Bbsha

SKYLAR

Chris's apartment is a twenty minute walk that does nothing to cool my rage. Each step feels like it's stoking the fire burning in my chest. By the time I'm pounding on his door, my knuckles are white and my jaw aches from clenching so hard I'm surprised my teeth haven't cracked.

"Skylar?" Chris opens the door looking genuinely surprised, his hair messy like he just woke up from a nap, wearing old basketball shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt. "What are you doing here?"

"Where's April?" I push past him into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. It's bigger than mine—than mine and that intruder's—but messier, with textbooks scattered across the coffee table like confetti and empty energy drink cans lined up on the counter in some kind of caffeine monument.

Chris closes the door, confusion written across his face as he blinks away the remnants of sleep. "I haven't seen her since yesterday. I thought she was with you, studying or something."

I spin to face him, my bag sliding off my shoulder and hitting the floor with a thud I barely register. "Chris, she needs to stop this stupid hide and seek game because she sold her portion of our lease to Liam fucking Harrington without telling me, and now I'm stuck living with him, and she won't answer my calls. Any of them. I've tried twelve times."

Understanding dawns on Chris's face like a slow sunrise, followed quickly by guilt that confirms every suspicion I had. He knew. He fucking knew.

"Oh. Shit." He runs a hand through his already messy hair, making it stick up at odd angles. "Sit down. Let me explain." Chris gestures to his couch, but I remain standing, my arms crossed so tightly across my chest it's almost hard to breathe.

"I'm not sitting until I get answers. What did she tell you? How long have you known about this?" My voice is climbing in pitch despite my best efforts to stay calm.

"She isn't in danger if that's what you're worried about," he says quickly. "We spoke just a few minutes before you came. She's at her parents' place for the week, helping them with some stuff."

"That's not what I asked!" I'm practically shouting now. "Did you know she was selling to Liam? Did you help her do this?"

He shifts his weight uncomfortably, won't quite meet my eyes. "Look, I knew she was trying to find someone to take over her portion. And yeah, I might have mentioned to Liam that there was a spot opening up when he said he needed a place closer to campus."

"You WHAT?" The betrayal hits like a physical blow. "You set this up?"

"I didn't set anything up! I just... connected two people who had compatible needs." He's defensive now, finally meeting my gaze. "I don't know the details of how they finalized everything. April handled all of that. I was just the middleman who made an introduction."

"Just the middleman," I repeat flatly. "Chris, you knew I lived there. You knew April was my best friend, my only real friend at this school. And you helped her go behind my back to sell my home to someone without even warning me?"

"She promised she would tell you!" His voice rises to match mine. "She swore she was going to have a conversation with you before anything was finalized. I told her she needed to talk to you first—"

"Well, she didn't!" I cut him off, my hands gesturing wildly now. "She just disappeared and left me to deal with the fallout. Left me to come home and find Liam Carter directing movers in MY apartment like he owns the place. Some best friend she turned out to be."

Chris moves closer, his expression softening in that way that usually makes me feel better but right now just makes me angrier. "Hey, I get that you're upset. You have every right to be. But Skylar, April was in a tough spot. She and I wanted to move in together, and she was locked into that lease—"

"So her solution was to throw me under the bus?" My voice cracks embarrassingly. "To sell me out to the one person on campus who represents everything I hate about this place?"

"Liam's not that bad," Chris offers weakly. "He's actually a decent guy when you get to know him."

I laugh, but there's no humor in it, just bitterness and exhaustion. "You're defending him? Really? The guy who just bought his way into my life like I'm some kind of real estate transaction?"

"I'm not defending what happened. I'm just saying—" Chris reaches out like he's going to touch my shoulder, then thinks better of it. "Look, if it's really that bad, you can stay here. I have a pullout couch. It's not the most comfortable thing in the world, but you're welcome to it until you figure something else out."

