EPISODE 2
1392 Words
You’re… Alex?” he asked. His voice was the same one from the phone calm, steady, but now threaded with surprise.
“Yes,” I said, gripping the handle of my bag like a weapon. “I’m here for the room. You’re Liam?”
He nodded slowly. “Didn’t expect… a girl.”
I bristled. Hold up "aren't you an agent?"
He looked at me as if I had grown two heads "no I'm not and this is my house, I was expecting a boy Alex not girl Alex"
For a few long seconds, we just stared at each other the rain drumming against the window, my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest.
He was… observing me. Calm, amused, like I was a particularly chaotic movie playing in real life.
“Well, this is awkward,” I muttered. “Because I don’t live with men.”
“Yet here you are.” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, posture relaxed but annoyingly confident.
God. He looked infuriating. Messy brown hair that somehow still looked styled, crisp white T-shirt tucked into dark jeans, and an expression that said I’m too polite to laugh at you, but I’m thinking about it.
“I can’t stay here,” I blurted. “I—I’ll find another place.”
“Good luck.” he said nonchalantly and turned around to go back to whatever he was doing.
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means London rent is hell,” he said casually as he halted his footsteps and turned back at me . “You won’t find a place for half this price unless you’re willing to share a wardrobe.”
I hated that he was right.
“Look,” he continued, voice steady. “We’ll keep things simple. You stay on your side, I stay on mine. I don’t bother you, you don’t bother me.”
I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. “You make it sound like a business arrangement.”
He shrugged. “It kind of is.”
I sighed, my dramatic kind, the one that says why me, universe? “Fine. But I’m setting ground rules.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Rules? In my own house?”
“Yes , customer is always right ,type shi. Rule one: no touching my stuff.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” he looked at me amused .
“Rule two: no walking around shirtless.”
That one made him smirk. “You really think that’s going to be an issue?”
“I’ve met men. Yes.”
“Noted.”
“Rule three: if I’m in the kitchen, you stay out.”
He sighed and for a brief moment, looked at the wall as if reconsidering his roommate decisions "Are you American? "
"No" I scoffed "why?" I continued curiously
“ Nothing, Is this a shared flat or a minefield?” he changed subject .
Anyways.
“Both,” I snapped. “And lastly, no weird habits.”
“What qualifies as weird?”
“Anything you do that annoys me.”
He chuckled, low and unhurried. “So… breathing?”
I glared. “You’re not funny.”
“Actually, I am,” he said mildly, brushing past me into the living room. He smelled of clean soap and arrogance.
I watched him set down a cup on the coffee table, every movement precise, controlled. The place already looked suspiciously tidy, his doing, no doubt.
He turned. “You can have the left side of the room. Closet’s empty. Sheets are clean.”
“I’ll wash them myself, don't trust you males and your hormones.”
“Of course you will, such a feminist” he said, lips twitching.
Oh, he was insufferable.
---
Hours later, I sat cross-legged on my half-unpacked bed and decided to get up for a glass of water ,with all the situation going on , I need one . Only to find myself staring at the man meticulously lining up coffee mugs in alphabetical order because apparently, this psychopath alphabetized kitchenware.
I leaned toward him from the doorway. “Do you… need therapy?”
He didn’t glance up. “I like things neat.”
“You arranged the forks by length.”
“Exactly.”
“You scare me.”
“You scare me, Alex,” he said calmly, still stacking plates. “You’ve managed to turn a moving box into an active war zone.”he said peeking into my room.
I looked at it and chalantly closed it , embarrassed. Okay, so maybe my clothes were everywhere. And maybe there was a trail of chocolate bar wrappers leading from the bed to the door. But that’s not the point.
“Some people express themselves through ... Um ..this , whatever,” I said defensively.
“Others express themselves through adulting.”
I grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it. It bounced off his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch.
“You missed,” he said.
“I wasn’t aiming.”
“Yes, you were.”
God, I hated him. God, I kind of liked hating him.
Wait what. Hold on ,I just met him
---
Over the next few days, coexisting with Liam felt like living with a well-dressed ghost. He woke up before sunrise, made coffee in monk-like silence, and disappeared for work. When he returned, the air smelled like expensive cologne and quiet judgment.
Meanwhile, I slept in, spilled cereal, and played music too loud.
The tension between us was ridiculous like the flat itself was holding its breath, waiting for one of us to snap.
One evening, I emerged from a disastrous shower, hair dripping, wearing my oldest T-shirt, only to find him vacuuming.
“Do you ever… stop?” I asked.
He didn’t even glance up. “You shed glitter in the hallway. How is that possible?”
“It’s body shimmer, not glitter.”
“It’s on the ceiling.”
I gasped. “Don’t exaggerate!”
He pointed up. There it was. Sparkling. On the ceiling.
I pressed a hand to my face. “Okay, maybe a little.”
He shook his head with that maddening calm smile. “You’re such a chaos, Alex”
Something in his tone ,quiet, amused, maybe even fond made my stomach do a weird little flip. I looked up at him. “You keep calling me that.”
“What?”
“Alex. Like we’re… friends or something.”
He met my gaze, eyes unreadable. “We’re roommates. Not enemies. Yet.”
I swallowed. “Yet?”
He smirked. “Don’t push it.”
---
That night, I lay in bed listening to the faint sounds of the city. I could hear him moving around the flat, humming under his breath ,a low, warm sound that shouldn’t make me smile but did.
This was bad.
He was neat, quiet, disciplined. I was a walking disaster with zero filter.
We were oil and water. And yet…
My thoughts were interrupted by a sharp crash from the kitchen.
I shot up. “Liam?”
No answer.
I slipped out of bed, heart hammering, and padded toward the sound. The light was flickering. A mug lay shattered on the floor.
And there he was, standing in front of the counter, hands braced on either side of the sink, shoulders tense.
“Hey,” I said softly. “You okay?”
He didn’t look up right away. When he did, his eyes were different, guarded, stormy. “Yeah. Just… slipped.”
It was a lie. I could tell.
I stepped closer, against my better judgment. “You sure?”
“Go back to bed.”
His voice was low, steady, but not unkind.
I hesitated, torn between annoyance and worry. “You don’t have to talk, but if you ever—”
“I said go,” he cut in gently, meeting my eyes. “Please.”
Something about the please made my chest tighten.
I turned slowly to leave, but as I reached the doorway, his voice came again quiet, almo
st to himself.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” he murmured.
My breath caught.
When I looked back, his expression was unreadable, shadowed.
“Goodnight, Liam,” I whispered.
“Goodnight, Alex.”
---
- Writer
