It takes my brain a second to place it.
The bed.
I made it before I left.
Now it’s rumpled. The pillow moved. The comforter pulled back, displaying wrinkled sheets in wide, careless arcs.
Like someone rolled on my bed.
Like someone was in here,lingering.
I don’t breathe.
Behind me, Drew stops short.
“That’s—” he starts. “I can explain.”
I turn slowly.
His face is flushed. Guilty. Too earnest.
“What,” I ask evenly, “happened in my room?”
He swallows. “I—I was cleaning.”
I stare at him.
“You cleaned,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“You don’t clean my room.”
“I thought I’d help,” he says, hands lifting helplessly. “You’ve been… busy.”
I glance back at the bed. “I made it this morning. You made it worse.”
He winces. “I’m out of practice.”
I look at him again. Really look.
He’s lying.
And he’s bad at it.
I nod once. “You need more practice.”
Relief floods his face too fast. “I do. I’ll… work on it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Now leave so I can change.”
He exhales. “You’re not mad?”
I turn away, moving toward the dresser. “No.”
I just want him out of here so I can check my camera feed.
Drew hesitates, then backs out of the room like he’s afraid sudden movement might set something off. He pauses at the doorway.
