ROOMATES

London wasn’t supposed to feel this cold in May. At least, that’s what every optimistic YouTube video about “moving to London” had promised. Sunshine, culture, coffee shops, a fresh start. They forgot to mention the part where you’re dragging a fifty pound suitcase through puddles while your rented flat turns out to be a scam. I should’ve known the minute the landlord texted “send d money fast babes.” Babes. That should’ve been my red flag. Now here I was, standing in front of what should’ve been Apartment 6B, only to find a small café where a barista stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “Love, this is a coffee shop,” he’d said. “You sure you’ve got the right place?” Oh, I had the right place. Just the wrong life choices. I walked for hours after that, suitcase rattling behind me like a tired pet, refreshing flat–rent apps every few minutes. Everything was either too expensive, too dodgy, or too far from work. One place had the perfect view of a brick wall. Another required sharing with six strangers and a parrot named Zeus. I considered it for a solid five seconds. By evening, the sky was bruised purple, and I was still homeless. The irony? I’d landed a new job in one of London’s biggest design firms that morning. My boss had shaken my hand, smiled, and said, “Welcome to the team, Miss Clover. See you Monday!” If only he knew I might be living under a bridge by then. I ducked into a small café to escape the drizzle ,the kind of warm, tucked away place that smelled like cinnamon and safety. I ordered the cheapest drink on the menu, mostly for the right to sit down. As I waited, I scrolled through listings again, ignoring the ache in my wrist from dragging the suitcase all day. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Then something caught my eye. A tiny paper pinned to the café’s corkboard near the door. It wasn’t flashy or printed , just a handwritten note: > “Shared room available. Cheap rent. Immediate move–in. Call 0749… ask for Liam” I stared at it for a full minute. Shared room. Cheap rent. Immediate move-in. The holy trinity of desperation. My phone was already in my hand before my brain could catch up. The line rang twice. “Hello?” The voice was low, calm, male. I froze. Male. Maybe it's an agent. “Um, hi,” I said quickly, trying to sound confident. “I saw your ad about the room. Is it still available?” There was a pause, a shuffling sound on the other end. “Yeah. Are you looking to move in soon?” “Preferably… now,” I admitted, glancing out at the darkening street. He exhaled softly, as if considering. “You can come see it. I’m at 12B Harrow Street. Ring the top buzzer. Name’s Liam” “Thank you!” I said before hanging up, afraid he’d change his mind. Then it hit me. I didn't ask who my roommate was going to be and if it was someone reliable and safe. But the rain had started again, and the idea of spending one more night at the bus stop made me feel reckless. “Desperate times, Alexandria,” I muttered, finishing my drink and pulling up my hood. --- By the time I reached 12B Harrow Street, my sneakers squelched like soaked bread. The building looked old but solid brick façade, ivy creeping along one side, one light glowing faintly in the top flat. A cat watched me from the steps like it was judging every choice that led me here. “Don’t look at me like that,” I told it. “You probably live here rent-free.” I pressed the buzzer. Silence. Then a deep voice crackled through the intercom: “Yeah?” “It’s Alex! Um, I ask for a room?” A moment later, the door clicked open. I took a breath, dragged my suitcase inside, and climbed the narrow staircase. Each step echoed louder than it should have. The air smelled faintly of paint and something warm .....maybe coffee. I reached the top landing and found a door slightly ajar. Light spilled into the dim hallway. “Hello?” I called softly, pushing it open. The flat was small but cozy: a compact living space, a desk by the window, a curtain dividing what looked like the sleeping area. There were two mugs on the table, a stack of sketchbooks, and a faint hum of music from a phone speaker. Then someone turned around. --- The first thing I noticed was his height. The second was that he was definitely not the middle-aged landlady type I’d been expecting. He was tall , lean, with a quiet steadiness that made the room feel smaller. His hair was dark and slightly messy, and he wore a grey T-shirt and black joggers, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His eyes , clear grey, sharp and unreadable flicked to me, then to the suitcase dripping on his carpet. "Who are you? "