My Roommate and I Settle Every Argument in the Bedroom

The first thing I noticed was the cold. Not the damp, seeping chill of a Dublin autumn, but a manufactured, aggressive cold that felt personal. It was the kind of cold that suggested a disregard for human life, or at least for mine. I dropped my keys in the ceramic bowl by the door, the clatter unnervingly loud in the stillness of the flat.

Our flat was less a home and more a jointly occupied territory under a fragile, and frequently violated, ceasefire. Freya’s infractions were numerous and varied in their audacity. There was the persistent issue of the wet towels, which she left in a heap on the bathroom tiles like a shed skin, breeding a specific kind of mildew I was sure was a biohazard. There was her kleptomaniacal relationship with my almond milk, which she claimed to despise but which nonetheless evaporated from the carton between my morning coffees. These were minor border skirmishes, the background radiation of our cohabitation.

The thermostat, however, was the primary theatre of war.

I walked past the bathroom, averting my eyes from the damp bathmat, and straight to the hallway where the small, white box was mounted. The digital display read 16°C. Sixteen. A temperature suitable for storing cadavers or expensive wine, neither of which we kept in the flat. I pressed the up arrow, my thumb jabbing the plastic with satisfying force. 21°C. Civilisation.

I found her in the living room, curled on the sofa under a thick wool blanket, reading a book. She didn’t look up. Her bare feet were tucked beneath her, and the sight of them, pale and small, did nothing to soften the rage solidifying in my chest.

“Freya.”

She turned a page. “What.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s sixteen degrees in here.”

“I was cold,” she said, her eyes still on the book. A statement of fact, offered as if it were a complete and reasonable explanation.

“I’m aware. You’re always cold. That’s what jumpers are for. Not for plunging the entire flat into a cryogenic state and bankrupting me in the process.”

She finally looked at me then, her expression one of profound, weary boredom. As if I were the one being unreasonable. “I pay half the bills, Vlad.”

“Yes, and I’d like to continue being able to afford my half without having to sell a kidney. Do you have any idea what this costs? It’s on for hours, churning out arctic air while you’re swaddled in a duvet. It’s insane.”

“I like it cool when I’m under a blanket.”

“It’s not ‘cool.’ It’s a morgue. There are penguins in the Antarctic huddled together for warmth thinking, ‘Well, at least it’s not Vlad’s gaff.’”

She closed her book with a soft snap. “If you’re going to be hysterical, I’m going to make tea.”

“Don’t you dare use my almond milk.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, swinging her legs onto the floor. “I finished it this morning.”

She said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that for a second my brain couldn’t process the sheer, unmitigated gall. She walked past me towards the kitchen, and I followed, the anger a hot current pulling me in her wake.

“You finished it,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “The ninety-euro case of organic, ethically-sourced, activated almond milk I had shipped from a man named Lars in Sweden, you just… finished it?”

“It was taking up too much space in the fridge,” she said, opening the cupboard and taking out a mug. One of my mugs. The one with the faded penguin print. The irony was not lost on me.

“Space? You want to talk about space? What about your three different types of kimchi fermenting in there? The fridge smells like a Korean funeral. Or the mountain of un-recycled wine bottles by the back door? We look like we’re running a failed speakeasy.”

She spun around, the mug in her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry, is my contribution to the global recycling crisis inconveniencing you? Perhaps if you ever took the bins out yourself, you’d have a say in it! But you’re too busy leaving your disgusting, sweaty gym clothes festering in the hamper for a week until they legally qualify as a new life form.”

“They’re in the hamper! That’s where they go! It’s better than leaving a sodden towel on the floor every single morning like a breadcrumb trail of your own personal filth. Do you think there’s a magical towel fairy that comes and picks them up?”

“It’s one towel!” she shouted, her voice rising to match mine. She started to move past me, heading back down the narrow hallway, probably to the sanctuary of her room. I wasn't having it.

“It’s never one towel! It’s the principle! It’s the total, flagrant disrespect for the fact that another human being has to live here!” I moved to block her path, putting a hand flat against the wall beside her head, my body caging her in the tight space.

And then, silence.

