Opposites, Roommates, And Us

“Organized,” he said.

“Prepared.”

“Same family.”

Mira set the box down before her arms gave out. “You’re my roommate?”

“Apparently.”

Denise exhaled through her nose. “Unit 3B is a two-bedroom. You’ll each have your own room. The common areas are shared. Please sign the updated occupancy form, and I’ll give you the keys.”

Mira looked at Rowan’s bag. Something soft and black protruded from it, followed by a tangle of charging cables. “You haven’t signed yet?”

“I was waiting to see if the apartment had walls.”

“It does.”

“Good start.”

Denise pushed two forms across the desk. Mira picked up the pen. Rowan reached for it at the same time.

Their fingers touched.

His hand was warm and rough at the knuckles. Mira pulled back first.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound particularly sorry.

She signed her name in the clean space beneath the printed lease. Rowan’s signature slanted across the line like it had been interrupted halfway through. Denise handed them two brass keys on a ring marked 3B.

Mira reached for them.

Rowan did too.

The keys swung between their hands.

“Ladies first,” he said.

“That’s not how keys work.”

“It can be.”

She took them. “I’ll open the door.”

“Excellent. I was worried we’d have to sleep in the lobby.”

Denise gave them directions to the elevator, then called after Mira, “The building has quiet hours after ten. No parties. No candles. And please don’t leave personal items in the hall.”

Rowan lifted his cup. “Define personal.”

“Rowan.”

He smiled without looking guilty. “I’m kidding.”

Mira picked up the kitchen box. “You should try it more convincingly.”

The elevator groaned when it started upward. Rowan stood beside her, close enough that the damp fabric of his jacket brushed her sleeve whenever the car shifted. Mira stared at the changing numbers.

“So,” he said. “What’s your schedule?”

She glanced at him. “For what?”

“Living here.”

“I work at eight. I’m usually home by six. I cook most nights. I clean as I go.”

“Tragic.”

“And you?”

“I’m home whenever I’m home.”

“That isn’t a schedule.”

“It’s more flexible.”

The elevator jolted. Mira caught the box against her chest. Rowan’s hand came up, steadying the bottom before it struck the floor.

“Careful,” he said.

“I had it.”

“I noticed.”

The doors opened on the third floor. The hallway was narrow and carpeted in a brown that seemed designed to hide stains. A long black case lay across the path to 3B.

Mira stopped.

Rowan stepped over it.

“Is that yours?”

“Technically.”

“It’s blocking the hallway.”

“It’s not blocking you.”

“It’s blocking anyone carrying a box.”

He turned back, eyebrows raised. “You’re carrying a box.”

“Exactly.”

He bent to move the case, but instead of lifting it, he nudged it against the wall with his boot. It scraped loudly over the carpet.

“Better?”

“Barely.”

“Welcome home.”

Mira unlocked the door.

The apartment smelled of dust, cardboard, and something sweetly burnt. Sunlight had faded into the windows, leaving the living room gray. One sofa sat beneath the front window, its cushions buried under folded clothes, notebooks, and a pair of headphones. A potted plant leaned sideways from the sill, its leaves reaching toward the glass. Two mugs rested on the floor beside the sofa. One held a paintbrush.

Mira stayed in the doorway.

Rowan walked past her and dropped his bag onto the nearest chair. It collapsed beneath the weight, spilling cables onto the floor.

“You said the place was empty,” she said.

“I said I hadn’t moved in.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No. It’s a more accurate thing.”

Her room was at the end of the hall. She carried the kitchen box past a stack of unopened packages and a bicycle wheel propped against the wall. Rowan followed with his bag, stepping over books without looking down.

“Your room is on the left,” he said. “Mine’s on the right.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked Denise.”

Mira opened the left door. The room was small, square, and clean except for a strip of dust along the baseboards. Her mattress waited beneath a plastic cover. The window looked onto the brick wall of the next building.

Still, it was hers.

She set the box on the floor and took out her phone. “I’m going to make a list of shared expenses tonight. Utilities, cleaning supplies, household items.”

Rowan leaned against the doorframe. “You make lists when you’re nervous?”

“I make lists when things matter.”

His expression changed so quickly she almost missed it. The amusement thinned. Something guarded moved underneath.

