Still yawning, she shuffled to the bathroom, rubbing her eyes. But the moment she stepped in, her drowsiness evaporated.
Her jaw dropped. There, on the shelves and counter, was a full collection of skincare and grooming products lined up like soldiers in a perfect army. Cleansers, toners, serums, moisturizers, sunscreens, even sheet masks. Not just one or two. A whole collection.
Alina's head whipped left and right, like she was double-checking she hadn't entered the wrong bathroom. Then she pointed at the shelves, whispering, "What… the… hell?"
Her brain scrambled. "Not even a girl has this many products. Did he actually use all of these?!"
She leaned closer, eyes wide in awe. Every bottle was wiped clean, every label facing outward, arranged by height. It was like stepping into a boutique.
She touched her own messy counter where toothpaste always rolled sideways, her single facewash tube sat squished from the middle, and her comb tangled in her hairband. Then she looked back at his side. Perfect. Immaculate. Like Pinterest had come alive.
Her lips twitched. "How can someone even have the patience for this?" Shaking her head in disbelief, she stepped out, still muttering to herself.
Before heading to her bed, curiosity tugged at her like an invisible hand. She tiptoed toward the corridor again and glanced at the two doors. Hers: Princess. His: Mr. Unsocialized Person.
She smirked proudly at her earlier mischief. "Totally nailed it."
On impulse, she peeked inside her room first. Utter chaos. Clothes were piled in a chair. Books scattered. Blankets half on the bed, half off. She sighed, shrugging. "Artistic mess."
Then she glanced toward his door, chewing her lip. She didn't go inside, but pictured what it must look like if his bathroom shelf was that neat, his room must be a showroom.
She made a face. "Weird alien."
Back in bed, she tossed and turned, restless. Her stomach was happy, but her brain was nagging her. Should she… at least say hello? Maybe thank him for the noodles? She sat up, clutching her pillow, staring at the corridor again. Shall I knock? Just a light knock, say hi, and thank you?
Her mind countered instantly. No, no. What if he's asleep? What if he hates being disturbed? What if he comes out glaring at me like a vampire woken in daylight?
She groaned, flopping back dramatically. "Ugh. This is why having roommates is stressful."
Finally, she sat up with a spark of an idea. "I have an idea."
She grabbed a sticky note from her desk, pulled out a pen, and scribbled:
Welcome, Mr. Roommate!
Thanks for the noodles (lifesaver).
She stuck the note carefully on his door, smiling at her own cleverness. "Perfect. Courteous, polite, no disturbance. I should win an award for best roommate."
With that, she crawled back into her bed, tucked herself in, and drifted off, mumbling one last thought before sleep claimed her. "I don't know… but maybe a roommate can be more useful than I thought."
Meanwhile, behind his door, Kai lay sprawled on the couch, blanket pulled over him, half-asleep. He had heard faint noises from her shoes, the opening and closing of the doors, and her murmuring. As silence finally settled, he opened his eyes briefly, staring at the ceiling, then closed them.
Sleep claimed him, and the little sticky note on his door waited patiently for morning.
Kai's alarm buzzed sharply at 6:00 AM, cutting through the thick silence of the house. Eyes snapping open, he sat up instantly, his back straight, every movement precise as though rehearsed a thousand times. Even the faint glow of the early morning didn't faze him. Time was his ruler, and he respected it with the discipline of a soldier or perhaps the obsession of an actor whose life was measured in frames, not hours.
He swung his legs off the couch with practiced efficiency and folded the blanket neatly, smoothing out invisible creases as though someone might come for inspection. The room itself was spotless, arranged with the kind of precision only a man obsessed with order could maintain. Every shirt hung by color gradient, his cufflinks aligned in a row, and the faint smell of fresh fabric softener clung to the air.
His bare feet landed on the cold wooden floor. A low stretch of his shoulders, a subtle roll of his neck, and he was already moving. No hesitation. No laziness. Even the soft sheets of the bed had not lulled him into lingering; this was routine, sacred, and inviolable.
He tied a towel around his neck, slipped on a black hoodie, fitted a mask over his face, and strapped his water bottle to the cycle Ryan had arranged for him. The early morning air greeted him as he rolled out, the streets quiet except for the occasional dog barking in the distance.
There was no running in public parks for him, not with cameras lurking. Ryan had scouted a private training ground, a discreet stretch where he could run without fear of being recognized.
Kai's routine was military, beginning with a thorough warm-up, meticulously timed: stretches, shoulder rolls, neck mobility. Every movement measured, controlled, almost surgical in its precision. The dumbbells waited silently, glinting in the soft morning light streaming through the narrow windows. Kai picked up the heaviest pair first, muscles flexing, veins faintly visible under his skin as he moved through a series of controlled lifts: biceps, triceps, deltoids, back. He felt the tension, the burn, the rhythm. The discipline was almost meditative; each lift was a promise to himself that he would not falter, that the craft he loved demanded this exacting rigor.
After a solid forty-five-minute weight session, he moved to his private running corridor, a narrow stretch partitioned for solitude. Not a park, not a street, just him, the soft hum of his trainer's playlist in the background, and the constant beat of his own heart. Kai ran, measured, every stride landing silently but powerfully on the cushioned floor. Sweat dripped down, but he didn't falter, didn't glance at a clock; the discipline was ingrained. Time was segmented, tasks allocated precisely, and there was no room for distraction.
