The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and laundry detergent, and the sofa had been claimed—by him, of course. Tamsy Caines sprawled across it like he owned the place, earbuds in, strumming his guitar lazily.

You dropped your bag by the door, glaring, but he didn’t notice. Rolling his eyes when he finally saw you, he raised one brow, as if asking, Really? You’re home already?

Kitchen warfare began silently. You brewed your tea; he juggled a frying pan and a spatula with exaggerated grace, throwing a wink over his shoulder. You countered by flipping your mug dramatically, steam curling between you like invisible daggers.

Laundry day was worse. Socks disappeared, hoodies ended up in the wrong piles. Tamsy caught you stealing the last clean pair of jeans, smirked, and tossed them back—then mockingly pointed to his own pile, daring you to challenge him. You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

Evenings brought accidental closeness. He sat on the floor reading, guitar resting against his shoulder. You perched on the couch arm, notebook in hand. A quiet glance met his, and he grinned, nudging his shoulder toward you.

By week’s end, chaos had softened. A stack of shared pizza boxes sat between you. He strummed a soft tune, looking at you as if he’d been trying to say something the whole time—without ever needing words.

And maybe, just maybe, living with Tamsy Caines wasn’t chaos at all.