“Right,” he said. “Things matter.”

Mira looked at him more closely. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

He pushed away from the frame and walked back toward the living room.

She should have let it go. Instead, she followed.

“We need basic agreements,” she said. “Quiet hours. Cleaning. Guests.”

“Guests?”

“People visiting.”

“I know what guests are.”

“Then you know why we should discuss them.”

Rowan crouched beside the sofa and began gathering the fallen cables. He did not coil them. He shoved them into a drawer until it would no longer close.

“Quiet after midnight,” he said. “No touching my stuff. Don’t open my room.”

“Cleaning?”

“I clean.”

Mira looked at the mugs, the clothes, and the plant drooping over its pot.

“Eventually,” he added.

“I’m not living in a place where the kitchen becomes unusable.”

“Then don’t make it unusable.”

“I’m not the one who left a paintbrush in a mug.”

“That was temporary.”

“It has roots.”

He glanced at the mug. “That’s not mine.”

The answer caught her off guard.

“Whose is it?”

“Previous tenant, maybe.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Once.”

“And you left your things here?”

“I was storing them.”

“Without knowing whether you’d get the apartment?”

“Hope is a storage system.”

Mira folded her arms. “I need you to understand that I’m not going to spend six months cleaning up after you.”

His eyes settled on her face. Up close, they were an uneven hazel, green at the edges and brown near the center. His hair was still wet from the rain, curling at his temples.

“I need you to understand,” he said, quieter now, “that I’m not going to spend six months being managed.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

Mira looked away first. “I’m asking for basic consideration.”

“And I’m asking you not to turn the apartment into a waiting room.”

“What does that mean?”

“Everything labeled. Everything scheduled. Nothing allowed to look lived in.”

She felt heat rise beneath her collar. “You don’t know anything about how I live.”

“I know you folded your towels before you even unpacked them.”

Mira glanced toward the open box in her room. The towels were stacked in precise white rectangles.

“That’s not a crime.”

“No. It’s just impressive.”

A knock sounded from the hallway. Before either of them could answer, a young woman appeared in the open doorway with a roll of packing tape under one arm.

“Rowan, you left your case out again.”

She stepped inside, saw Mira, and stopped.

“Oh. You’re the new roommate.”

“Mira,” Mira said.

“June.” She looked between them. “Did Denise tell you about the kitchen?”

Mira’s stomach tightened. “What about it?”

June pointed at Rowan. “He cooks at midnight.”

“I cook whenever I’m hungry.”

“He also plays music while he cooks.”

“Music improves food.”

“He writes at the table until three in the morning,” June continued.

Rowan’s face closed. “June.”

“What? She should know.”

Mira turned to him. “You write?”

“Sometimes.”

“Late?”

“Sometimes.”

“And the music?”

“Sometimes.”

June gave Mira an apologetic look. “He’s not dangerous. He’s just impossible to live with.”

“Thank you,” Rowan said.

“You’re welcome.” She picked up one of the mugs from the floor and sniffed it. “This is soup.”

“That explains the smell,” Mira said.

Rowan took the mug from June. Their fingers brushed, and his expression softened in a way Mira had not seen directed at her.

“Go home,” he told June.

“I am home. For another week.”

“Then enjoy the final days.”

June looked at Mira again. “Good luck.”

After she left, the apartment seemed smaller.

Mira returned to her room and began unpacking. She could hear Rowan moving in the living room: drawers opening, a chair dragged across the floor, the uneven thump of something dropped and left where it landed. She tried to focus on the plates, the glasses, the small blue bowls her sister had given her before she left.

A notebook slid from the bottom of a box.

It was black, soft-covered, with a corner bent backward. Mira picked it up, intending to place it on the bookshelf. The cover fell open in her hand.

A line of handwriting crossed the page.

I keep making homes out of places that never asked me to stay.

Mira stopped breathing for a second.

The writing beneath it had been crossed out, then written again in darker ink. She read only the first few words before the hallway floor creaked.

Rowan stood in the doorway.

His gaze dropped to the notebook.

Mira closed it immediately. “I wasn’t reading.”

“You were holding it open.”

