Page 18 of Puck Your Feelings

Becker explodes into the cabin in a way I didn't think was physically possible for a single human being.

His duffle bag hits the floor and immediately vomits its contents across every available surface. A t-shirt lands on my desk. Socks scatter like shrapnel. Something that might be a phone charger whips through the air and wraps itself around the desk lamp.

"Home sweet home!" he announces, surveying the destruction he's created in approximately four seconds.

I watch, frozen in horror, as he grabs a handful of what I think are boxer briefs and tosses them vaguely toward the top bunk. They miss and land on my pillow.

"That's my bed," I say.

Becker blinks at the underwear, then at me. "Oh. Sorry." He scoops them up and tosses them toward the top bunk above me.

They miss again.

They land on my pillow.Again.

"Do you have a system for this chaos?" I ask, watching him pull out what appears to be an entire recording studio's worth of equipment.

"Yeah, it's called 'organized chaos.'" He's grinning now. "Very advanced concept. If I can see it, I know where it is."

"This isn't organized." I gesture at the battlefield that is now our shared living space. "This is entropy in action."

"Ooh, big words." He tosses a hoodie in my general direction. It hits my chest. "Did you swallow a dictionary?"

I catch the hoodie before it can fall, holding it with two fingers like it might be contaminated, and place it deliberately on the top bunk. "I swallowed a basic education. You should try it."

His grin widens, which I'm learning is a dangerous sign. "Oh, we're doing this? Okay." He leans against the desk, crossing his arms. "I should warn you—I won five straight years of 'Most Annoying Sibling' growing up. I'm professionally trained in getting under people's skin."

"I grew up with a father who critiqued my breathing technique," I reply, returning to my own unpacking with renewed focus. "You're going to have to work harder than that."

"Challenge accepted."

I don't look at him. I can feel him watching me as I finish organizing my space. Behind me, I hear him attempting to shove what sounds like seventeen pairs of shoes into a single drawer.

"You know," he says conversationally, "most people would be done unpacking by now."

"Most people don't do it correctly."

"There's a correct way to unpack?"

"There's an efficient way. You wouldn't understand."

Something soft hits the back of my head. I turn to find a balled-up sock on the floor behind me.

Becker's expression is pure innocence. "That was an accident."

"Uh-huh."

"Could've happened to anyone."

"You threw it at my head."

"Allegedly."

I pick up the sock and toss it back at him. He catches it one-handed, still grinning.

"Nice arm," he says. "Very precise. Bet you throw a mean spiral."

"Wrong sport."