The smell of something burnt dragged Noa from the depths of sleep far earlier than she'd planned. Her head throbbed faintly, not from alcohol or stress, but sheer disbelief. She had spent the night in a tiny guest room filled with cat hair and mystery stains—none of which she had signed up for.
She groaned and sat up, already regretting her decision to stay.
From the kitchen, she heard a small yelp, followed by a string of muffled apologies—directed at what sounded like… a toaster?
Noa slipped out of bed, pulled on a cardigan, and walked toward the chaos.
Sure enough, there was Emery, flailing a dishrag at a very unfortunate piece of toast that had burst into flames. She tossed it into the sink, ran the water, then looked up at Noa with a sheepish smile.
"Morning! Want some slightly charred breakfast?"
Noa blinked. "I'll pass."
Emery shrugged, clearly unfazed, and dumped the blackened toast into the trash. "Suit yourself. I thought it might be nice to break the ice with food, but the toaster's decided we're in our villain era."
Noa leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "We need to talk."
Emery nodded, brushing crumbs from the counter. "Yeah, about the whole living situation, right? I've been thinking."
"That's reassuring," Noa muttered.
"I mean it," Emery said, ignoring the jab. "Look, I know it's weird. Neither of us planned this, but I honestly can't afford to move out. And you probably don't want to go apartment-hunting again. So… maybe we make it work. For now."
Noa exhaled sharply through her nose. "I like order. Clean spaces. Boundaries."
"Great! I have none of those things, so we'll balance each other out."
Noa shot her a look.
"Okay, okay," Emery said, hands raised. "Real talk. We set ground rules. Like, a roommate contract. That's a thing, right?"
Noa hesitated, then slowly nodded. "Fine. But I want them in writing."
"Deal," Emery said brightly. "Let's hash it out."
She dragged a notebook from a drawer and scrawled Roommate Rules in dramatic cursive at the top. Noa sat across from her, expression unreadable.
"Rule number one," Noa said. "Label your food. No stealing."
"I don't steal," Emery said defensively. "I borrow… indefinitely."
Noa didn't blink.
"Okay, fine. No stealing food."
"Rule two: No loud music after 10 p.m."
"Aw, not even sad violin playlists?"
Noa arched a brow.
"Okay, okay," Emery scribbled it down.
"Rule three: No animals in shared spaces. Your cat stays in your room."
"Excuse you—his name is Mochi, and he's emotionally sensitive."
"I'm allergic."
"Oh. Okay. Mochi will understand. He's a mature boy."
The conversation continued for over an hour, with Emery making occasional jokes and Noa repeatedly pretending not to laugh. By the end, they had ten rules and a tentative peace treaty.
They both signed at the bottom, Noa in neat block letters, Emery with a loopy flourish.
Emery held the paper up like a sacred scroll. "Look at us! Two functioning adults solving problems."
Noa stood and collected her mug. "Don't get used to this. It's temporary."
Emery grinned, unfazed. "Everything is, Noa. Except my love for breakfast carbs."
Noa paused by the sink, the corners of her mouth twitching before she hid it behind her mug.
This was going to be a long month.
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