Flatmates and Other Bad Ideas
They met the way most flatmates do—through a rushed message, a couple of awkward texts, and a shared understanding that New York rent prices didn’t leave room for pickiness.
Joe arrived first, a suitcase in one hand and a guitar case in the other, looking like he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up there. Y/N showed up ten minutes later, keys already in hand, scanning him once before saying, “You’re Joe?”
“Don’t say it like a question,” she cut in, brushing past him to unlock the door. “I'm your new flatmate.”
At first, they existed around each other more than with each other.
He made coffee too early. She stayed up too late. He hummed melodies in the kitchen; she played music loud enough from her room to drown him out. They shared a fridge, a couch, and very little else.
Joe was careful. Quiet. He asked before borrowing anything, knocked even when her door was open, and apologized for things that didn’t need apologizing.
Charlotte found it… irritating.
“Relax,” she told him one night when he asked if it was okay to use the olive oil. “You live here.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t push it.
It was in the way he started lingering in the kitchen instead of escaping with his mug, in the way he’d sit on the opposite end of the couch instead of retreating to his room, in the way he began to look at her like he actually expected her to answer when he spoke.
“What’s your full name?” he asked one evening, glancing up from tuning his guitar.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Charlotte.”
“I’m not making it a thing.”
“You’re making it a thing.”
“I’m literally just saying your name.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
The first time he called her “Lottie,” she almost choked on her coffee.
“That.” She pointed at him like he’d committed a crime. “That nickname thing. I hate it.”
He leaned against the counter, clearly amused now. “It suits you.”
She stared at him. He didn’t back down. And that—that was new.
She didn’t even realize when she started calling him David. It slipped out one afternoon while he was messing with the Wi-Fi.
“David, did you try restarting it?”
“You’ve never called me that.”
There was something in the way he said it. Softer. Like he liked it more than he wanted to admit. After that, it stuck.
“David, you’re hogging the bathroom. - David, your music taste is questionable. - David, if you eat my leftovers again, I will end you.”
And every time, he’d glance at her with that same small smile.
The confidence crept in without permission.
He stopped asking before sitting close to her. Stopped apologizing for existing. Started teasing her back, pushing just enough to get a reaction.
“You’re grumpy today, Lottie.”
“Yeah, but today it’s… enhanced.”
“Say enhanced again and see what happens.”
She threw a cushion at him. He caught it easily, laughing. She slowly realized he wasn’t the same guy who’d stood awkwardly in the doorway with a suitcase. He was… comfortable with her.
The moustache was a mistake. At least, that’s what she told herself.
He appeared in the kitchen one morning, casual as anything, like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered his face. She stared at him just a second too long.
“What?” he asked, reaching for a mug.
He touched his upper lip, feigning innocence. “This?”
“I know what it is, David. Why?”
He shrugged. “Felt like it.”
He turned toward her fully now, leaning back against the counter. “You hate it?”
“Shame,” he said, voice quieter now. “I kind of like it.”
She did hate it. At first.
It was distracting. Annoying. Completely unnecessary.
And yet— There was something about the way he carried himself with it. Like it had unlocked something. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
He stood closer now. Looked at her longer. Smiled slower.
“Still hate it, Lottie?” he asked one evening, stepping into her space just enough to make her notice.
His hand brushed hers when he reached past her.
She didn’t move. It hit her all at once. Not in a dramatic moment. Not in some cinematic realization. Just a quiet, stupid second where he laughed at something she said, head tilted slightly, that ridiculous moustache framing a smile she suddenly couldn’t ignore.
“Why are you staring?” he asked.
“Still hate it?” he murmured, softer now.
Her mouth didn’t cooperate.
He smiled—slow, deliberate.
Because somehow, against all logic, against her own very clear opinions—
She really, really didn’t hate it anymore.
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