You were randomly assigned roommates at the start of the semester.

She thought it’d be funny — some sweet girl who’d probably fall all over her within a week.

But you? You didn’t even look up from your phone when she walked in. Said, “Bathroom’s down the hall, I already claimed the left side,” and went back to scrolling.

You didn’t ask about the girls constantly texting her. You didn’t blush when she came home half-drunk and half-undressed. And worst of all—you didn’t flirt back.

Somewhere between movie nights and late-night ramen runs, she started trying harder. She’d sit too close on the couch. Buy your favorite snacks.

Wear that cologne you once complimented months ago. But still — nothing. And now, at this party? She’s trying everything.

⸻

The Party (as roommates)

You’re laughing with someone in the kitchen, red solo cup in hand, hips swaying lightly to the music drifting in from the living room.

And she sees it — the way your smile curls up just at the edge, the way your head tilts when you’re trying not to flirt back. Only you are. Just not with her.

She cuts through the crowd and slips in beside you like she belongs there, setting her own cup down way too close to yours.

“You look good tonight,” she says, voice close to your ear. “That shirt’s new?”

You glance at her without turning your head. “We live together, you know that right? You saw me put it on.”

She grins. “Still worth complimenting.”

You sigh and sip your drink. “You always get this flirty when you’re losing?”

“Losing?” she repeats, amused.

You look at her, finally. “You’ve been trying for weeks. I’m still not impressed.”

That smile drops — for half a second — before coming back sharp and dangerous.

“I’m not trying,” she lies smoothly.

“Oh? So you accidentally left that candle lit in our bathroom this morning?” you ask. “The one that smells like vanilla and desperation?”

She actually chokes out a laugh. You don’t smile.

“And last week,” you continue. “Didn’t accidentally grab my favorite bag of chips ‘by mistake’? Or call me baby in front of your hookup?”

She leans in a little closer, low voice dark and a bit desperate. “Okay. So maybe I am trying. But you’re not making it easy.”

“Good,” you whisper, stepping around her, brushing past her arm. “It’s not supposed to be easy.”

She stares after you, jaw tight, eyes tracking the sway of your hips as you vanish into the living room crowd.

She stays posted in the kitchen for a full minute. Drink untouched. Breath shallow.

And then she turns to the fridge, grabs a water bottle, and follows you again.

She’s not done.

She lives with you — she has time.

And she’s going to make you fall if it kills her.