was war now.
A *very* petty, very gold-labeled war.