The room had never felt this small.
She noticed it the moment she shut the door behind them—the silence, the awkward distance, the way his bag landed on the bed with a dull thud like punctuation to an unfinished sentence.
"So…" he said, dragging the word out.
"So," she replied, arms folded, eyes everywhere except him.
This was not how roommates were supposed to act.
This was not how she planned to act.
Rule number one had been clear: no emotional attachment.
Yet here she was, heart doing unnecessary gymnastics because he stood too close when he crossed the room.
"You didn't come back last night," she said, finally.
He paused. "I didn't think you'd notice."
"I noticed," she said quickly, then softer, "I just didn't think I cared."
That earned a look—slow, unreadable, dangerous in a quiet way.
"Then why does it sound like you do?"
Silence again.
She hated that he always did this—turned her words inside out, made her feel seen when she wasn't ready to be. She walked to her desk, pretending to organize books that were already neat.
"We're roommates," she said. "That's all this is."
He laughed, short and humorless. "Is it?"
She turned. "Yes."
He stepped closer. "Then why does it feel like I'm breaking a rule just standing here?"
Her breath hitched. She hated that too—that he noticed things she tried to hide, that he could make her chest tighten with a single sentence.
"Don't do this," she whispered.
"Do what?"
"Make it complicated."
He studied her face, searching for something. Then, slowly, he stepped back.
"Fine," he said. "Roommate rules."
Relief washed over her—sharp and disappointing at the same time.
He picked up his phone, already halfway gone emotionally. "I'll be out for a bit."
As the door closed behind him, she sank onto the bed, heart racing.
Because the truth was brutal and simple:
The rules were still there.
They were just getting harder to follow.
And for the first time, she wondered who would break them first.