The towel sat low on his hips—too low. His chest wasn’t gym-bro shredded, but solid in a way that made you think of oak trees and defensive zone coverage. He moved with that same precision he had on the ice—no wasted motion, no hint that he knew someone was watching.
I told myself to keep moving. Instead, my feet rooted to the spot while my brain took an unscheduled detour into Imaginary Scenarios That Would Definitely Get Me Punched.
Evan turned back to the bathroom and bent over to pick something up. My pulse raced.
“Need something?” His voice was calm.
Busted.
I smirked, default defense mechanism engaged. “Yeah. Directions to the nearest monastery. I need to repent.”
He stood and the corner of his mouth twitched—dangerously close to a smile—but he just walked past me toward his room. The scent of soap and cookies trailed after him, and I decided I was doomed.
And then there was the fridge. The first sock was an accident.
I swear.
I'd been digging for a protein bar in the fridge's bottom drawer, where Evan put them—bottom drawer, mind you, the one that exists solely to trap forgotten things in the shape of mystery greens—and it must've fallen out of my hoodie pocket. Cotton. Blue. Maybe a little damp from the post-practice locker room steam bath.
But then there was a second one.
And a third.
And by the time Evan found the fourth—lying beside a carton of oat milk like it had laid an egg—he didn't say anything. He held it up between two fingers like a crime scene exhibit and blinked at me over the kitchen island.
I grinned. "Weird. That doesn't look like oats."
His eye twitched.
We had reached DEFCON 2 in the apartment roommate standoff.
I didn't think I was that bad. I showered daily, usually. I kept my gear in the hall closet, mostly. And yeah, I sang in the shower, but only the bangers. If hearing me belt "Puck Life" with conditioner dripping into my eyes didn't improve your day, you're lying to yourself.
Evan disagreed.
His latest spreadsheet was titled, I shit you not,Jake Management Plan – Shared Space Edition. One night, I found it open on his laptop, and I took a peek while my bagel toasted.It had conditional formatting—drop-down menus. There was aheat mapof disturbance zones.
At the top:
Socks in Fridge: 4
Late-Night Singing (Includes "Puck Life," Blink-182, and “random falsetto bullshit”): 5
Podcast Volume Violation (2–4 a.m. window): 7
Seven? That seemed generous. I was pretty sure it had been more.