The offer is so tempting I almost say yes immediately. The thought of getting away from Liam, from his smug smile and expensive furniture and the way he's invaded my carefully constructed space, is almost overwhelming. I could pack a bag tonight, crash here, figure out my next move without him watching my every reaction with those infuriatingly observant blue eyes.

But even as I'm considering it, I can feel my pride—stubborn, unyielding, sometimes inconvenient pride—rising up in my chest like a wall.

I shake my head firmly, even though part of me is screaming that I'm an idiot. "No. I'm not running away. That's exactly what he'd want—to have the whole apartment to himself, spread out even more, probably throw parties every night without me there to enforce any rules."

"Are you sure?" Chris looks genuinely concerned now, his eyebrows drawn together. "The offer stands, seriously. You can stay as long as you need. A week, a month, whatever. No pressure."

"I appreciate it, I do." And I mean it, despite my anger at him for his role in this mess. "But I can't let that asshole think he won. Can't let him drive me out of my own home just because he has more money than sense."

"You're one of the most stubborn people I know," Chris says, but there's a hint of admiration in his voice. "But maybe being stubborn isn't the answer here? Maybe you could just... try to get along with him? Make the best of a bad situation?"

I stare at him incredulously. "Get along with him? Chris, he ambushed me. Went behind my back. Used his money to force his way into my life without giving me any say in the matter. And you think I should just smile and play nice?"

"I think you're both stuck in this situation whether you like it or not. And making each other miserable for six months sounds exhausting." He sits down on his couch, looking up at me with that earnest expression that probably works on April. "Liam's not a bad guy, Skylar. Yeah, he comes from money. Yeah, he can be cocky about it sometimes. But he's not malicious. He doesn't go out of his way to hurt people."

"You're still defending him," I say quietly, and now I'm hurt on top of angry. "Even after everything I just told you."

"I'm trying to give you perspective!" Chris stands up again, frustrated. "You're stuck with him for at least six months, probably longer. You can either fight him every step of the way and make yourself miserable, or you can try to find some kind of middle ground. Some way to coexist that doesn't involve constant warfare."

He sounds just like Liam did earlier—that same reasonable, logical tone that makes perfect sense on paper but completely ignores how violated I feel. How powerless.

"Whose side are you on?" The question comes out smaller than I intended, almost vulnerable.

"Yours. Always yours." Chris's expression is completely earnest now, and I want to believe him. "But I'm also trying to help you see that this doesn't have to be the end of the world. It's not ideal, but it's not catastrophic either. Liam's got his faults, but he's not some monster who's going to make your life hell. If anything, having a roommate who can actually afford his half of the rent on time might be... I don't know, a relief?"

"A relief," I repeat, tasting the word like it's foreign. "You think having my autonomy stripped away is a relief because at least he can pay rent?"

"That's not what I meant—" Chris tries to backtrack, but I'm already moving toward the door.

"I should go." I grab my bag from where it fell, slinging it over my shoulder with more force than necessary. "Thanks for the offer of the couch. And tell April the next time she calls that she's a fucking snake who sold out her best friend for a boyfriend and a bigger apartment."

"Skylar, wait—" Chris calls after me, but I'm already out the door, letting it close harder than necessary behind me.

The hallway of his apartment building is dim and smells vaguely of someone's cooking—something with curry, making my stomach growl and reminding me I haven't eaten since my sad breakfast of store-brand yogurt and an apple.

The walk back to the apartment—I can't think of it as home anymore, not really—feels longer than the walk to Chris's place. Every step is weighted with dread, my feet heavy like I'm walking through mud. What am I walking back to? What fresh hell has Liam created in my absence? More furniture? More evidence of his casual wealth? Maybe he's hired an interior designer to completely redo the place in whatever style rich people prefer this season.

My mind is spiraling with worst-case scenarios by the time I reach our building. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the extra time to compose myself, to build up the walls I'll need to get through the evening without completely breaking down.

But when I use my key and push open the door, the apartment is quiet. Almost eerily so. The TV is off. Liam's door is closed, just a thin line of light visible underneath. The only sound is the faint hum of the refrigerator and distant music—classical, I realize with surprise. Something with piano that actually sounds... nice.

