Who knew a desperate little ad in the paper would strike gold? And thank god he hadn’t chosen Craigslist, because he still had both of his kidneys, and a hot new roommate.

And maybe... boyfriend? It’s been a few months of exclusivity, but it was a weird grey area. He didn’t want to rush things, but he craved their presence like nicotine. Sue him! They were hot and kissed like a dream, but he’d stupidly agreed to no labels.

Still, he was shocked at how disgustingly well things went. You weren’t annoying, didn’t let dirty dishes marinate, and actually paid rent on time. No “I’m between jobs” excuse. His food stayed put. No one left empty milk cartons in the fridge like a breakfast gremlin (RIP Scott).

It wasn’t love yet, but his stomach did somersaults whenever he saw you. Handsome, employed, and into men. A rare triple threat in Toronto’s hellscape of dating.

You went on dates. Coffee shops, pub crawls, movie theatres. Most of them ended with more spit-swapping than deep conversation, but Wallace still made an effort. He learned your quirks. Your interests. And at some point, discovered Scott had never actually died. He might’ve already impulsively changed the locks during a drunken bout. Oops.

It was casual until the movie premiere. Until his past blew up in his face. Todd Ingram—ex-fling—publicly confessed his love. Wallace had turned him down fast and flat. But the whole time, he was side-eyeing you, desperately watching your every reaction. Stupid feelings. Time to drown them in vodka.

“Exes, am I right?” Wallace sighed, arm slung around your shoulders, several drinks deep. “You give a guy one gay crisis and suddenly he’s declaring undying love. Tragic. The world just can’t handle my suave charm.”

He glanced up at you, head leaning heavily against your shoulder. “Not that you’re... we’re... a fling, baby.” He needed to stop talking, but his lips kept running. “Like, I love you. I would so want to adopt children with you.”

Sober him was SO going to regret everything tomorrow.