17

Scar

It's been a long time since I shared my space with another person.

Since college, over ten years ago now.

Even back then, I got my own apartment as soon as it was feasible. I loved my Atlas brothers, but they were messy as hell, and I couldn't handle it.

Now, I wake up to find half-finished glasses of water left around the apartment. Mugs of coffee with two sips perched on end tables. Dishes lying on the counter, not rinsed, not put in the dishwasher. Drawers hanging open. Cabinets with fingerprints. Keys tossed on the entry table with no attempt at organizing the chaos.

She's Hurricane Rita.

Throw pillows appear. Colorful blankets. Some attractive art prints on the walls. Coffee table books tastefully spread out. None of it is my style, but I told her to make the place her own.

There are perks. Like Rita in a pair of tight yoga pants and a sports bra lounging on the couch, reading a novel. Or Rita working out, sweat dripping down her stupidly gorgeous body. Or Rita in an old, ra