Charlie
There are a few rules to living with your best friend.
One: no walking around naked.
Two: no sex.
Three: no sex. Seriously.
Four: if she cries, you feed her chocolate and don't ask questions.
I've followed these rules religiously since Carly Dorrington stormed into my apartment last week, dragging a suitcase and wearing a hoodie that said "Men Are Trash (Except You)."
She didn't even knock. She just marched in, threw her suitcase at my feet, and said,
"Congrats. You're now the rebound best friend roommate. I'll pay rent in ramen and sarcasm."
I should've said no.
But she looked so pissed off and heartbroken—and she's my best friend. Since diapers. Since snack time and nap mats. Since she pushed me off the jungle gym and told the teacher I slipped.
So I said yes.
Big mistake.
Because now I have a gorgeous, emotionally unstable woman sleeping ten feet away from me, walking around in tiny shorts, eating pickles at 2AM, and muttering dark threats about her ex like she's auditioning for American Psycho: The Girlfriend Cut.
And tonight?
Tonight, she's extra dangerous.
"Who was the girl you brought here last night?" she asks, arms crossed, hoodie hanging off one shoulder like she's in a 90s music video—but with murder in her eyes.
I blink, spoon halfway to my mouth. "You mean Lily?"
She nods. Slowly. Menacingly. Her left eye twitches. "Her car has a flat now."
I pause. "Please tell me you didn't."
"I didn't." She sits across from me, grabs one of my pancakes, and takes a slow, aggressive bite. "My heel did."
I stare at her.
She stares back.
There's syrup on her lip. And a fire in her eyes that says: I will set your mattress on fire if you bring home another Tinder girl.
I swallow. My pride. My fear. My attraction.
Because, God help me, this is turning me on.