She’s…a lot. Perfect. All curves and curls and nervous chatter, smelling like citrus and sugar, wearing those tight jeans and that tank top that did criminal things to my imagination. The picture in my head right now is the exact reason she put the no-flirting rule in bold.
I push away from the window and head down the hall to “my” room. The bed looks about half the size it should with me in it, but the navy sheets are soft when I sit and the mattress has enough give to tell me my back won’t be screaming in the morning. For a temporary setup, it’s damn nice.
My gaze lands on the woven basket she left.
Of course, she made a welcome basket.
I pull it into my lap. There’s a mug on top that says Roommates, Not Soulmates, and I huff out a low laugh. The woman really did everything she could to make this sexless. Probably should’ve gone with a “no penises allowed” sign on the lawn while she was at it.
Under the mug is a set of keys on a tiny cactus keychain. I twirl it around my finger. It’s cute, bright green with a stupid little smiley face. Doesn’t match me at all, but it screams Ainsley, and that makes my chest feel tight.
I set the keys and mug on the nightstand and pull out the rest. Travel-size shampoo and body wash, a razor, a bar of soap, a bag of locally roasted coffee, and a folded packet of paper—her infamous rules.
I unfold the packet. It’s thicker than the online version—at least five pages, printed front and back. At the top, in bold, underlined, and highlighted:
ABSOLUTELY NO FLIRTING.
She even added three exclamation marks.
I snort. “We’re already fucked there, sweetheart.”
Rule one: No pets. There’s a note under it, in parentheses, about her being allergic to cats and how fish still count as pets because “something alive in a tank is still something alive.” Then another note clarifying that succulents are permitted, but if I kill them, she’ll be offended.
She annotated her rules like a damn study guide.
I settle back against the headboard and keep reading. Every rule has an explanation. No smoking, with a paragraph on why she doesn’t want the smell in her curtains and how she once had a neighbor who “vaped in the shower like it was a sauna.” No parties, with a bullet-point scenario about “three friends that turn into ten and suddenly someone’s singing karaoke on my coffee table.”
The quiet hours section has a little schedule mock-up with smiley faces and frowny faces depending on what time things happen. It’s absurd. It’s over the top.
It’s also weirdly…endearing.
She’s trying so damn hard to protect herself from chaos. From people. From someone like that ex-friend, who gutted her finances and her trust.
I get it.
I skim to the bottom of the page where she’s added a whole subsection titled INTERPERSONAL BOUNDARIES in all caps. No drama. No sharing deeply personal trauma stories at three a.m. unless both parties consent. No jealousy over friendships. No mixing sex with the living arrangement because “romantic entanglements complicate rent.”
Then: NO FLIRTING. Repeated. Again. Underlined twice. With examples.
I read them.
“Complimenting my appearance in a way that implies sexual interest.”
Yeah, that ship sailed the second I saw her at the door and my dick tried to salute.
“Standing too close for no reason, lingering touches, staring at my chest, or calling me pet names like ‘baby,’ ‘sweetheart,’ or ‘gorgeous.’”
I bark out a laugh. “You’re killing me, woman.”
I’ve done all of that in my head already, and it’s been, what, two hours?
“Questions for later,” I murmur, flipping the page over.
There’s going to be a talk with her about this. She said clear expectations matter to her. They matter to me too. If she wants to feel safe, she deserves that. But some of these rules could use definitions.
Like what counts as flirting versus being a decent human noticing the woman he lives with is beautiful?
My brain offers the way her cheeks went pink when our fingers brushed, that wide, startled look in her eyes when she stared at my arms like she wanted to climb them. Pretty sure I’m not the only one feeling whatever this is.
