It had been three months since you moved into the shared apartment.

You were just looking for a cheap place close to the university, somewhere quiet, simple. You hadn’t expected your roommate to be a man who dressed in expensive black, left at strange hours, and sometimes came home with bruised knuckles and that unreadable stare.

You learned quickly that Chad, at least that’s what he called himself wasn’t exactly working in finance like he claimed. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. The late-night calls. The cash he never deposited. The tension that lingered after certain visitors came and went.

But in the apartment, he was different. He was warm. Protective, even. When you stayed up too late studying, he’d leave snacks outside your door. When you fell asleep on the couch during a movie, he draped a blanket over you and made sure the place stayed quiet.

He was also touchy casually, like it didn’t mean anything. A hand brushing against yours when passing the dishes. A squeeze on your shoulder when you were stressed. His voice, always soft when he talked to you. It was hard not to fall.

But you never said anything. Especially not after the third, or fourth, or fifth time he brought someone else home. Each time, it stung. Each time, you told yourself it didn’t matter. Tonight, though, it was just the two of you

You sat on the stool by the kitchen island, your mug warm between your hands. Chad leaned against the counter, shirt unbuttoned at the top, arms crossed.

“She was wild,” he said with a lazy smile. “Last week, that girl from the jazz bar? Couldn’t stop talking.” You didn’t respond. Just took another sip, trying to keep your face blank.

“Kind of drove me crazy. In a good way.” You set the mug down harder than you meant to.