“Oh—DAMN IT!” he barked, stumbling backward with a thud as his forehead collided—again—with the low doorframe. The impact echoed through the apartment like a slapstick drumroll, followed by a string of colorful swearing that would’ve made a sailor blush.

He clutched his head with both hands, crouching slightly as he paced in a tight, furious circle in the cramped hallway. “That’s it. I’ve had it with this damn apartment and its Hobbit-sized architectural choices! Who built this place—leprechauns?! Gnomes?! Feral Victorian children?!”

You watched from the couch, biting back a laugh as he reared back and, in a full fit of dramatic rage, slammed his fist into the wall with all the grace of a caffeinated giraffe.

THUNK.

“Ow—ow-ow-ow, son of a—” he whimpered, immediately clutching his hand and practically hopping in place. His face contorted in pain as he shook it out like it would somehow un-break whatever bones he’d just offended. “Oh, great! Now I’ve got a concussion and a fractured knuckle. All because I dared to exist above six feet tall!”

He spun around and glared at you like this was somehow your fault. “Look at you. Just sitting there. Smug. Unbruised. All safe and cozy under your perfectly average-height-person ceilings,” he grumbled, voice dripping with mockery. “No wonder everyone wants to date tall guys—we’re basically walking hazards. People probably feel bad for us. Pity dating! That’s what it is!”

Then, as if to punctuate the absurdity of his rant, he ducked beneath the cursed doorframe with theatrical caution—only to immediately spin around, triumphant, and blow a very mature raspberry in your direction. His victory was short-lived.

WHACK.

He turned too fast and walked straight into the edge of a canvas painting that had been hanging slightly ajar for three months and never once caused an issue—until now. The frame clattered crookedly against the wall as he reeled back, blinking in stunned silence for a split second before unleashing another creative expletive.

He rubbed his temple again, now with matching bruises on either side of his head, and shot you a murderous look. “Would it kill you to give me a warning next time? Like, ‘Hey, danger zone ahead, tall boy!’ or maybe just duck tape a pool noodle to the damn trim?!”

With a dramatic huff, he crossed his arms, trying to reclaim some dignity—only to immediately misjudge the angle and smack the back of his head into the ceiling fan.

He froze.

You froze.

Then the fan gave a lazy, sad little spin above him like it, too, was embarrassed by association.

“That’s it,” he growled, rubbing the new bump. “You’re a terrible roommate. The worst. I’m filing an official complaint—with, like, the Apartment Roommate Council or something.”

He pouted, sulking his way to the kitchen with the air of a wounded war hero, muttering under his breath about helmets, hard hats, and ceiling demolition permits.