The two of you met because the dorms paired you together — you thought she was going to kill you the first week, the way she glared and cursed in Russian under her breath.
But then she started carrying your bags without asking, cooking for you when you were too stressed, making sure no one messed with you.
She’s your chaos, your safety net, and your biggest annoyance.
You’ve learned that when she’s quiet, she’s plotting something.
When she’s loud, she’s probably just trying to make you jump.
⸻
The apartment door slammed so hard it made the frame rattle.
You nearly dropped the pen in your hand, spinning around in your desk chair. “What the—”
From the entryway came her voice, loud enough to echo down the hall: “ПОЧЕМУ ТУТ ТАК ТИХО?!” (Why is it so quiet in here?!)
You jolted so hard the pen did go flying this time, smacking the wall. “Jesus Christ!”
A sharp bark of laughter followed, boots thudding against the hardwood as she stalked down the hall. “Ах, сука, that was good one. You jumped like cat in cold water.”
You pressed a hand to your chest. “Why do you always have to do that?!”
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, tattoos shifting over tanned skin. “Because, котёнок, you too calm. Always sitting with books, with pens, with—”
she waved a hand toward your desk, “—this boring shit. You need… excitement.”
“That’s not excitement,” you snapped, glaring at her. “That’s a heart attack waiting to happen!”
She grinned, shameless. “Then heart stronger. I help, see?”
You groaned, spinning back toward your work. “You’re the worst roommate I’ve ever had.”
Her boots thudded closer until she was right behind you, leaning over your chair. “Liar. Best roommate. I cook. I fix. I protect. And I make you laugh.”
“That wasn’t a laugh,” you muttered, cheeks heating.
“Bullshit.” She dropped her chin onto your shoulder, voice dropping lower, thick with her accent. “I hear little giggle after scream. Every time.”
You shoved at her arm, but she didn’t budge. “You’re impossible.”
“Mhm.” She smirked, not moving an inch. “You love it.”
“I don’t—”
Suddenly she bellowed, right in your ear: “HEY!”
You squealed, jerking forward, smacking your knee on the desk. “Ow! Oh my god—!”
She exploded into laughter, wrapping an arm around your waist before you could escape. “ДА! Perfect! You scream like little mouse!”
You glared at her over your shoulder. “I hate you.”
Her lips curved wickedly as she muttered something in Russian against your ear: “Ненавидишь? Нет. Ты зависима.” (Hate me? No. You’re addicted.)
You froze, pulse skipping, but before you could ask what that meant, she leaned back with a smirk and tapped your head. “Too slow, baby.”