He moved past me. His shoulder almost brushed mine in the narrow space. The door to his chosen room opened and closed. I was alone.
I stood in the silent living area, taking it in. Faded off-white paint, scuffed where furniture had been dragged. A single window onto the street below, the glass smudged with city residue.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Probably my mother, wanting to know why I hadn't called to explain my sudden change of address. I ignored it.
I pushed open the other bedroom door instead.
A single bed with a thin mattress. A metal desk with a metal chair. A closet barely wide enough for half my wardrobe. The functional minimalism of departmental housing.
This was my punishment. This sterile box. The thin walls. The silent man on the other side of them.
I sat on the edge of the bed. It dipped under my weight. I stared at the blank wall. For the first time since the transfer, the reality of my situation hit me like a physical blow.
I was trapped.
When I stepped back into the hallway, Hawley was moving methodically through the apartment. Checking windows. Opening cabinets. Testing faucets. Precise, economical movements. No wasted energy. Like he was securing a crime scene rather than inspecting his new home. A reluctant flash ofprofessional respect went through me. He might be cold as ice, but he was thorough.
I tried the living room window. It stuck halfway, the frame groaning in protest.
"Great," I muttered, jiggling the handle. "Even the air is rationed in this place."
Hawley didn't acknowledge me. He was in the kitchen now. Turning the knobs on the stove. Watching the burner glow red, then go dark again.
I left the window and wandered into the bathroom. Off-white tile. Hospital green. Mildew creeping along the grout lines. The shower looked like it had been designed for someone half Hawley's size, which meant it would be cramped even for me. A single towel bar hung crookedly on the wall.
When I came out, Hawley was standing in the hallway between our rooms, his hand on one of the doorknobs.
"Bedroom doors don't lock." He turned the knob back and forth to demonstrate. Something in his tone, not quite annoyance, not quite resignation, suggested he saw this as deliberate. Another carefully designed element of our punishment.
I glanced across at his identical space. Wondered which was worse. The apartment's emptiness, or the man I'd be sharing it with.
"At least they gave us separate rooms," I said, trying for humor. A peace offering of sorts.
His gaze flicked to mine. Cold. Unreadable. For a moment I thought he might actually answer. Instead, he turned away and disappeared into his room.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
I retreated to my own space and sat on the edge of the bed again. Through the thin wall I could hear him moving around. The creak of his mattress. The soft thud of what might have beenshoes. Every sound amplified. Every movement tracked by the floorboards.
There would be no privacy here. No escape from each other.
The smell of instant noodles drifted under my door. Hawley must have found something in the kitchen cabinets. My stomach growled in response. The thought of sitting across from him at that small table was too much.
I'd eat later. After he was done.
I unpacked my toiletries. Lined them up on the bathroom counter. Cleanser, toner, moisturizer in a neat row. A small claim to territory. A tiny piece of myself inserted into this space. When I came back out, Hawley was sitting at the table. A steaming bowl in front of him. He was scrolling through his phone.
He didn't look up.
I lay on the bed for another twenty minutes, listening to him eat. My stomach growled again, louder this time. This was ridiculous. I couldn't avoid him forever.
I took a breath, pushed myself off the mattress, and stepped back into the hallway. Hawley was still at the table. The bowl was empty now, pushed aside. He was still scrolling. He didn't look up when I entered.
"So," I said, forcing brightness into my voice. "We should probably figure out some basics. Food. Cleaning supplies. That sort of thing." I moved toward the kitchen, opening cabinets at random. "There's not much in here. Did they stock anything besides instant noodles?"
No answer. His eyes stayed on his phone.
"I'm thinking we could split grocery duties." I pressed on. "Maybe alternate weeks. Or each buy our own stuff. There's a 7-Eleven on the corner. I passed it on the way in. I'm not picky, but I do need decent coffee in the morning. Can't function without it." I turned toward him. "What about you? Any preferences?"
