Chapter 4: Ground Rules and Kitchen Fires

After eight that night, she came back from work.

She tossed me a brand new portable hard drive.

"This one has more storage, bigger capacity. Less likely to lose."

"Is this about storage?" I tossed the drive aside. "We need to talk."

Rachel threw her bag into her room, didn’t even take off her coat, sat on the couch, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Talk."

I tried to keep my tone even, but I was frustrated. "I won’t make a fuss about the USB, but just because I’m not making a fuss doesn’t mean it wasn’t important. It’s just pointless to argue about it now. From today on, let’s set some ground rules for public and private spaces."

She nodded in agreement.

In the end, we agreed: living room, bathroom, and kitchen are public spaces.

Bedrooms are private.

The balcony is her private space, since she needs to dry certain ‘delicate’ things like underwear. My room faces the sun, so I can dry my stuff inside. Her room faces the shade, so it’s hard to dry clothes there.

For that, she agreed to pay for the water and electricity bills.

After setting the rules, she quickly retreated to her room, crying, "Waaa waaa."

Her crying grew louder and louder. I stood at her door, rubbing my nose, thinking, I don’t think I bullied you. I barely use any water or electricity, didn’t make you pay extra. I debated knocking, but figured I’d only make it worse. Instead, I texted her a dumb meme about roommate problems—she left me on read.

Saturday.

I was having a beautiful dream.

Bang—the bedroom door burst open. I shot up, locking eyes with Rachel’s slightly flustered face.

"Rachel, next time can you knock first?"

"I did knock."

I glanced at the dent the doorknob made in the wall, then looked at her. "Even a burglar wouldn’t knock that hard."

"Why don’t you lock your door?"

"Look at this busted door—does it look like it has a lock?"

She waved her hand, acting all magnanimous. "It’s fine. I just came to borrow a couple of hangers. Forgot to buy some after doing laundry."

"Take them yourself." I curled up under the covers. "I’m not exactly dressed right now."

She smirked, then quickly straightened her face. "What, busy with your hands?"

No idea why, but as a guy over six feet tall, that half-joking comment actually made me blush.

"Oh, SpongeBob boxers." She took two hangers, the corners of her mouth twitching up again.

"Come on, Rachel, can you find something new to say? Want me to lend you a pair?"

From the hurried shuffle of her footsteps, I could tell she wasn’t as calm as she pretended. She slammed her bedroom door a little too hard, and I heard her mutter something about "childish men."

Roommates, right? There’s always an adjustment period.

I thought ‘adjustment’ meant both sides learning each other’s boundaries.

Not crossing them is what makes a good roommate.

She wasn’t like that. She knew your boundaries—and then kept dancing back and forth over the line.

Like barging into my room without warning.

Or using the bathroom while I was brushing my teeth—she’d stumble in half-asleep, pants down, sitting on the toilet.

And when she realized I was there, she’d let out a shriek that could set off car alarms.

I honestly don’t know what she was screaming about. Shouldn’t I be the one calling the cops?

And she was hopeless at life skills.

She once asked me why her laundry never came out as clean as mine. Turns out, she didn’t add detergent—just threw the clothes in and hoped for the best. I had to give her an impromptu lesson on Tide Pods and hot vs. cold cycles, and even then she looked like she was hearing Greek.

She insisted on cooking, even though she couldn’t. Nearly burned the place down.

Every time, I had to grumble and teach her, but at least she learned fast.

The second time she cooked, she already knew not to throw water on an oil fire. She used dish soap instead...

That day, I grabbed the fire extinguisher from under the sink just in case, muttering prayers to every kitchen god I could think of. The kitchen filled with the sharp tang of burnt oil and panic. My heart hammered as I grabbed the extinguisher, half-expecting to see us on the evening news. The smoke alarm wailed, and for a split second, I thought we’d be featured in one of those viral “Roommate Kitchen Fail” TikToks. But she managed to put it out, her face streaked with flour and defeat.