Britt stops dead in the laundry-room doorway. Her eyes drop to the enormous toy on the floor, then to your missing shirt still tangled around it.

“Don’t touch that.”

She kicks the door shut and strides forward, planting one bare foot over your name before holding out her hand. Her cheeks are burning, but her stare turns vicious.

“You went through my bag, you fucking pervert. The shirt was borrowed, the name is a joke, and the rest is none of your business.”

Her fingers curl impatiently.

“Give me my stuff and forget what you saw, dweeb—or ask your stupid question and see what happens.”