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facing wall was spattered and streaked with slashes and blobs of dried paint.   On the wall was a new, blank synthetic 'canvas'; it continued to taunt her every time she looked at it.  
    Desk, cabinet, and floors, all covered in a random collection of paints, brushes, tools, datapads, and clothes.   In the corner stood her hockey sticks, currently serving as additional clothing storage.   Somewhere underneath were her skates, no doubt rusted by now, waiting to be strapped on once again.   Her wrist ached just thinking of them.
    She sighed and pushed herself to her feet, taking a stumbling step toward the pile of clothes heaped against the wall.   It took several tries to find a shirt that wasn't covered in paint stains.   And her pants didn't fit as well as they once did.   Five years ago, when she started university, she could wear anything she wanted right off the rack.   Not the 'petite' rack, granted… but time marched on.   Running her fingers through her mostly-blonde hair, she encountered an insurmountable nest of tangles, and gave up.   A brief scan of her desktop produced her knit cap, which she tugged onto her head.  She made a promise to herself, to have a proper shower as soon as she'd finished hurting Blaine.   She stumbled across the room, avoiding the debris on the floor, and kept her eyes averted from the mirror.   A tap on the door console, and the door slowly opened.   She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips.
    A six-foot-tall god of a man stood in the hallway.   Perfectly styled hair, and piercing blue eyes that looked out from chiseled features.   A tight black t-shirt hugged his muscled chest, and he wore black jeans with a waist smaller than hers.   Blaine had never been to a gym once in his life, never watched what he ate, and seemed to maintain a sexy amount of stubble without ever shaving.   A goddamned triumph of genetics, and oblivious to it.
    Blaine winced when Heather turned her squinted glare to him.   He held out his hands toward her, bearing a mug of coffee.   "Peace?"   he said.   "Four scoops of grinds, one scoop of sugar, and one bloop of that vanilla stuff?"
    Without taking her eyes from his, Heather accepted the mug.   She grunted as the smell reached her nose.   "Blaine, what time is it?"
    His face relaxed.   Apparently, he thought he was in the clear.   All the better, she thought, when she was ready to beat him senseless.   He gave a magazine-cover smile.   "Eight thirty?"
    Heather blew on the coffee, her left hand coming up to join the right in holding the mug.   She took a deep breath.   "So Blaine, I've been asleep for three hours."
    Blaine grimaced, drooping his head and raising his shoulders.   "I know, Heather.   And I'm so sorry.   But this is really important."   He started to pick up steam.   "Lakshmi got up early, and came to the living room, and remember we left the door unlocked because Carter lost his key?   And—"
    "God, Blaine, please let there be a point to this."
    The perfect face nodded, as Blaine moved into the living room.   Lakshmi was on the couch, watching Heather approach.  
    "So," said Blaine, forging ahead, "Carter didn't come home after all, and when Laks got up, there was… this guy sleeping on our couch.   We thought—"
    "So throw him the hell out," said Heather, marching farther into the living room with Blaine retreating in front of her.   "I'm not the goddamned bouncer—"   Her voice trailed off as she followed Blaine's eyes to the figure in the big chair across from Lakshmi.
    He was sitting up straight, feet flat on the floor, his hands clasped in his lap like a schoolboy, his grey sweater and pants neat and clean.   Vivid blue hair — more ultramarine than cobalt, she thought —   lay straight and tidy to his shoulders.   His face was utterly white, like carefully smoothed plaster, and his startling blue eyes were watching her.   There were no lines on his face; no stress, only calm.   He smiled.