The Set Up
Shay’s POV
The apartment was supposed to be temporary.
Three months, maybe four. Just until I found something better, somewhere with more space, fewer shared walls, a landlord who didn’t text in all caps.
But the rent was cheap, the location was walkable to work, and the photos online showed a place that looked fine — neutral walls, decent light, nothing offensive.
The photos didn’t show him.
I got there first. Dropped my bags in the smaller room, claimed the left side of the fridge, set up my speakers. The place smelled like paint and cleaning solution. I was barefoot on the kitchen tile when I heard the key turn.
The door swung open.
And there he was.
“You must be Shay.”
His voice was low, easy, like he was used to saying his lines. He had a duffel slung over one shoulder and a camera bag across his chest. Dark hair, messy like he’d just run his hands through it. Brown eyes that found mine immediately and held.
“Alexander.” I said it flat, testing how it sat in my mouth.
“Alex.”
“Alexander’s hotter.”
He smiled. Slow. Like he had all the time in the world.
“Noted.”
He walked past me to the other room. I watched him go. That’s the first thing you should know about me — I watch. I notice. I catalog. And what I cataloged was the way he moved, loose and sure, like his body was a language he spoke fluently. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. The kind of lean muscle that comes from being active, not from a gym membership.
He dropped his bag on the bed and turned back to face me.
“So. Roommates.”
“So.”
“Any rules?”
“Don’t touch my food. Don’t touch my stuff. Don’t bring drama home.”
“Drama’s not my style.”
“What is your style?”
He tilted his head, that smile still there. “I’ll let you figure it out.”
The first night, I couldn’t sleep.
It was the heat, maybe. Or the new place. Or the fact that I could hear him moving around in his room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. I lay in bed in nothing but an oversized shirt, staring at the ceiling, listening.
He was still awake too. I could tell.
I don’t know who left their door open first. But at some point, mine was cracked. And his was cracked. And the hallway between us was dark and quiet and charged.
I slipped my hand under the waistband of my underwear.
I wasn’t trying to be quiet.
My fingers found where I needed them, and I let out a slow breath. I thought about his hands. Those long fingers. The way he’d looked at me in the kitchen like he was already undressing me. I thought about what he’d sound like if I let him in.
I heard him.
A sharp exhale from his room. The creak of his bed. Then a sound I knew well — the wet, rhythmic slide of a hand working. He wasn’t hiding it either.
We were both lying there, doors open, touching ourselves to the thought of each other.
My breath hitched. I bit my lip and pushed harder, faster, chasing it. I could hear his breathing change, hear the pace of his hand pick up. We were in sync without trying. A call and response.
I came with a quiet gasp, my body tightening, my fingers pressing through the aftershocks.
A few seconds later, I heard him groan — low, rough, like it was torn out of him. Then silence.
I lay there, heart pounding, staring at the dark ceiling.
Neither of us closed our doors.
Neither of us said a word in the morning.
But the game had already started. I just didn’t know I was playing yet.