The echo of our shouting seemed to hang in the air for a moment before dissolving. All the momentum, the performative fury, just vanished. She was standing perfectly still, her back almost touching the wall. I hadn’t realized how close I was. I could feel the heat coming off her skin, or maybe it was my own. Her eyes, wide and dark, were fixed on my mouth. She wasn't looking at my eyes. She was looking at my mouth. Her chest rose and fell in a quick, shallow rhythm that had nothing to do with shouting anymore. I could smell her shampoo, something clean and vaguely floral that was completely at odds with the ugliness of the things we’d just said. My hand was still on the wall next to her hair, my knuckles white. The anger was gone, replaced by a thick, heavy awareness that filled the hallway, pressing in on us from all sides. My own breathing was loud in my ears. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Her lips parted slightly. I didn’t think. I closed the small space between us and put my mouth on hers. It wasn’t a kiss. It was an impact. My teeth knocked against hers and she made a noise, a sharp intake of breath that I swallowed. For a second she was stiff, her hands flat against my chest as if to push me away, and then her fingers curled, grabbing fistfuls of my t-shirt. She kissed back with a bruising force that matched my own.

Her tongue was in my mouth, tasting of nothing but her, and my hands left the wall, one tangling in her hair, pulling her head back, the other sliding down her spine to the waistband of her joggers. The argument was still there, a live wire humming between our bodies. I hooked my fingers into the soft fabric and pulled. She broke the kiss to gasp as I shoved the material down her hips. She kicked her legs free of the tangled mess at her ankles, her bare skin cool against my hands.

She was fumbling with the button on my jeans, her knuckles scraping against my stomach. The sound of the zipper was loud, aggressive. I lifted her then, her back pressed hard against the plaster, and her legs wrapped around my waist instinctively. Her hands went to my shoulders, her nails digging in. I pushed two fingers inside her, finding her slick and ready. She gasped my name, the sound a curse, and arched against my hand.

I pulled my fingers out and positioned myself at her entrance. She was so wet. I pushed into her with a single, rough thrust. She cried out, her head falling back against the wall. It wasn’t gentle. It was a frantic, clumsy rhythm against the wall, my hips slamming into hers. All the things we wanted to scream at each other were in the movement, in the way she clawed at my back and the way I gripped the flesh of her arse, holding her pinned to me. I could feel her inner muscles tightening around my cock, pulling me deeper. Her breath came in ragged sobs next to my ear. I felt my own release building, a sharp, blinding pressure. I drove into her one last time, a guttural noise tearing from my throat as I came, and a second later her whole body shuddered against mine, a long, keening cry muffled against my neck.

For a long moment, we just stayed there, plastered against the wall, my cock still inside her. My forehead was pressed to hers, our sweat mingling. I could feel the frantic beat of her heart against my chest. Slowly, I let her slide down my body until her feet touched the floor. She swayed, and I kept my hands on her waist to steady her.

My t-shirt was stretched out at the collar. Her joggers were in a heap by her ankles. My jeans were open, my shirt untucked. The hallway was a wreck. Neither of us spoke. I looked at the scuff mark our shoes had made on the white wall. I looked at the rip in the shoulder of my t-shirt where her fingers had been. I looked at anything but her face. The silence that fell was heavier than the one before, thick with something new and unnameable. I could feel her looking at me, but I couldn’t meet her eyes. I just stared at the floor, breathing.

The next morning, the silence in the flat was absolute. It was a physical presence, thicker and more suffocating than the arguments had ever been. I woke up alone in my bed, the sheets tangled around my legs. The faint, floral scent of her shampoo was on my pillowcase. I turned my face away from it.

We executed a silent, intricate ballet of avoidance. I heard her shower start, so I waited until I heard the door to her room click shut before I went into the bathroom myself. The bathmat was dry and hung neatly over the side of the tub. The sight of it was somehow more unnerving than the usual damp heap on the floor. It was a concession, a white flag, and I didn't know what to do with it.

