The lines between us

If there was one thing Ivy McCall hated more than being late, it was Asher Reid. Unfortunately, he came with the apartment. The California sun was already slicing through the blinds when Ivy stumbled into the kitchen, half-asleep and clutching her phone. A soft melody hummed from the living room — low guitar notes, lazy and confident. Asher. Of course. She stopped in the doorway. He was sitting on the counter, barefoot, a mug in one hand and his guitar in the other, strumming like he owned the place. His dark hair was a perfect kind of messy — the kind that looked accidental but probably wasn’t. “Morning, Princess,” he said without looking up. “Coffee’s hot. Milk’s gone.” Her jaw tightened. “You finished my oat milk again?” He glanced up, a smirk curving. “You say that like it’s a crime.” “It is when you don’t replace it.” “Relax. I’ll buy more. Eventually.” Ivy pressed her lips together, reminding herself that murder was illegal. “We have rules, Asher. You can’t just—” “Rules?” He set the guitar aside and leaned forward, grinning. “You actually wrote house rules? Wow. Didn’t take you for the label-maker type.” “I’m organized,” she shot back. “You’re… allergic to effort.” He laughed, the sound filling the apartment — warm, infuriatingly charming, and impossible to ignore. “You’re cute when you’re mad, you know that?” “I’m not mad,” she said tightly. “I’m exasperated. There’s a difference.” “Sure there is.” He winked, slid off the counter, and brushed past her on his way to the bathroom. His shoulder grazed hers, and Ivy’s heartbeat tripped before she could stop it. She told herself it was irritation. Pure irritation. ⸻ By the time she got to campus, Ivy’s morning had gone from mildly disastrous to officially cursed. Her psychology professor had assigned a surprise group project, her coffee had spilled in her bag, and — because fate clearly had a sense of humor — Asher’s music club was performing outside the student union, drawing a huge crowd. He spotted her instantly. Of course he did. “Hey, roomie!” he called into the mic. “Everyone, say hi to my stepsister Ivy — she’s the one who leaves motivational Post-its on the fridge!” The crowd laughed. Ivy wanted the earth to swallow her whole. Later, when she confronted him behind the stage, he just grinned. “C’mon, McCall. You’ve got to loosen up. College is supposed to be fun.” “You humiliated me in front of half the school.” “I introduced you,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.” She glared, ready to fire back, but the words caught when his smile faded — just slightly — and she saw something unexpected in his eyes. Something soft. Something that made her forget, for one dizzy second, why she was supposed to hate him. He looked away first, adjusting the strap of his guitar. “Look, I’ll buy your stupid oat milk, okay?” “That’s… not the point,” she murmured, but her voice had lost its edge. He gave a small shrug. “Maybe not. But it’s a start.” ⸻ That night, Ivy sat at her desk, the hum of Asher’s music seeping through the wall between their rooms. It should’ve annoyed her. It usually did. But this time, the rhythm felt steady, comforting — like a heartbeat in the dark. She closed her eyes and told herself she didn’t care. She’d survive the semester. She’d keep her distance. No problem. Right?