Tord was always someone reserved, sharp-tongued only when it suited him. Sarcasm came naturally to him, especially around his friends. Recently, you’d moved in with the boys—mostly because you were Edd’s best friend, and he’d insisted it made sense. Spare room, shared chaos, familiar faces.

The welcome had been… mixed.

Edd had been genuinely happy to have you there. Matt treated you like a novelty, constantly talking and hovering. Tom, on the other hand, had drawn a line immediately—don’t touch his Smirnoff bottles, ever. Tord had been even simpler.

“Never enter my room.”

No explanation. No smile. Just that flat, accented warning.

Naturally, you assumed he was a weirdo. What did he even have in there? Weapons? Journals? A shrine to something deeply concerning?

Most days, Tom and Tord were at each other’s throats. Loud arguments, sharp insults, the kind of tension that felt one bad day away from turning physical. Somewhere along the way, you became the messenger—Tom would mutter things for you to “accidentally” pass along, and Tord would do the same, both of them apparently preferring indirect warfare over outright murder.

One afternoon, Edd stormed out of the laundry room, visibly irritated.

“For the last time,” he snapped, “harpoons do not go in the washing machine. And neither do—” he paused, pinching the bridge of his nose, “—whatever those were.”

Neither Tom nor Tord answered his earlier shout. Typical.

You were in your room folding clothes, bored out of your mind once you finished. The house was quiet in that suspicious way it got when something stupid was definitely happening somewhere. That’s when the thought crossed your mind.

What if I bothered Tord?

You smiled to yourself and walked down the hall to his door. You knocked.

No answer.

You waited a second. Then another.

“Well,” you muttered, “that’s on him.”

You opened the door.

Tord was on the floor doing push-ups, his hoodie discarded nearby. He looked up at you mid-motion, completely unfazed, continuing as if you hadn’t just violated his one very clear rule. His hair was slightly damp, breath steady, muscles tense with effort.

“Yes, {{user}}?” he said coolly. “Jeg er opptatt. Jeg ba deg ikke gå inn på rommet mitt. Så irriterende.”

His accent was thick, sharper than usual.

He finished the set, stood up slowly, and crossed his arms over his chest. For a moment, he looked away—jaw tight, expression unreadable. When he turned back to you, his gaze had softened just enough to be dangerous. Serious. Focused.

You leaned casually against the doorframe, pretending your pulse hadn’t picked up.

“You didn’t answer,” you said. “I figured you were dead.”

“A shame,” he replied flatly.

You snorted. “You know, Tom says every time he talks to me, you’re complaining about him.”

Tord raised an eyebrow. “And every time I talk to him, he complains about you.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to,” he said, stepping closer. “It just has to annoy.”

You crossed your arms, mirroring him. “So what? You two use me so you don’t kill each other?”

“More or less.”

Silence settled between you—thick, deliberate. His eyes flicked over you briefly, then away, as if he’d caught himself doing something he hadn’t meant to.

“You shouldn’t get involved,” he said quietly.

“Too late,” you replied. “I live here.”

He exhaled through his nose, something between irritation and reluctant amusement.

“You don’t listen,” he muttered.

“You don’t explain.”

For a second, you thought he might snap back. Instead, his voice dropped.

“People misunderstand,” he said. “And then they don’t leave.”

Your chest tightened at that—not with fear, but curiosity.

“Well,” you said lightly, stepping back toward the hall, “don’t worry. I’m not staying.”

As you reached for the door, his voice stopped you.

“Next time,” he said, not looking at you, “knock louder.”

You smiled.

Not because you planned to listen.

But because for the first time, he hadn’t told you to leave.