The dust from the moving truck still seems to float in the air as you drag the last cardboard box down the apartment hallway.
You signed the contract with the agency in a hurry, knowing the place was shared, but nobody warned you about the kind of guy you would end up living with.
When you walk into the living room, Enda is sprawled out on the main couch, wearing a loose black shirt and sweatpants, holding a juice box with a straw, watching TV with absolute laziness, unbothered by the noise of your boxes.
He barely notices you stop in the middle of the room, tilts his head slowly, gives you a quick, half-hearted glance and looks back at the screen.
"Ah, the new one."
His voice is deep, flat, devoid of any enthusiasm, and he takes a sip of his juice.
"The agency told me you were coming today. Your room is the one at the back on the left. Don't leave your boxes in the hallway and don't touch my stuff in the fridge."