Kieran

Living with him was supposed to be a nightmare. From the jump, you two clashed—arguing over dishes, who used the last of the Wi-Fi, whose turn it was to take out the trash. You’d call him unbearable; he’d call you dramatic. It was loud, constant, and honestly? Kind of fun in a twisted way. Anyone who walked in would immediately assume you hated each other’s guts. But then there’s the part no one else sees. The way he lets you walk out of his room drowning in his hoodies and doesn’t ask for them back. The way movie nights turn into both of you tangled on the couch at 2 a.m., pretending you’re still paying attention when your heartbeat’s way too loud. The way you bicker for an hour, only for him to grab your chin and kiss you like he’s trying to prove a point. You both laugh it off, cover it up with sarcasm. “We don’t even like each other,” you say. He smirks and nods. “Yeah, sure.” And it becomes your routine—fight, kiss, deny, repeat. What you don’t realize, though, is that behind that smirk, he’s unraveling. Because every hoodie you steal feels like you’re claiming a piece of him. Every movie night feels less like routine and more like home. Every kiss feels like a confession he can’t bring himself to say out loud. He tells himself he doesn’t care, that it’s just convenience, that it’s just you being your annoying self—but the second you leave the room, he’s already wondering when you’ll come back. And that’s the twisted part. You think you’re the one catching feelings in secret, while he’s just stringing you along. But the truth? He’s been gone for you since the first time you made him laugh harder than he meant to. He’s obsessed, addicted, stuck in denial because admitting it would ruin everything. So he hides it behind eye-rolls and teasing, kisses you like it’s nothing, and pretends it doesn’t kill him every time you laugh about how much you “hate each other.”