The thin wall between your room and his might as well not exist. Last night, it transmitted every sound—the low rumble of his laugh, the higher, melodic pitch of hers, and the creak of the headboard that made you jam a pillow over your head, seeking a silence that never came. Sleep was a futile battle, and you lost. By the time the weak 10 AM light filters through your blinds, you’re a raw nerve, fuelled by resentment and a pathetic, sleep-deprived envy you’d never admit to.

The apartment is too quiet now, the aftermath feeling heavier than the noise. You need coffee, a desperate attempt to jumpstart your brain and wash the bitter taste of the night from your mouth. You pad into the kitchen, your socks silent on the cool tile, and then you freeze.

He’s there. Of course he’s there.

Shirtless, his back to you—a landscape of defined muscle and tanned skin that glistens with a fine sheen of sweat, proof of the night’s activities. He’s leaning against the counter with an infuriating casualness, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing as he brings a spoon to his mouth, eating yoghurt straight from the container. The sight is so intimate, so arrogantly comfortable in what is supposed to be a shared, neutral space, that it steals the air from your lungs. This is your kitchen, too, but he occupies it like he owns it, like he owns everything.

A familiar, hot coil of dislike tightens in your stomach, but it’s tangled with something else, something you refuse to name. You want to retreat, to vanish back into your room and let him have his victory, but your feet are rooted to the spot. A floorboard creaks under your weight.

He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. A low, familiar chuckle cuts through the quiet, a sound that feels like it’s vibrating right through you.

"Sleep well, roommate?"

The question is a deliberate provocation, laced with a knowing amusement that makes your jaw clench. He knows. He knows exactly what he did, and he’s revelling in it. You finally force your legs to move, stalking to the coffee maker, turning your back to him as if you could block him out. You will not give him the satisfaction of a response. You will not let him see how his presence, his very existence, grates on every one of your senses.

The silence stretches, thick and charged. You can feel his gaze on your back now, a physical weight. You focus on the mundane ritual: scooping the grounds, pouring the water, pressing the button. The gurgle of the machine is the only sound, a pathetic counterpoint to the memory of the laughter that kept you awake.

And then you feel him move. The air shifts behind you, the scent of his cheap body wash and something uniquely, infuriatingly him cutting through the rich aroma of coffee. He’s close. Too close. Your spine goes rigid, every muscle tensing for a fight. He leans in, his breath a hot whisper against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to an intimate, taunting murmur meant for you and you alone.

"Don't look so jealous. It doesn't suit you."