There are two pizza boxes on the counter, steam still rising from them slightly, which means they're recent. Fresh. My stomach growls loudly enough that I'm glad no one's around to hear it.

Next to the boxes is a note in now-familiar handwriting—neat, precise, probably the result of expensive private school education:

*Didn't know what you liked, so I got both. Help yourself. —L*

I stare at the note for a long moment, then at the pizza boxes. One is labeled "Supreme" in marker—probably his. The other says "Veggie Deluxe." Which is my second-favorite order from that place, from Sal's on Fifth, the little family-owned pizzeria that April and I discovered freshman year during a late-night study session.

How does he know that? How does Liam Carter, who's been my roommate for less than 24 hours, know my pizza order?

My stomach growls again, betraying me. I haven't eaten since breakfast—that sad yogurt and apple that seems like it happened days ago instead of this morning. The smell of melted cheese and garlic and fresh basil is intoxicating, making my mouth water despite my determination to remain hostile.

"Damn it," I mutter under my breath, moving toward the boxes.

I open the veggie deluxe and the smell intensifies. It's still warm, cheese perfectly melted, vegetables roasted just right. My favorite.

I take a slice, telling myself it's not giving in. It's just being practical. The pizza is here, I'm hungry, wasting food is irresponsible. This doesn't mean anything.

From behind Liam's closed door, I can hear the music more clearly now—definitely classical. Piano with strings, something melancholy and beautiful. Something I wouldn't have expected from the cocky guy who showed up with professional movers and designer furniture.

I eat my pizza standing at the counter, my body too tense to sit, trying not to think about how perfectly seasoned it is. How the crust is exactly the right amount of crispy. How this simple gesture of buying pizza—my pizza—feels more thoughtful than it should.

I'm reaching for a second slice when I catch sight of the living room again. The expensive leather couch that probably cost more than my car. The massive TV that turns the modest space into something from a home design magazine. The bar cart in the corner stocked with liquor brands I recognize from magazine ads but could never afford to taste.

Everything screams money. Privilege. A life so different from mine that we might as well be from different planets.

And yet he bought me veggie deluxe pizza. Somehow knew it was my favorite without asking.

I finish my second slice and carefully close the box, storing it in my section of the fridge—the shelves I'll need to label tomorrow, along with everything else that needs organizing to maintain some sense of control in this situation.

The apartment is still quiet except for that classical music. I should go to my room, lock the door, spend the evening planning my defense strategies. Creating schedules and boundaries and rules that will make this bearable.

But instead, I find myself standing in the middle of the living room, staring at that ridiculously comfortable-looking couch, feeling the weight of the day finally crashing down on me.

April betrayed me. Chris helped her do it. I'm stuck living with someone who represents everything I've been fighting against since I got to this school—the casual assumption that money solves everything, that privilege is just the natural order of things.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part is that small, traitorous voice in my head whispering that maybe Chris was right. Maybe this doesn't have to be warfare. Maybe having a roommate who can reliably pay rent, who buys pizza when I'm upset, who plays classical music instead of throwing parties...

Maybe it won't be the nightmare I'm expecting.

"No," I say out loud to the empty room, to that traitorous voice. "Don't you dare go soft on this."

But my eyes drift back to the pizza boxes. To the note with its casual kindness. To the closed door behind which Liam is presumably giving me space, respecting the boundary I drew even though he could easily just come out and try to talk to me.

I grab my bag and head to my room, closing the door firmly behind me. Tomorrow I'll establish rules. Create systems. Make it absolutely clear that Liam Carter buying pizza doesn't change anything.

But tonight, as I lie in bed listening to classical piano drift through the walls, my stomach pleasantly full of veggie deluxe for the first time in weeks...

Tonight, I have to admit that I'm not entirely sure what I'm feeling.

And that uncertainty is almost scarier than the anger.