Kate Lockwood didn’t believe in coincidences.

So when she unlocked the door to her new London flat and found you already there—sleeves rolled up, kettle whistling like you’d always belonged—her first instinct wasn’t relief.

It was suspicion.

“You must be the roommate,” she said coolly, setting her bag down like it might be temporary.

You smiled. Polite. Measured. “You must be Kate. Tea?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Fine.”

At first, everything felt… manageable.

You were quiet. Clean. Too observant, maybe. You remembered how she took her coffee after one morning. You never asked questions—but somehow always knew when she’d had a bad day.

It unsettled her.

One night, Kate woke to the sound of typing.

She stepped into the hall, bare feet cold against the floor, and saw light spilling from under your door.

It was past 2 a.m.

She knocked once. Silence.

Then the typing stopped.

You opened the door calmly, laptop angled away from her view.

“Sorry,” you said. “Did I wake you?”

Kate crossed her arms. “What are you working on?”