BLURRED LINES

CHAPTER THREE: BOUNDARIES

It's the weekend and three days since I've been breathing the same air as Mr. Smug face. I took a day off from work to arrange myself in my new space. I stacked my sketchbooks on the small shelf by the door, color-coded because order was the only thing keeping my brain from short-circuiting with the awareness of his smug face across the hall. The apartment was quiet, almost peaceful…just the way I like it. Too peaceful.

Suddenly I felt a presence followed by Ernest clearing his throat behind me.

“So,” he said, casually as if he didn't just barge into my space unannounced in that infuriatingly confident way of his, “we should probably set some ground rules.”

“I didn't let you in,” I said, stilling from my arranging.

“The door was literally open and... I'm not in yet or do you want me to…” I could hear his footsteps advancing inwards and I turned. He raised his hands, leaning on the doorframe. “Stand the hell there,” I said, carefully measured, now facing him fully with my arms crossed. “We should.”

Hands in his pockets, with that same smirk he had on the first day we met plastered on his annoying face. “Okay. You go first.”

I didn't really care about rules since I'd be leaving soon, but I had to make sure my stuff stayed in place…my thesis was more important than anything else. “We have separate bedrooms, that’s one boundary, so technically, no touching each other’s stuff. Everything stays in its own domain. Shared spaces are only for…” I gestured vaguely to the other side of the house where the living area and tiny kitchen where, “…general living. Understood?”

He tilted his head, studying me like I’d just announced war on humanity. “Anything else?”

“Don’t…don’t rearrange my things. Don’t move my canvases.”

“Got it,” he said, hands raised in mock surrender, still smirking. “No touching your precious art.”

I narrowed my eyes. “It’s not precious. It’s…necessary. Like oxygen.”

He chuckled, “Alright, your rules. Fine. My turn.”

I adjusted my glasses waiting for his list, which, to be honest, I don't care about. “Shoot.”

“The kitchen is mine in the morning. I make breakfast. You stay in your room if you don’t want to be exposed to my culinary…genius,” he said, smirk widening.

I blinked. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all,” he said, shrugging. “I need space to cook. And you can’t rearrange my ingredients or…”

“Oh! So now you’re the chef overlord? I can't cook?” I snapped, stepping closer and my voice rising. “I can’t believe I have to live with someone who treats everything like a hierarchy!”

He raised a brow, amusement flashing dangerously. “Hierarchy? You mean boundaries?”

“Boundaries?!” I hissed, pointing at him. “You left your gym bag on the couch, your shoes by my door, and you think telling me to stay out of the kitchen is…boundary?”

“I do leave my bag there!” he said, stepping toward me, tone sharp now. “And what?”

I flinched, heat rushing to my ears. “Excuse me? I’m not the one acting like this apartment is their kingdom! I have rights too!”

He laughed, but his grin didn’t soften.

I ground my teeth, shoving my hands into my pockets. I felt my chest tighten, a mix of anger and…something else that made me grit my teeth harder. “Keep going with your rules. You have infuriated me enough.”

He stepped back, folding his arms, eyes flashing like he was enjoying this more than he should. “Fine. But don’t think a list is going to fix the way you glare at me every time I exist.”

I heaved a sigh. “And don’t think smirking at me constantly makes me…like you. Because it doesn’t.”

He tilted his head, lips curving into a full-on grin. “Doesn’t it?”

I spun around and stomped into my room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame. My brush rolled off the table, but I didn’t pick it up and somewhere just outside, I could hear him chuckling. That sound, stupid, stupid sound.

This wasn’t over. Not even close. And somehow, I already knew that surviving a week, or a semester, in this apartment with Ernest Malcolm was going to be harder than I’d ever imagined.