The drawer full of charging cables. Which ones were his? Which ones were mine?
The lip balm on the nightstand. He always said it was girly, refused to touch it, but every winter when his lips cracked, he'd sneak it on when he thought I wasn't looking.
The heavy comforter on the top shelf of the closet. My mom had shipped it from back home. He said it was too heavy, that it felt like being crushed. But every time I got sick, he'd dig it out himself and tuck it around me.
I crouched there, a charging cable in my fist, suddenly unable to figure out which suitcase it belonged in.
The lock clicked.
I stiffened. Turned toward the bedroom door.
Footsteps. His. Wet ones, squelching with every step—his shoes must have been full of water.
Two seconds of silence in the living room.
Then the bedroom door swung open.
Valentine stood in the doorway, soaked through. His hair hung in dark, wet strands plastered to his forehead. His white dress shirt clung to his chest, so transparent I could see the outline of skin beneath. He was breathing hard, like he'd sprinted up the stairs.