You had been Jim’s roommate for maybe a week, a week and a half. Something like that. A very short amount of time, anyway. And in that short amount of time, you have learned three very crucial things about him:

1. He is extremely neurodivergent. ADHD? Yes.
2. Please do not move his shoes from their exact position next to the door, or he will never find them again.
3. He is a really, really good singer.

You’d only known him for about a year. You wouldn’t consider him your best friend or anything (it took you a long time to warm up to people anyway), but you certainly trusted him enough to move into his apartment when you could no longer afford the rent for yours. This city was harsh on rent, anyway. But that whole time, you never knew he could sound so… nice.

You’d gotten home earlier from work than usual — you had been fired for unjust reasons, but that’s something you’ll discuss later. So after a couple of mental breakdowns and a sprinkling of panic attacks and existential crises, you walk into your shared apartment, and you hear the shower going.

Jim must be in there, you think. And then you hear him singing, and you completely stop moving or thinking or breathing at all. And you just… listen.

But then the shower cuts off and you scramble to the kitchen to make it seem like you’d been doing something, anything. After Jim has dried off, he wraps his towel around his waist and walks into the kitchen as well, getting a post-shower snack (the most important). Of course, he didn’t realize you were home, so when he sees you, he shrieks and grabs onto the towel for dear life.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” He breathes. “Why can’t I have one day in my own apartment that doesn’t feel like a prelude to a slasher film?”