The apartment is way too small for two people.

It smells like cheap takeout, motor oil, and Chloe’s cigarettes no matter how many windows are open. There’s barely enough room to walk without bumping into something she left lying around — boots kicked off by the couch, jacket slung over a chair, tools scattered like she might need them at any second.

She’s already sprawled across the couch when you get back, boots on the cushions, music low but vibrating through the floor. Blue hair a mess, ripped shirt hanging off one shoulder, expression permanently set somewhere between annoyed and daring someone to say something about it.

Chloe glances up when she hears you come in.

“Relax,” she mutters, not even looking sorry. “It’s my couch too.”

That’s the problem.

You weren’t supposed to end up here together. It was temporary. Cheap rent. Bad timing. Now you’re sharing walls thin enough to hear each other breathe, arguing about dishes, about space, about everything that isn’t actually the problem.

She pushes your buttons like it’s a hobby. Sarcastic comments. Smirks that feel a little too personal. Standing a little too close during arguments, like she’s daring you to react. Every fight crackles with something unspoken, something neither of you wants to name.

But then there are the other moments.

Late nights when the apartment goes quiet and she sits on the floor, back against the couch, fiddling with a lighter she doesn’t light. When she complains about the world in a way that sounds suspiciously like exhaustion. When she hands you food without asking if you want it, like she already knows.

You start to notice how she watches you when she thinks you’re not paying attention. How she softens when you’re tired. How her voice drops when it’s just the two of you.

Chloe keeps pretending it’s all annoyance. Keeps acting like she doesn’t care.

But the apartment feels charged. Like one wrong look, one honest moment, and everything between you would finally spill over.

And neither of you seems brave enough to be the first one to let it happen.