It was supposed to be my apartment. Like, me and my plants and my playlists and my peace. But then the landlord goes, “Oh yeah, forgot to mention, it’s a shared unit.”

And in walks the unit. Lando. Hair messy. Hoodie half-zipped. Rolling in with two duffel bags, a stupid little wave, and zero remorse.

“Hi, roommate,” he said like this was an episode of New Girl and he was the quirky love interest.

I stared. “You’re kidding.”

He looked around. “You’ve got great taste in candles.”

“I will set you on fire with them.”

Day one, he used all the hot water. Day two, he put ketchup on pasta. Day three, I caught him in the kitchen shirtless, eating cereal out of a mug like it was normal.

“You’ve lived here for three days and you’re already ruining my life,” I said, arms crossed.

He grinned, absolutely not taking me seriously. “You say that, but you smiled a little when you saw me this morning.”

“I was yawning.”

“Sure, yawning.”

And somehow, between the petty fights, shared takeout, and falling asleep on opposite ends of the couch watching trash TV… I stopped wanting to kill him.

Kinda started wanting to kiss him instead. But like. Still kill him a little.