In the kitchen, I made coffee. Every sound felt amplified in the quiet. The scrape of the spoon against the ceramic mug, the click of the kettle, the gurgle of the water. I drank it standing by the counter, staring out the window at the grey street below. I could hear her moving in her room, the soft thud of a drawer closing. We were like two ghosts haunting the same space, meticulously avoiding any chance of collision. The air was full of the things we weren't saying. The memory of her legs wrapped around my waist, her back against the hallway wall. The feel of her nails on my skin. It was all there, in the space between us, and the silence was making it louder.

By midday, the quiet had curdled into something tense and unbearable. I decided to make myself a proper lunch, something civilized. I went to the fridge, my hand already reaching for the small, paper-wrapped parcel of prosciutto I’d bought from the Italian deli on Saturday. It was ludicrously expensive, a stupid indulgence, but it was mine.

It wasn't there.

I moved the jar of her kimchi, then a carton of eggs. I rummaged behind a block of cheese. Nothing. My eyes scanned the shelves, a cold knot of dread tightening in my stomach. Then I saw it. Tucked into the door compartment, next to a bottle of tonic water, was the empty wrapper. It was folded neatly in half, the greasy paper evidence of the crime.

I picked it up between my thumb and forefinger as if it were contaminated. I walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. She was on the sofa again, in the same spot as yesterday, typing on her laptop. She didn’t look up. The blanket was pooled around her waist.

I stood in the middle of the room for a full ten seconds before speaking. I held the wrapper out in front of me.

“What is this?” I asked. My voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence like a knife.

She glanced up from her screen, her eyes flicking to the wrapper and then back to my face. Her expression was completely neutral.

“It looks like the packaging for some prosciutto,” she said, and then her gaze returned to her laptop.

“I know what it is, Freya. I’m asking why it’s empty. And in the fridge.”

She sighed, a small, put-upon sound, and finally closed the laptop. “I was hungry. I ate it.”

She said it with such finality, such an absolute lack of remorse, that I was momentarily stunned. She had eaten my prosciutto. All of it. And then folded the wrapper and put it back. It was an act of profound psychological warfare.

“You ate it,” I repeated, the words feeling foreign in my mouth. “The entire packet.”

“It wasn’t a very big packet,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “I made a sandwich.”

“A sandwich.” I took a step closer, brandishing the greasy paper like it was a murder weapon and she was the prime suspect. “You don’t just ‘make a sandwich’ with prosciutto that costs forty euro a kilo. That’s not sandwich meat. That’s a special occasion. That’s a treat-yourself-because-you-survived-another-week-of-late-stage-capitalism meat.”

Freya swung her legs off the sofa and stood up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders like a queen addressing a particularly stupid peasant. “Oh, forgive me. I didn’t realise your cured pig fat was a protected heritage item. Was I supposed to submit a formal request in triplicate before consuming it?”

“A simple ‘Hey Vlad, can I eat the food I didn’t pay for?’ would have sufficed!”

“Like you asked before you used the last of my conditioner this morning?” she shot back, her voice rising to match mine. She pointed a finger at me. “The Oribe Gold Lust. Do you have any idea how much that bottle costs? My hair feels like straw now. Straw! All so your hair can be marginally less floppy for a few hours.”

“It’s just shampoo!”

“It’s a restorative masque, you barbarian! And you used a massive handful of it, I can tell. The bottle’s practically empty. That’s sixty euro of hair product you’ve just washed down the drain.”

We were shouting again. It was almost comfortable, the familiar rhythm of our indignation. But something was different today. Yesterday’s anger had been raw and chaotic. This felt… rehearsed. A performance for an audience of two.

As she listed my crimes against her expensive toiletries, I watched her face. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright, but it wasn't with pure rage. There was something else there, behind the performance. A glint. A dark, knowing flicker of amusement that hadn't been there during the thermostat war. The corner of her mouth twitched, a barely suppressed smile. She was enjoying this.

She took a step closer, closing the distance between us until she had to tilt her head back to look at me. The blanket dropped from her shoulders to the floor. She was wearing a thin tank top and the same joggers from yesterday.

“You’re a selfish prick, Vlad,” she said, her voice dropping from a shout to a low, challenging murmur. “You take my food, you use my things, you leave your wet towels everywhere.”

