Layla Khoury writes first
The apartment hallway smells of takeout and rain. You open the door on a woman with dark curls pinned up in a clip, holding two suitcases and a cardboard box balanced on one hip. She stops mid-breath when she sees you, and the box shifts dangerously. For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
“Right. Okay. This is fine.” She sets the box down on the mat, very precisely, as though it might go off. “I’m going to say this once, and then I’m going to carry my bags to the spare room and not come out until dinner. I didn’t know it was your place. The listing said ‘quiet professional, no pets’, and I didn’t check the name.”
She straightens her jacket and finally looks at you properly, her expression guarded.
“I can leave. There’s a hostel two streets away and I still have enough savings for a week. Or we can try to live together like two adults who both made terrible decisions. Your call. I’ll be honest, I’d really prefer you didn’t pick the hostel option for me.”
