The Clause
The apartment smelled faintly of burnt coffee and new paint. Not exactly welcoming, but then again, neither was the guy leaning against the kitchen counter when I walked in with my suitcase.
He didn’t look up right away—just kept sipping from a chipped mug, like strangers barging into his apartment with all their worldly possessions was a daily occurrence.
I cleared my throat. “Uh… hi. Angela. Your new roommate.”
Finally, his eyes flicked to me. Hazel, sharp, and just a little amused.
“You’re late.”
I blinked. “It’s… six o’clock. The time we agreed on.”
He shrugged, muscles shifting under his worn gray T-shirt. “Late in my world.”
Great. My new roommate was both attractive and insufferable. Exactly what I didn’t need.
My gaze landed on the refrigerator, where a single sheet of paper was taped dead center. The lease agreement. And at the bottom, written in thick black marker, a sentence that wasn’t in any legal contract I’d ever seen:
Clause 4: No hookups. No dating. No exceptions.
I turned back to him, one eyebrow raised. “Seriously?”
He smirked, finally pushing off the counter to cross the tiny kitchen. “House rule. Keeps things clean.”
“Clean?” I repeated. “What are we, in high school?”
“Trust me,” he said, leaning just close enough for me to catch the faint scent of soap and coffee. “You’ll thank me later.”
I wanted to argue. Really, I did. But then he set his mug down, extended his hand, and said, “I’m Noah.”
I shook it—firmly, because I refused to let him see me flustered.
“Angela.”
His smirk deepened, like he’d just won something. “Welcome home, Angela. Don’t break the clause.”
I told myself I wouldn’t. I really, really meant it.
But as he walked past me to grab his keys, brushing so close our shoulders touched, a small, traitorous part of me already knew—I was in trouble.
Dragging my suitcase down the narrow hallway, I peeked into the two bedrooms. One was already claimed—messy sheets, an abandoned hoodie on the floor, and a pair of running shoes kicked under the bed. Noah’s.
The other room was empty except for beige walls and a window that rattled when the wind hit it. Great. My new life was starting in a shoebox.
I set my bag down and took a deep breath. Rent split in half. Utilities shared. Grocery bill lighter. That was all that mattered. I wasn’t here to make friends—or whatever Noah thought he was.
Still, when I emerged back into the kitchen, I found him sprawled on the couch with a smug look, flipping through his phone like he owned the place.
“Do you always tape ridiculous rules to the fridge?” I asked, arms crossed.
“Only when it’s necessary.” He didn’t look up.
“And necessary means…?”
He tossed his phone aside and sat up, leaning forward on his elbows. “Look, Angela, I’ve done the roommate thing before. People get drunk, lines blur, feelings get messy. The no-dating clause saves us from all that.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Or maybe it just saves you from having to be a decent human being.”
For a split second, he looked surprised. Then he laughed. Deep, rich, and infuriatingly attractive.
“You’re funny. This might actually work.”
Before I could answer, a sudden crash echoed from the kitchen. We both whipped our heads toward the sound.
The grocery bag I’d left on the counter had toppled, sending apples rolling across the floor.
Noah was on his feet before I could move, catching one just before it rolled under the couch. He held it up, grinning. “You’re clumsy, huh?”
“Or maybe the bag was just too full,” I shot back, snatching the apple from his hand.
Our fingers brushed—barely, but enough. Enough to make my pulse skip in a way that had nothing to do with groceries.
I cleared my throat and backed up a step. “Thanks. I’ve got it.”
He watched me, too intently for comfort. Then he leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Remember the clause, Angela. We’re roommates. That’s it.”
“Trust me,” I said, dumping the rest of the apples into a bowl a little too forcefully. “You’re not my type.”
“Good,” he replied smoothly, though there was something in his smile that made me wonder if he believed either of us.
That night, after unpacking, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Through the thin wall, I heard Noah laugh at something on his TV.
I told myself I was fine. That I’d made the right choice moving here. That the clause was stupid but harmless.
Still, when his laugh drifted through the wall again—low and unguarded—I pressed my pillow over my ears.
Because if I wasn’t careful, Clause 4 was going to be a disaster.
