Room With A View
"She's looking for a flatmate. He's the only applicant who doesn't seem creepy. When he moves in, they establish boundaries—no romance, no drama. Three months later, every boundary is broken."
Rule one: no romantic involvement.
I make this clear during the viewing.
"I've had enough drama," I tell him. "I need someone who'll pay rent on time and leave me alone."
"Perfect." He extends his hand. "I'm Idris. I pay rent early and I'm never home."
Three months later, he's always home.
And I can't stop thinking about him.
It happens gradually.
He cooks dinner and makes enough for two. I fall asleep on the couch and wake up with a blanket he must have placed. Small things that shouldn't mean anything.
But they do.
"You're breaking the rules," I tell him one night.
"What rules?"
"The no-involvement rules." I gesture at the dinner. "This feels like involvement."
"It feels like being decent." He shrugs. "I can stop if you want."
I don't want.
Month two.
We watch movies together. Share meals. Talk about our days like we're something more than flatmates.
"People think we're a couple," he says.
"People are wrong."
"Are they?"
He's looking at me with something that isn't flatmate energy.
"Idris—"
"I know the rules." He stands. Walks toward me. "But I've been trying to follow them for eight weeks, and it's getting harder."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying—" He stops in front of me. "I look forward to coming home. Not to the flat. To you. I cook dinner because I want to eat with you. I leave blankets because I can't stand seeing you uncomfortable."
"Those are flatmate things."
"Those are 'I'm falling for you' things." He takes my hand. "Tell me I'm wrong."
I can't tell him that.
Rule one breaks spectacularly.
On the couch where we've watched a hundred movies. Where he left blankets. Where we became something neither of us planned.
"Idris—"
"I've wanted this since the viewing."
"Since the viewing?"
"Since you opened the door and I forgot every flat I'd seen before." He pushes into me. "You were always the room I wanted."
We make love in our shared flat.
The one we're supposed to share platonically. The one where boundaries existed for good reasons that now seem ridiculous.
"We're going to be terrible flatmates—" I gasp.
"We're going to be perfect."
We're not terrible flatmates.
We're something better. Partners who share space and love and everything between.
"We should update the tenancy agreement," he says a year later.
"Why?"
"Because I want your name next to mine on everything." He pulls out a ring. "Starting with this."
"That's not a tenancy agreement."
"Better." He opens the box. "That's a forever agreement."
I sign immediately.