“Okay, no.” I rescue the jeans from his hands and flip them inside out before tossing them into his now-empty laundry bag. “Colors get washed in cold water, and that definitely includes jeans, unless you want them to shrink into doll clothes. Washing them inside out helps keep the color. White stuff gets washed in warm or hot water, but you can just throw everything in cold; that way you only need one machine for everything, and … I literally do not see a single white article of clothing here anyway. Now come on, get all this stuff back in the bag.”

While he scoops his pants, shirts, and shorts back into his big black laundry bag, I realize something. “Why don’t I hate this music?” I ask.

He grins. “Someone told me to try new things. This is Måneskin—one of Sabs’s favorites. She has a massive crush on their bassist.”

“Finally, someone in the Grayson family with taste.”

“Are you referring to the music or the bassist?” he asks with a waggle of his brows, and I roll my eyes even though I am definitely going to Google her later. But the music really is catchy, and as Salem walks around the room, yanking stray socks and boxers off the floor and stuffing them into his laundry bag, I can’t resist moving a little to the beat. It could be a fun song to do some cardistry to …

“It’s not terrible,” he concedes, “but I stand by my personal taste being supreme. Have you ever even listened to Nirvana? Or Garbage? Or the Pixies?”

“I think you already know the answer.”

“Yeah, well, you should try, at least.”

I roll my eyes again and he goes back to picking up his clothes while I start taking notes on my phone of which tricks I wanna do now that I’ve heard potential musical accompaniment. But I’m not typing long before the door swings open and Matt stands in the doorway, surveying the scene in front of him. “This is adorably domestic,” he observes, earning himself a scowl from Salem. “I could definitely use a hand with my laundry, if you’re offering. I couldn’t tell you what that stain is on the pants I wore last night, or, well, I could, but—”

“You’re on your own,” Salem and I tell him simultaneously, then exchange a glance before Salem stuffs in the last pair of shorts. “Come on, Skeevy.”

“Uh, you may wanna wash those sheets, bro,” Matt tells him with a nod at the bed. “And that gnarly towel of yours.”

“Okay, yes, you should definitely wash those,” I confirm. “Where are your towels?”

“I have one towel. It’s hanging on a hook in the bathroom, and it’s wet.”