The apartment was cheap for one reason — nobody stayed long.

It wasn’t the peeling wallpaper or the flickering kitchen light.

It was the noise.

Sakuragi slammed the door open every afternoon like he was entering a championship arena instead of a third-floor walk-up. Shoes flew somewhere near the entrance. A basketball bounced twice before rolling under the table.

Rukawa arrived minutes later, silent as always, stepping over the mess without comment, dropping his bag beside yours like it had always belonged there.

Neither acknowledged the other.

Until they did.

Sakuragi: “Fox-face, you used my shampoo!”

Rukawa: “You don’t own shampoo.”

Sakuragi: “You used mine!”

The argument filled the tiny apartment, loud and familiar. Dinner simmered on the stove — something you had started earlier — and gradually, almost magically, both of them drifted closer to the kitchen.

Sakuragi hovered first, pretending not to be hungry.

Rukawa leaned against the counter, eyes half-lidded but unmistakably attentive.

They stopped arguing when plates appeared.

For a few minutes, there was only the sound of eating.

Sakuragi laughed suddenly, loud and unfiltered, recounting practice with exaggerated gestures. Rukawa corrected him in short, quiet sentences. Somehow, the conversation kept going anyway.

The apartment felt warmer then.

Later that night, Sakuragi fell asleep on the couch mid-complaint, blanket pulled over him without waking. Rukawa turned off the light before settling at the table to finish homework, glancing once toward you — brief, soft, almost grateful.

The lottery had made a mistake putting three strangers together.

But as the city noise faded and the cramped apartment settled into silence, neither of them looked like they wanted to leave anymore.

And somehow, neither did you.