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I leave what feels like minutes of dead air, just ruminating. Then I dare to reset, and steal another glance into the living room. The house guest has got changed into a pair of jogging bottoms and a tight black t-shirt. It’s mesmerising watching him. He’s standing upright, doing some kind of ritual. His eyes closed, he brings his open palms up to his midsection out in front of him like he’s lifting a weightless box while he breathes in with his nose. Then he closes his fist in stages, folding a set of knuckles at a time, before full fist and eventually full body tension like he’s using a cable-weight machine at the gym, pursing his lips as he pushes air out of his body. Until his fists are down by his waist completely tensed, like he’s posing almost. And then he completely relaxes, and repeats. On the final repetition instead of tensing and pulling down, he blows his air out more gently and does a kind of double hand push. Then he shakes his hands out, opens his eyes and walks to the sofa where the bag of goodies has been left.

He’s got a bag of paperbacks, they’re all soldiers’ autobiographies and that type of stuff. With front and titles like “Under Fire - my time serving in…” with a sigh of frustration he takes the carrier bag and walks straight past me to the bin and drops them straight in with one under-breathed word “Walter”.

I can’t help myself, I burst straight in “What’s wrong with those books? What’s ‘Walter’ mean? They looked interesting, what if I wanted to read them?!”

“Walter Mitty - stolen valour. You’re not reading them” with his hand still placed on the metal bin lid. The fuck does he mean I’m not reading them? That’s pissed me off, actually.

“I’m sorry, since when did you get to decide that? In the housemate hierarchy here I’m not sure you get to dictate what I read” I fire indignantly, but his eyes alight, I immediately back pedal as quickly as possible, with the only tool I have. Ridiculous humour “I mean what is this Gilead’s lending library…? No… Fahrenheit 451..? Don’t you like women who can read?” the last one lights something in him though, the sheer force of his rage takes the air out of my lungs before he touches me. He just walks towards me with menace, when I eventually back myself into the wall he puts a hand on either side of my head, encaging me with his body.

“In some places, people die for women’s right to read. The people who know the stories, don’t share” my neck cranes to look up at him, his dark eyes unblinking. The moisture from his warm breath almost palpable. He maintains his intense stare as I cower in his presence.

I stand there, equal parts terrified and seduced by his sheer foreboding power, my knees as shaky as my breath. I swallow hard and he just maintains the stare. I need the world to swallow me, why is he so fucking intense. Intensely horrifyingly scary yet my body betrays me again, I turn my head to the side and try to hide, tucking my chin to my collarbone. Whilst squeezing my legs together at the same time. His face softens and he gradually pushes himself from the wall, and takes a step back. I stay braced for impact.

Eventually I look up at him, a safe distance away now. My body still flooded with the fear and anticipation. It knows to expect something awful now.

His voice, intentionally softer now, almost gently cracks the silence.

“I don’t punch things when something bothers me” and he takes a seat at the dining table, visibly controlling his breathing once more.

“Are you okay…?” I venture, with no response I decide to press on “… do you want to talk about it?”

“No” and it sends me straight off the edge, I’m so fried I lose any emotional control I had

“Fine. Don’t talk about it. Or talk to me, for that matter, not that you fucking do anyway. You’re rude, do you know that? I’ve accommodated you, I’ve cleaned you, gave you my bed, and my spliff! Burned your clothes - and you won’t even tell me your fucking name. I don’t even know how long we’re going to be stuck here together and you won’t even talk to me. You’re… you’re being so… urrgh” and I let out a desperately frustrated squeak “… you’re such a… big bastard! Have I offended you or something, like what the fucking fuck, man?!” practically stomping my feet by the end, and I drop myself down onto a dining chair at the table with him.

He takes a deep breath and seems to contemplate for a brain-itching amount of time before he responds.

“You have not offended me. You did not offer me sanctuary, you were obliged. We are hostages, not housemates. You followed instructions. I stole your bed, and your spliff… and your bacon. You did not give them to me. The shower…” he pauses because he knows my ears have perked up, a half-smile and he ends with “you enjoyed more than I did”

I go tomato red, instantly. I stutter and stumble over syllables. He noticed. And it just reminds me of the awkward bit. Sure, awkward, tell yourself that Sawyer, you horndog!

“And yet, the man who nearly bludgeoned me with his penis twelve hours ago… has still not shared his name…” I quip back, almost without thinking. It’s just a natural reflex at this point.

“Your take away from all of this is my knob and my name” he raises his eyebrows at me, mockingly almost smiling before continuing “Nik. My name is Nik”

“Do you really think we’re hostages?” I ask before I’ve really stopped to think. But his comment kind of stuck a stick in my spokes and stopped my wheels from turning.

“Yes. Physically we could leave. But practically?” my stomach drops. Because he’s so on the money.

“Well, we might as well make this ordeal as smooth as possible” I start, sarcastically emphasising ordeal, which gets me another eyebrow raise “because obviously sharing a house with me, and being in my company is clearly torturous” I try to mock back

“Occasionally” deadpan. Prick. I can’t even tell if he’s joking.

“How about some hostage-house rules?” I suggest. He agrees with a nod. I begin with “Whoever cooks, cooks for both of us. It’s considered polite. Whoever doesn’t cook, cleans. Fair?”

“Agreed”

“Your turn…” I offer

“Three meals a day. Plus four snacks. Munchies don’t count, and they have to include protein, proper protein. If you can’t cook, I will”

Incensed. I can cook! Why would he think I can’t cook? I catch myself and breathe through the insult.

“I can cook. But agreed, sounds reasonable. Split custody on the TV, I don’t want you sitting there all day watching football, then the highlights, then people talking about the football”

With an eyebrow raised he states, matter-of-factly “I don’t like football” he must sense my shocked disbelief “I prefer ice hockey” he shrugs and I must look confused at that “I respect a sport where the correct response to misbehaviour is to punch them in the face” he offers before he agrees to the rule.

“Next rule. No questions. We’re not besties or therapists” well that was dramatic, but it makes sense. Even if it frustrates the very core of my soul. I nod in agreement.