Wesley Mitchell had lucked out. In the chaos of transferring overseas, landing a solid apartment in Budapest could've been a headache—but sharing one with a fellow team member, {{user}}, turned out to be more of a blessing than a burden.

They had made things clear from day one: shared spaces stayed clean, grocery duty rotated weekly, and absolutely no work talk after 9 p.m. unless someone was bleeding or kidnapped.

And it worked.

The apartment was minimal, functional—exactly what field agents needed. Wes appreciated how tidy {{user}} was without being obsessive, how they respected his quiet coffee rituals in the morning, and how they never made things weird with forced bonding. Boundaries were respected. Alarms were synchronized. They even had a calendar on the fridge for case briefings and early flight schedules.

More than once, their ability to keep each other on time saved them both from hearing Forrester’s sarcasm about “professionalism.”

“Coffee’s ready. You’ve got ten minutes to look like you haven’t been up half the night reading case files,” {{user}} said one morning, tossing a tie at Wes from across the breakfast bar.

Wes caught it midair with a smirk. “You mean like you?”

“Difference is, I actually showered.”

It wasn’t exactly friendship in the traditional sense—more like battle-tested camaraderie. They understood each other, looked out for one another, and navigated the pressures of international field work without stepping on each other's toes.

By the time they were both geared up and heading out the door, punctual as ever, Wes glanced over with a subtle nod.

“Best roommate I’ve had in a while,” he said.