“I thought it was mine. It was in my box.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

He crossed the room and took the notebook from her. His fingers closed around it carefully, as if it were fragile despite the worn cover.

“You don’t have to apologize like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to make the apology tidy enough that no one can be angry.”

Mira’s throat tightened. “I said I was sorry.”

“I heard you.”

“Then what do you want?”

He looked down at the notebook. For the first time since they met, he seemed unsure what to do with his hands.

“I want my things left alone,” he said. “Not because there’s anything dramatic in there. Because they’re mine.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.”

The sharpness in his voice made her flinch. He noticed. His jaw shifted.

“My mother used to go through everything,” he said. “Drawers. Bags. Notebooks. If she found something she didn’t like, she decided it meant something about me. So I learned to keep things where nobody could find them.”

The room held the soft hiss of rain against the window.

Mira looked at the notebook in his hand. “I wasn’t trying to find anything.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you angry?”

“Because you did find it.”

The honesty took the edge out of the room without making it comfortable.

Mira nodded once. “I’ll knock.”

“On my door?”

“On every door.”

His mouth almost curved. “That seems excessive.”

“You said I was managing you.”

“I said I didn’t want to be managed.”

“And you don’t want to be surprised.”

“No.”

“Those are difficult requirements.”

“So are yours.”

They stood with only a few feet between them. He smelled faintly of rain and coffee. She could see a small scar near his thumb, pale against his skin.

Rowan tucked the notebook beneath his arm. “I’ll clear the living room before dinner.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

“And the kitchen?”

“I’ll wash the mugs.”

“All of them?”

“Don’t push your luck, Hart.”

The use of her name sent an odd, unwelcome warmth through her.

She picked up another plate. “I’m making pasta.”

“I don’t eat pasta.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’ll make something later.”

“After midnight?”

“Probably.”

Mira looked toward the living room, where his case still leaned against the wall and a shirt hung from the back of the sofa. “No music after ten.”

He considered her. “Low volume.”

“Quiet.”

“Low.”

“Quiet.”

His gaze held hers for one beat too long. “You negotiate like a lawyer.”

“You answer like a man who expects loopholes.”

“I’m a writer.”

“That explains nothing.”

“It explains the loopholes.”

He carried the notebook away.

By seven, Mira had unpacked half her room and claimed one shelf in the kitchen. Rowan had moved three piles of belongings from the sofa to the floor, which he apparently considered progress. She boiled water while he sat at the table writing in a different notebook, his pen moving quickly across the page.

The apartment filled with garlic, rain, and the low scrape of his chair.

Mira set two plates on the counter, then paused.

She had only planned to make enough for one.

Rowan looked up. “Is that for me?”

“It’s extra.”

“Right.”

“Don’t make it important.”

“I won’t.”

He took the plate. Their hands met around the warm ceramic, and this time neither of them pulled away immediately.

Then Rowan’s elbow knocked over a stack of unopened mail.

Envelopes scattered across the floor.

Mira closed her eyes.

“I’ll get it,” he said.

“You said that about the mugs.”

“I got the mugs.”

“You moved the mugs.”

He crouched to gather the envelopes, but one slid beneath the sofa. When he reached for it, his shoulder struck the table. His notebook fell open, inked pages flashing between them.

Mira saw one sentence before he snatched it shut.

Letting someone stay is not the same as letting them in.

Rowan looked at her.

The pasta cooled between them.

“Quiet hours at ten,” Mira said.

“Low music.”

“Quiet.”

He nodded. “Quiet.”

It was not agreement so much as a ceasefire, thin enough to tear. Still, he carried his plate to the table, and Mira sat across from him because leaving would have made the apartment feel like his.

At ten minutes past midnight, music began behind Rowan’s closed door.

Not loud. Not quite.

A guitar, slow and unfinished, threading through the wall.

Mira lay awake beneath the unfamiliar weight of her new blankets. In the hallway, something scraped. A cupboard opened. Rowan laughed softly at something on the radio, then lowered the volume.

She had the keys. She had the apartment. She had gotten exactly what she came for.

But when the music stopped, she found herself listening for him to start again - and wondering how long it would take before living beside Rowan Pike stopped feeling like a mistake and began to feel like a choice.

End of chapter one. 38 more chapters and about 95,689 words in the full book.