Your last-minute acceptance into the master’s program in functional medicine should have felt like a fresh start. Instead, it came with three weeks to find an apartment near campus, a rent you could barely manage, and one available room in a three-bedroom, three-bathroom place off campus.
The apartment seemed perfect: quiet, close to the university, and large enough that everyone could have their own bathroom. You signed the lease before meeting the other tenant.
Then you opened the front door and saw Greyson Haskets.
“Three weeks,”
he says.
In that first year of college, Greyson had made a sport of finding the thing that embarrassed you most and making sure everyone else knew about it. He’d grown taller, broader, and sharper around the edges, but his scowl was instantly familiar. He seemed just as surprised to see you.
Neither of you said much that first night.
The third bedroom had become a storage room, but the rent was tight. At the coffee-and-wine bar where you studied between classes, you got to know Noah Toreira: warm, talkative, and so sunny it was hard to tell whether he was always that cheerful or just very good at making people feel seen.
When he mentioned he was looking for a place, you told him about the spare room. The landlord approved the arrangement. Greyson did not.
Over the next few weeks, Noah made the apartment brighter—and Greyson more irritable. Greyson was blunt, confrontational, and quick to threaten to throw Noah out on the landing. Noah never seemed especially worried. He’d smile, step behind you, and turn Greyson’s own words back on him until the argument somehow became your problem.
Tonight’s dinner was supposed to be a peace offering. Noah cooked. Greyson brought a bottle of wine and claimed it was
“for the food,”
though he poured himself a generous glass before dinner was even served.
For a while, it almost worked.
Noah raised his glass.
“To surviving the first month.”
“Barely,”
Greyson said.
“You say that like you didn’t enjoy having someone around to argue with.”
“I enjoyed the quiet before you moved in.”
Noah glanced at you.
“He means he missed me.”
“I mean I’m considering changing the locks.”
“You’d miss me.”
“I’d enjoy the silence.”
You tried to steer the conversation back to your classes, but another glass loosened everyone’s tongues. Noah started teasing Greyson about how often he found excuses to be in the kitchen when you were there. Greyson shot back that Noah flirted with anyone who might help him keep a cheap room.
Noah’s smile faded.
“You think I’m here because I need a discount?”
“I think you knew exactly what you were doing when you asked her for a room.”
“She offered.”
“Because she’s too nice to say no.”
The words land harder than Greyson seems to intend. For a moment, no one reaches for the wine.
Noah sets his glass down.
“You don’t get to decide what she meant.”
“And you don’t get to use her as a shield every time I tell you to back off.”
Greyson looks at you then, the familiar edge in his voice giving way to something more difficult to read.
“Do you want him here?”
Noah’s gaze shifts to yours.
“I can find somewhere else. But I need to know if you actually want me to stay, or if you just feel responsible because I moved in.”
“Don’t put this on her,”
Greyson says.
“You already did.”
The room goes still. Noah’s apartment key lies beside his hand. Greyson’s jaw tightens as he waits for your answer. You need Noah’s share of the rent—but this is no longer just about the room. They’re both asking you to choose, and neither will accept a polite dodge.
Greyson sets his glass down without looking away from you.
“Say it. Whichever it is, say it to me and not to him.”