By 7:00 AM, he returned. By the time the world was barely waking, Kai was already returning, sweat clinging to his temples, hoodie damp. The cycle wheels hummed under him, his breath steady, no sign of strain on his face.
Inside, the house was still. Alina hadn't stirred; the so-called "princess" was probably still curled up in bed, tangled in her blankets like Sleeping Beauty with no intention of waking anytime soon.
"Different worlds," Kai thought, slipping into his room.
The moment Kai stepped into the shared bathroom, his calm orderliness met chaos. The towel, wrinkled and damp, lay tossed over the sink instead of on the rack. A toothbrush leaned against the cup at a crooked angle. Toothpaste cap missing. Drops of water spotted the mirror like stars on glass. And scattered across the counter: a half-squeezed face wash, some random hair ties, and a comb with strands of brown hair clinging to it.
Kai's expression didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly. He stood there for a long moment, his tall figure framed in the doorway, before muttering under his breath.
"Unbelievable… how can someone live like this?"
He picked up the towel, gave it a quick disgusted shake, and folded it into a proper rectangle before placing it on the rack where it belonged. The toothbrush was slotted upright. The toothpaste cap was rescued and twisted back on. He wiped the mirror with a tissue until it gleamed, his movements sharp, almost militant.
When he was done, the bathroom looked like a hotel washroom again. "Messy girl," he muttered, shaking his head.
Steam curled in the narrow bathroom, washing away the sweat, leaving him sharp, alert. He moved with the same deliberate exactness; every swipe of the towel, every drop of water, every grooming ritual was timed and methodical. Hair washed, brushed, styled with a practiced flick of his fingers; skin cleansed, moisturized, and prepped for the day. A man like Kai didn't leave room for sloppy details; he was always camera-ready, even when the world wasn't watching.
Stepping out, he went to the kitchen for breakfast, only to notice something. The bowl on the dining table, the one she had washed and placed back after eating his noodles, wasn't in the right place. Instead of neatly stacked with the others, it sat awkwardly alone at the edge. Kai picked it up, shook his head again, and slid it into the proper spot in the cupboard.
Sliding the chair back, he sat and prepared a quick toast and a cup of milk, perfectly balancing the slice on the plate as he ate. His eyes caught a small sticky note perched on his door, which he had missed, and now his eyes fell on that sticky note
He got up from his table, went toward the door, and plucked out, reading it carefully. Alina's neat handwriting:
Welcome, Mr. Roommate!
Thanks for the noodles (lifesaver).
He considered scribbling: "If you don't snore much, that will be the perfect welcome." A faint chuckle escaped him internally, and he realized she had eaten the bowl of noodles he hadn't even made for her. Not that he minded, it had, in fact, helped her.
By 7:50 AM, he was fully dressed, changed into a crisp grey three-piece suit, and adjusted his tie in the mirror. Every line was sharp, every fold exact. By the time the clock struck, he was seated at the dining table with a piece of toast and a glass of milk, nothing more, nothing less. Balanced, efficient, clean.
Every movement precise, every detail exact. Kai's eyes swept the house: cupboards aligned, electronics in place, his clothes perfectly hung thanks to Ryan's meticulous arranging. A small nod in approval; it was exactly as he liked.
A faint sound of snoring reached his ears from the other room. He glanced toward her door, then shook his head in disbelief. "She's still asleep?"
The car outside, parked with its engine humming quietly, waited like an obedient child. Kai glanced at the clock. Not a second wasted. His schedule would not bend. The driveway was lit with morning light, and he moved with the efficiency of a man who had only one constant in life: time, and mastery over it.
Inside, each sip of milk, each bite of toast was timed. No rush, no delay, just precision. Every moment of stillness was deliberate, preparing him mentally for the day ahead. Actors lived in routines, not in chaos. Every muscle, every breath, every thought honed to be ready when the cameras rolled.
Finally, he slid the plate aside and washed it swiftly, moving with efficiency. Eyes swept the counter again, and everything was placed in the right position.
Except that the irritation didn't end there. On his way out, he noticed her shoes near the entrance. One tilted to the side, the other pointing at some odd angle as if it had been kicked off carelessly. He crouched, straightened them until they were perfectly parallel, and exhaled.
"At least face the same direction," he whispered dryly, as though the shoes themselves had offended him.
The doorbell rang. Ryan, punctual as always, stepped in with a folder in hand. Kai walked out, closing the door behind him with quiet care.
The two men headed to the car, Ryan opening the back door like he'd done it a thousand times. As soon as Kai settled inside, Ryan slid a thick leather-bound planner onto his lap.
"All set. Here's your schedule for the day," Ryan said, professional tone clipped.
Kai flipped it open, eyes scanning the neatly arranged entries. Meetings, shoots, press briefings, rehearsals, all lined up back-to-back. No wasted minutes.
"Efficient," Kai murmured.
Ryan smirked. "Just like you."
The car purred to life, pulling away from the quiet lane. Behind them, Alina was still buried in her blanket, her hair a tangled crown, her slippers kicked halfway under the bed. Her world didn't start until the sun was high and her stomach complained loud enough to drag her out.
Two people, under the same roof. One breathing order, the other living in chaos. And neither had any idea how violently their worlds were about to collide.