“You started it,” I said, my own voice quiet now. The air in the room had changed again, charged with the same energy as the hallway. Anticipation.

“And I’m finishing it,” she said.

Then she shoved me. Not hard. Her palms landed flat against my chest, a firm, deliberate push that made me take a single step back. It wasn’t a gesture of anger. It was an invitation. A question. Her hands stayed on my chest, her fingers warm through the fabric of my t-shirt. Her eyes were locked on mine, and the glint was unmistakable now. It was daring me.

And I understood. This was the new protocol. The prosciutto, the conditioner, the shouting—it was all just a preamble. A ritual we had to perform to get to the real point. This was how we resolved conflict now.

My hands came up and closed around her wrists. Her skin was warm. I held her there, her palms still flat against my chest.

“Is that what you’re doing?” I asked. My voice was low. “Finishing it?”

A slow smile spread across her face. It was the most honest expression I had seen from her all day. “Try and stop me.”

I didn’t let go of her wrists. I just started walking forward, forcing her to walk backwards. Her eyes widened for a second, a flash of genuine surprise, before the smile returned, sharper this time. She stumbled back out of the living room, across the small threshold and into the kitchen. I didn't stop until the edge of the kitchen counter pressed into the small of her back. The empty prosciutto wrapper was still on the counter beside her, a silent witness.

“You’re a real piece of work,” I said, my mouth close to her ear. I could smell the scent of her hair, the conditioner I’d used.

“Takes one to know one, you prosciutto-hoarding bastard,” she breathed back, her head tilting to give me better access to her neck.

My hands left her wrists and went to her waist. Without another word, I lifted her. She made a small, surprised sound as her feet left the floor. I sat her on the cold laminate countertop. Her knees were on either side of my hips. The argument was over. The shouting had served its purpose.

“You’re going to pay for that conditioner,” she murmured, her fingers tangling in the hair at the back of my neck.

“Put it on my tab,” I said. I fumbled with the drawstring of her joggers, pulling the knot loose. She lifted her hips to help me as I pushed the soft fabric down, bunching it around her thighs. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. I wasn’t surprised. I undid the button on my own jeans, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet kitchen. I pushed them down just far enough.

I positioned myself between her legs and she wrapped them around my waist immediately, her ankles locking behind my back. She was already wet. I slid a hand between her legs, my fingers finding her opening. She gasped, her hips pushing forward into my touch. I didn't wait. I pushed inside her in one smooth, deliberate motion. Her head fell back, and a long, low moan escaped her lips.

This time was different. It wasn’t the desperate, frantic collision in the hallway. This was intentional. Every push of my hips was a retort, every time her nails dug into my shoulders was a counter-argument. I gripped the edge of the counter on either side of her, my knuckles white, and drove into her. The rhythm was hard and fast, a frantic punishment that we were both enjoying. A jar of olives rattled on the counter. A loaf of bread slid to the floor. She was panting my name, a broken, breathless litany. I felt her body tense around me, her inner muscles clenching. I came with a choked-off groan, my forehead falling forward to rest against hers. She cried out a second later, her body shuddering, her legs tightening around my waist like a vise.

We stayed like that for a moment, my cock still deep inside her, both of us panting. My arms were trembling. I could feel the rapid pulse in her neck against my lips. Then, her legs loosened. I started to pull back, but she kept a hand tangled in my t-shirt. I lost my balance, my weight shifting. She slid off the counter with me, and we tumbled sideways in a clumsy, tangled heap onto the linoleum floor.

I landed half on top of her, cushioned by the blanket she’d dropped earlier. A stray slice of tomato, intended for her criminal sandwich, was squashed an inch from my face. I looked at it, then at the scattered bread, then at Freya. Her hair was a mess, her face was flushed, and a smear of something—probably tomato juice—was on her cheek.

A snort of laughter escaped me. It was an ugly, involuntary sound. Her eyes, wide and dazed, focused on my face. A smile flickered on her lips. Then she started to laugh too. Not a small giggle, but a full, uninhibited, hysterical laugh. It was contagious. I collapsed onto the floor beside her, and we lay there, on the cold linoleum, surrounded by the wreckage of our lunch, laughing until our sides ached.