"So this is your place? It's... cozy." The word drips with condescension. He wanders further in, uninvited, his gaze landing on her studio corner where several canvases are stacked against the wall. "Wow, you really weren't kidding about the whole artist thing. This is like, a lot of mess."
Chantel's face flushes, her shoulders hunch slightly in that defensive posture she takes when she is hurt but trying not to show it. "I'm actually between projects right now, so it's more chaotic than usual?—"
"No, no, it's cool, it's very... authentic." Derek picks up one of her brushes, examining it with the detached curiosity of someone looking at a mildly interesting insect. "My ex was super into art too. Never made any money from it though. Is this likea hobby thing, or are you actually trying to make a career out of it?"
The careful, meticulous control I have been maintaining with such deliberate precision, the same iron discipline that has carried me through decades of restraint, of measured movements and calculated words, snaps cleanly in half like a twig crushed beneath an immovable weight. It fractures somewhere deep , a sharp, decisive break that feels almost audible, and I feel something primal and possessive surge through my veins in its place.
I step out of the hallway shadows, moving with deliberate silence until I am standing directly behind Derek. I cross my arms over my chest, letting my full height and breadth fill his peripheral vision.
"Chantel's work has been featured in three gallery showings this year," I say, my voice a low, even rumble that makes Derek spin around so fast he nearly drops the brush. "She has also completed two commissioned pieces in the last month alone, which suggests her career is progressing adequately."
Derek goes pale, his eyes traveling up, and up, and further up until he is craning his neck back to meet my gaze. He takes a step backward, nearly stumbling over his own feet.
"Holy shit," he breathes, and all the artificial smoothness has drained from his voice. "What the—who?—"
"I am Faugh," I inform him, not moving, not blinking. "Chantel's roommate."
5
CHANTEL
The door slams so hard the hinges rattle, and I stand there in my carefully chosen outfit, the one I actually ironed for once, the one that made me feel cute and put-together and like maybe I had my life even slightly under control—staring at the empty hallway where Derek just sprinted like someone lit his ass on fire.
I whirl around, and Faugh is still standing there in the exact same spot, arms crossed, expression completely neutral, like he didn't just physically manifest every nightmare a guy with an overinflated ego has ever had about meeting a girlfriend's massive, disapproving roommate.
"What the hell was that?" My voice comes out shrill, climbing higher with each word as my hands ball into frustrated fists at my sides. "What the actual hell, Faugh? I mean, seriously, that was, he just, did you see how fast he moved? I've never seen anyone move that fast unless there was a fire alarm involved!"
He blinks once, slow and deliberate, his heavy brows remaining perfectly still above those sharp, unwavering eyes. When he finally speaks, his voice is that same infuriatingly calm bass that somehow makes everything sound like a statement ofabsolute fact. "That was Derek leaving. Quite rapidly, I might add."
"I know he left! I watched him leave! He practically teleported down the hallway!" I throw my hands up, my bag sliding off my shoulder and hitting the floor with a thud I don't bother to acknowledge. "You scared him off! You just—you stood there doing your whole terrifying Orc thing and he ran!"
"I did not threaten him." Faugh's voice remains maddeningly calm, that deep rumble that vibrates through the floorboards. "I merely corrected his factually inaccurate assessment of your professional accomplishments."
"You loomed!" I'm pacing now, my heels clicking angrily against the hardwood he polished to a mirror shine last Tuesday. "You loomed in the shadows like some kind of—of—gothic horror novel henchman and then you talked about my gallery showings like you were delivering a eulogy!"
"I was providing accurate information."
"You were being intimidating on purpose!" I spin to face him, jabbing a finger in his direction even though the gesture feels absurd given that I have to tilt my head back just to make eye contact. "You stood there with your arms crossed doing the whole silent, judgy, bouncer stance, and you know exactly how terrifying that is because that was literally your job!"
Something flickers across his expression, a flash of something unreadable that crosses his broad features like a shadow passing over stone, and then vanishes just as quickly. "The man was structurally unsound," he says, with that infuriatingly measured cadence, as though he's simply stating an objective fact rather than critiquing my dating choices.
I blink at him, my mouth opening and closing like a confused fish. "Structurally," I repeat, drawing the word out slowly. "What does that even mean? Like, did he have bad postureor something? Because honestly, that's a weird thing to—to weaponize against someone!"
"It means," Faugh says, his tone taking on that particular quality of deliberate patience that makes me want to throw something, "that his character possessed significant foundational flaws. His conversational approach was dismissive and condescending. He insulted your work within thirty seconds of entering your home. He picked up your tools without permission. These are indicators of profound disrespect."
"That's not—" I start, but the words catch because he's not wrong, exactly, and that makes it worse somehow. "I can handle my own dates, Faugh. I don't need you vetting them like some kind of medieval father figure checking a suitor's credentials!"
"I was not vetting him." He shifts his weight slightly, and even that small movement seems enormous, makes me hyper-aware of how much space he takes up in the room. "I was merely present."
"You were strategically present!" I insist, my hands gesturing wildly in that way they always do when I'm worked up. "You positioned yourself right there by the kitchen counter, hovering like some kind of enormous, jade-colored guardian angel! You were lurking!"
Faugh turns to face me more fully, and there's something in the set of his broad shoulders that suggests he's about to deploy one of his infuriatingly calm rebuttals. "I do not lurk," he says with absolute, deadpan certainty. "I exist in my own home. The fact that my presence happened to coincide with your guest's visit is coincidental."
"You absolutely lurk! You lurk constantly! You lurked in the kitchen for twenty minutes yesterday while I was on the phone with my mom!" My voice is getting higher, more frantic, because I can feel my carefully constructed evening disintegrating around me and I'm taking it out on him even though a traitorouspart of my brain is whispering that Derek was kind of a condescending asshole. "I'm twenty-six years old, I can make my own decisions about who I go out with, and I don't need my roommate, who I've known for exactly one week, deciding who's worthy of my time!"
Faugh's jaw tightens visibly, the muscle beneath his slate-green skin jumping in that telltale way that means he's genuinely angry, or as angry as someone like him ever allows himself to appear. His heavy brows lower slightly, and his deep voice drops even further, taking on that particular gravitas that makes it sound like he's delivering a verdict from on high. "You deserve considerably better than a man who treats your genuine passion, your life's work, as nothing more than a frivolous hobby to be tolerated and indulged," he says, each word deliberately measured and precise. "That alone disqualified him before I ever positioned myself in the kitchen."
The words hit differently than I expect them to, landing somewhere with unexpected weight. I open my mouth, close it again, and then the anger surges back because I don't know what to do with the confusing tangle of emotions his statement creates.
