I change into fresh jeans, a bit baggier than my last pair so I won’t have to fight my way out of them. And on top of my undershirt I put on Valentino’s gray button-down he’s been wearing, breathing in the collar that smells citrusy, kind of like his hoodie. If Valentino has a problem with me wearing it, then he’s going to have to wrestle it off me, and then maybe he dies or we die together because of a fight over a shirt that I want to keep like a championship belt, like a trophy that will always remind me of the victories on this End Day.
