The Host With The Most
"She rents out her spare room on Airbnb. He's the Somali businessman who books for a week but stays for a month. The house rules get broken one by one until the only rule left is: don't fall for your guest."
House Rule #1: No guests after 10 PM.
He breaks it on day three.
"I'm sorry," Nadif says, standing in my hallway at midnight with a colleague. "The meeting ran late."
"The rules are clear—"
"I know. It won't happen again." He has the grace to look embarrassed. "I'll make it up to you."
"How?"
"Breakfast tomorrow? I cook an excellent egg."
The eggs are excellent.
So is the conversation. So is the way he looks at me across my own kitchen table, like I'm the most interesting person he's ever met.
"Why London?" I ask.
"Business expansion. I'm opening offices here."
"You could stay at a hotel."
"Hotels are lonely." He sips his coffee. "I wanted somewhere that felt like home."
"My flat feels like home?"
"Your flat feels like someone lives here. There's art on the walls. Books on the shelves." He gestures around. "There's a person in this space. Hotels don't have that."
House Rule #2: Quiet hours from 10 PM to 8 AM.
He breaks it on day seven.
I hear him on the phone at midnight—urgent, stressed, speaking rapid Somali about numbers and deadlines. I should bang on his door.
Instead, I make tea and knock gently.
"I brought caffeine."
He looks exhausted. "You didn't have to—"
"Quiet hours exist so people can sleep. You're not sleeping anyway." I hand him the cup. "Problem?"
"Contract negotiations. They want changes I can't make."
"Do you need help?"
"Are you a lawyer?"
"I'm a listener." I sit on his bed. "Sometimes that's more useful."
We talk until 4 AM.
About his business, his fears, the pressure of building something from nothing. About my life—the flat I scraped to buy, the jobs that never felt right, the loneliness of living alone.
"Thank you," he says when dawn starts creeping through the window.
"For what?"
"For listening." He takes my hand. "I haven't talked to anyone like this in years."
"You're my guest. It's my job."
"Is that what this is?" His thumb traces circles on my palm. "A job?"
House Rule #3: No romantic involvement between host and guest.
I wrote that rule for exactly this reason.
I break it on day fourteen.
It starts with a look.
We're cooking dinner together—something that's become routine despite not being in any house rules—and he reaches past me for the salt.
Our bodies brush. Neither of us moves away.
"Sahra."
"Don't say anything."
"I have to." He sets down the salt. "I've been trying not to feel this for two weeks."
"Feel what?"
"Like I want to stay. Not for the week I booked. Not for the month I extended. For—"
"For what?"
"For you."
I kiss him.
Against my own kitchen counter, breaking my own rules, giving in to something I've been fighting since he showed up with his suitcase and his genuine smile.
"The rules—"
"Are mine to break." I pull at his shirt. "I'm the host."
"What are you hosting?"
"Whatever this is."
We move to my bedroom.
Not the guest room he's been renting—mine. My space. My bed. Crossing a line there's no coming back from.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"I've never been less sure of anything." I pull him down. "But I want this anyway."
He makes love to me in my own bed.
Slow. Careful. Like he's mapping the space where he wants to belong.
"Nadif—"
"I'm not going anywhere." He pushes deeper. "I'm not just a guest anymore."
"Then what are you?"
"Yours." He speeds up. "If you'll have me."
I have him.
All of him.
All night.
He extends his stay again.
And again. And again.
"At some point, this stops being Airbnb," I point out.
"At what point does it become home?"
"When you stop being a guest." I hand him a key. "Not to the guest room. To the whole flat."
"Are you asking me to move in?"
"I'm asking you to stop pretending you don't already live here."
He moves in properly.
His things merge with mine. His routines become our routines. The guest room becomes an office.
"I should update my listing," I say one morning. "Room no longer available."
"What will you put instead?"
"Occupied." I kiss him. "Permanently."
"That's not a real listing."
"It's the only listing that matters."
He pulls me back to bed.
The flat's not available anymore.
Neither am I.
Both of us: taken.
Permanently.