Not the scratchy one. The expensive one. Wet patch and stranger smell. Sex is fine here. Laundry diplomacy is how the real house wars start.
Tag: boundaries
Water and a check in are not deluxe. They are basic. If you can take your clothes off you can ask if I got home.
He buys oat milk and never contributes to wifi. I did not advertise for a third flatmate with a hoodie and opinions about the remote.
She says it is casual. We still clock shoes, job, whether he rinsed a mug. This flat runs checks. Nobody asked. We do them anyway.
He wants a number so he can decide if I am allowed. Count the men who stayed kind. That figure tells more than a tally.
A wrist in his story is not commitment. It is cover. If I am good enough for his bed I am good enough for face.
Week one he sent paragraphs and playlists. Week two he sent k. That is not passion. It is a highlight reel before the beige flags.
Believe the first draft. Not ready means not for you, not right now, not ever with anyone who asks for a Saturday in public honestly.
Same kitchen. Same oat milk. Then a rose on the app. The house became an incubator with worse lighting. I shut the fridge, considered leaving.
Parking and a snack are not romance. They are adult. Calling that extra wrecked the plot. I want effort. I want people knowing the floor.