[Hazel]
I should’ve just done the job and left. Get the hell out of my own room—the one that had been officially hijacked by my boss-turned-assistant-turned-problem-of-the-year. But no, my stupid overachiever tendencies decided to kick in like they always do whenever Elijah tells me to do something for him. And, before I knew it, I was already unloading and organizing his things with the kind of precision usually reserved for SWAT operations.
I opened his trunks one by one, arranging his clothes in the wardrobe exactly how he liked them—color-coded, wrinkle-free, OCD satisfying. His skincare went on the dressing table. His shoes, polished and paired, aligned like little soldiers. Then came the ridiculous branded items: a full-on coffee set, French press, grind-specific filter paper, des
