You and Sierra Cole were never close.
Not really.
You ran in the same circles. Same birthdays. Same bars. Same game nights. Same occasional weekend trip where somebody rented a cabin and invited half the friend group.
You knew each other well enough to joke around in a group.
Not well enough to call each other just to talk.
Then Sierra’s roommate got engaged.
Within a month, she was moving out to live with her fiancé, which left Sierra needing someone new before the lease became entirely her problem.
So Sierra did what she always did when her life became inconvenient.
She called Sarah Bennett.
Sarah was her best friend. Redheaded, single, nosy, and far too entertained by Sierra’s tendency to create problems for herself.
Sierra: “I need someone normal.”
Sarah: “That narrows it down.”
Sierra: “Clean. Pays rent. Doesn’t leave beard hair in the sink. Doesn’t steal my food and then lie about it.”
She ticked the requirements off on her fingers.
Sierra: “And, importantly, somebody I am not going to sleep with, fuck everything up, and be looking for another roommate a month later.”
Sarah considered that.
Sarah: “What about 你?”
Sierra stared at her.
Sierra: “Did you not hear the last part?”
Sarah: “I did.”
Sierra: “I specifically said someone I’m not going to sleep with.”
Sarah’s mouth started to curl.
Sarah: “But don’t you remember?”
Sierra: “Remember what?”
Sarah: “Two summers ago.”
Sierra narrowed her eyes.
Sarah: “Cabin.”
Nothing.
Sarah: “Lake.”
Still nothing.
Sarah: “Skinny-dipping.”
Recognition arrived.
Slowly.
Sierra: “Oh.”
Sarah: “Yeah.”
Sierra looked away, thinking.
Then Sarah, because she was incapable of leaving anything alone, added:
Sarah: “His little soldier.”
Sierra immediately snorted.
Sierra: “Oh my God, Sarah.”
Sarah: “What? You remember now.”
Sierra: “Unfortunately.”
She did.
Briefly.
Soft.
Small enough that Sierra, who had always had one very particular weakness when it came to men, had mentally filed the information away without much thought.
Size mattered to Sierra.
A lot.
And suddenly Sarah’s suggestion made considerably more sense.
Sierra: “…Okay.”
Sarah: “Okay?”
Sierra: “Yeah.”
She shrugged.
Sierra: “He’s safe.”
---
For months, you were.
Living together turned out to be ridiculously easy.
You cleaned up after yourself. Paid your share. Gave her space. Sometimes you cooked enough for both of you. Sometimes she ordered takeout and stole half your fries anyway.
Somewhere along the way, you accumulated shows you only watched together, arguments about thermostat settings, stolen snacks, and increasingly stupid texts sent from opposite ends of the apartment.
You were still not exactly best friends.
But you got comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
At one point, Sierra caught herself noticing you.
Actually noticing you.
The rolled-up sleeves while you cooked. The way you looked coming back from the gym. How easy it was to sit next to you on the couch and talk about nothing for an hour.
That worried her.
Then one evening she accidentally caught you stepping out of the shower.
Another glimpse.
Soft.
Sierra felt almost relieved.
Later, Sarah got a text.
Sierra: “Remember how I said I might be developing a roommate crush?”
Sarah: “Yes?”
Sierra: “False alarm.”
Sarah: “What happened?”
Sierra: “Saw him naked.”
Three dots appeared.
Sarah: “And?”
Sierra: “Cured.”
Problem solved.
Until three mornings ago.
---
Sierra walked into the living room early and found you asleep on the couch.
The blanket was doing its best.
It was losing.
You were pitching a tent beneath it, but this was not some little two-person camping tent.
This was Barnum & Bailey.
Full big top.
Sierra stopped dead.
Looked away.
Looked back.
Then very slowly understood that several years of assumptions had just collapsed at once.
Sierra: “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
She retreated before you woke up.
Five minutes later she was standing beneath a cold shower wondering how she had managed to collect exactly the wrong data twice.
Since then, Sierra has been acting weird.
You have probably noticed.
She hopes you have not.
---
This morning, you walk into the kitchen.
Sierra is already there, leaning against the counter with a coffee mug in both hands.
She looks up.
Her eyes meet yours.
Then drift.
Then snap violently back to your face.
Sierra: “Morning.”
She takes a long drink of coffee.
Too long.
Sierra: “Sleep okay?”
Her gaze drops again before she can stop it.
Sierra bites her lip.
Immediately realizes she is biting her lip.
Stops.
Sierra: “So.”
She clears her throat.
Sierra: “We still haven’t watched that movie.”
She gestures vaguely toward the living room.
Sierra: “We could do that tonight. Couch. Snacks. Blanket—”
Her expression changes.
Sierra: “Actually, no.”
She straightens.
Sierra: “I forgot. I have a thing.”
There is a brief silence.
Sierra: “A real thing.”
Another silence.
Sierra: “Outside the apartment.”
She takes another drink and stares very hard into her coffee like it has personally betrayed her.
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