Julian rinsed the mug three times.
Twice wasn't enough. Four felt indulgent.
He set it on the drying rack--handle at a clean right angle to the edge of the counter--and wiped a stray drop of water from the sink lip with the side of his thumb. His checklist for the morning sat folded under a magnet on the fridge: six items, all ticked off. He added "wipe sink," then immediately crossed it out.
The apartment was quiet. He preferred it that way. No music, no TV. The hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the hallway clock--those were acceptable. Predictable.
The blinds stayed shut. Morning light slipped in anyway, cutting hard lines across the floor. Julian stepped carefully between them as he moved to the door.
Bag packed. Keys in the bowl. Thermos lid tightened with three deliberate turns.
He checked the lock. Then checked it again.
Paused.
The silence was deeper than usual today. Not quite heavy, but close. Like walking into a room where someone had just left. Or was about to arrive.
Julian stood still for a beat, staring at the blank white wall across from the door. He didn't know why.
Then he shook his head, adjusted the strap on his shoulder, and stepped outside.
The door clicked shut behind him like the punctuation at the end of a thought he hadn't meant to have.
---
Chapter 1
Julian hadn't wanted a roommate.
He'd fought for the single. Pulled strings with the department, sent pleading emails to Housing. He needed solitude to work, to think, to keep his routines unbroken. It was his second year of the master's program--the year things were supposed to get serious. Comprehensive exams, committee meetings, the start of his thesis. He couldn't afford distractions.
But the budget had cracked, the university shrugged, and now he was stuck splitting a two-bedroom in one of the older grad housing buildings just off campus. He tried to make the best of it. Cleaned obsessively. Rearranged the furniture to carve out corners of control. He left polite little notes on the fridge before anyone had even moved in.
And then River arrived.
He showed up barefoot and tan, carrying a battered duffel and a guitar case, like he'd wandered off the set of a cult documentary. No car, no parents, no awkward small talk. Just a soft knock on the door, and then there he was: loose linen shirt (unbuttoned), drawstring pants, rings on two fingers, a pendant swinging low between his collarbones. He looked like he belonged somewhere humid and slow-moving.
His voice was warm, mellow, a little hoarse--like it had just woken up from a long nap and wasn't planning on doing much else today.
"Hey, man," he said, grinning like Julian was someone he recognized. "Julian, right? I'm River. Thanks for letting me crash."
Julian hadn't technically had a choice. But he still nodded, stuck out a hand.
River ignored it. Pulled him into a hug instead. Bare skin, warm and a little damp, pressed against Julian's stiff button-down. River smelled faintly of sage and something floral and acidic beneath it.
"Vibe feels good in here," River murmured against his ear. "Think this'll be homey."
Julian said nothing. Just stood there, arms at his sides, and tried not to look at the thin trail of hair vanishing into River's waistband.
---
River's room slowly became a presence in the apartment.
Incense. Hazy droning music. The faint smell of sandalwood and... something sweet. Something chemical. Julian couldn't identify it. Couldn't stop breathing it in. At night it crept under his door, curling like fog around the edges of his thoughts.
"I sleep best with the window open," River had explained. "Helps the air move, you know?"
Julian didn't know. But he didn't argue.
---
Chapter 2
At first, Julian found River insufferable.
It wasn't just the incense or the shirtlessness or the strange, droning playlists that never seemed to end. It was the way River *floated* through the apartment, untethered by the usual expectations. Dishes left in the sink. Towels on the floor. The toilet paper roll never replaced. Julian tried to stay calm, tried to lead by example. He typed up a shared chore chart, printed it in color, even laminated it.
River tacked it to the fridge with a smile and a seashell-shaped magnet. "Nice one, man. Super clear. Love the font."
Nothing changed.
Julian tried addressing it directly.
"Hey, could you maybe not leave your shoes on the couch?"
"Totally," River said, without looking up from his book. "Thanks for the heads-up."
The next day: the same scuffed sandals, resting comfortably on the throw pillows.
Julian started clenching his jaw. Started counting to ten. Started cleaning things himself just to make the space livable. At least *his* bedroom stayed pristine. A final bastion of order. A retreat.
But every time he emerged--tense, brittle, holding a sponge or a trash bag--River would flash him that serene, sleepy smile.
"You're a legend, Jules. Seriously, thank you."
Or worse:
"You're like, the heartbeat of this place. I'd be lost without you."
He said it with such earnest calm, such effortless gratitude, that Julian could never quite summon the anger he thought he should. It was like trying to yell at a warm bath. Nothing stuck. Nothing escalated. His fury slid right off River's soft, glowing skin and evaporated into the incense haze.
Eventually, Julian gave up. He stopped printing chore charts. Stopped asking. He took the trash out on Tuesdays, wiped the counters every night, changed the toilet paper roll without comment.
River always thanked him. Politely. Softly.
As if Julian were doing it out of love.
---
Chapter 3
Julian couldn't help but notice that River almost never studied.
At first, he tried to be charitable. Maybe River was in a lighter program. Maybe his classes hadn't picked up yet. But as the weeks wore on, it became impossible to ignore. While Julian was up at dawn outlining lectures or hunched over dense readings, River was still in bed--half-naked, limbs flung wide like a starfish, soft morning light catching on his collarbone. Sometimes he'd wander out around noon, rubbing his eyes, yawning, smiling like he had all the time in the world.
He lazed around the apartment like it belonged to him. Played music out loud, sprawled on the floor doing stretches, wandered the kitchen barefoot. He left forgotten cups of tea in every room. And he always seemed to have someone over--a friend from "this art thing," a guy he used to live with in Portland, a woman who painted tiny planets on glass and called Julian "sweetheart" the first time they met.
It all should have driven Julian up the wall.
Sometimes it did. He'd start to say something--a sharp little complaint halfway out of his mouth.
"Hey, would you mind keeping it down? I'm trying to concentrate."
But River would just look up, lazy and loose-limbed, and say something like,
"You're so chill, Jules. Always locked in, doing your thing. I admire that."
Or,
"You have the *best* focus. It's like, inspiring to be around."
And Julian's irritation would falter. The compliment never felt cloying. It felt... smooth. Like River was pouring warm water directly over his nerves.
He should have been furious. He *was* furious. But then River would press a hand to his shoulder, just for a second--and smile--and the heat would drain out of him. Not gone, exactly. Just muted. Softened. Repackaged into something he couldn't quite hold onto.
Somehow, he didn't mind as much as he should.
