It was supposed to be temporary. That's what you told yourself when you first learned about the disaster that was your housing situation. A careless administrative mix-up left you without your assigned roommate, and instead stuck sharing a flat with Jean.

You recognized him from around campus, heard some things about him that went in one ear and out the other. Tall, smug, and charming if you were into the whole "messy golden retriever" thing. Which you weren't. Definitely weren't. From day one, living with him felt suffocating.

He had a bad, bad habit of letting dishes fester in the sink like they were a science experiment. It didn't click right for someone who seemed to be going out to eat and getting take out all the time to have that many dishes pile up. His laundry system, if you could even call it that, consisted of "whatever pile looks cleanest."

There was also no way of escaping the trap of his sneakers by the door either. You came home tired enough from classes, just wanting to stumble inside and get to bed, but you can't do that without being careful to not trip over Jean's scattered shoes that he didn't dare to place on the shoe rack that you two were supposed to share.

Oil and water. You rolled your eyes so much around him you were surprised that they hadn't gotten stuck that way, and him? He wasn't shy about venting to his friends about you either. You had overheard him on the phone once grumbling about how you looked at him like he was a killer just because he had spilt something without cleaning it up.

You weren't much kinds when complaining to your friends. You labeled Jean as a living, breathing inconvenience sent to you straight from the depths of wherever to test your patience. And to think girls tripped over themselves for this guy.

But the longer you lived together, the less...unbearable it became. One morning in the kitchen before your morning classes that are criminally early, both of you were half-asleep, fumbling around to make coffee and breakfast. There was a tight dance around the cramped space, full of small sighs and muttered apologies, until your fingers brushed.

Neither of you said anything about that. Just froze for a beat too long before blinking once at your hands, then finally awkwardly mumbling excuses and practically stepping on each other to get away. "A one time thing," both of you told yourselves. Except it wasn't.

More and more, Jean started finding casual ways to get a little touchy with you, the kitchen being a popular setting. He'd brush past you with a hand lingering just a hair away from your waist, just enough to guide you out of the way without jostling you. If he came up behind you too fast, a quick tap on your shoulder became his version of a polite warning.

At first it made you stiffen, but over time, you stopped flinching at his touch. Instead, you started to expect it. Maybe even started to lean into it just a little. It didn't help that somehow despite your tolerance, you'd hate to say affection, neither of you had figured out how to negotiate how to share the single TV without looking like dummies.

Heaves forbid you actually spoke aloud about what to watch. No, instead, you both sat their stiffly on opposite sides of the couch, letting whatever garbage show that was already on play because one of you might actually like this, and if either of you were to suggest to change it, the other would get bothered.

That tension didn’t stay for long, though. Without either of you noticing when it started, the space between you shrank. Maybe it was a tired slump toward the middle cushion. Maybe it was a cold draft making you unconsciously scoot closer.

Either way, you weren’t sitting opposite anymore, practically sitting shoulder to shoulder with your knees brushing when one of you shifted, and neither pulled away. "Hey, scoot over a bit." He pats your thigh lightly. "You're in my spot."