My Long-Lost First Love Is My New Roommate

I thought the most humiliating moment of my life was the creaky bedframe.

Julian and I spent the entire afternoon testing the limits of my cheap apartment’s soundproofing. Every groan, every thump against the drywall echoed through the tiny space.

I pulled my oversized sweater down over my thighs and pushed the bedroom door open. I was still laughing at something Julian whispered in my ear.

The laughter died in my throat.

Adrian sat on my faded living room sofa.

My ex-boyfriend. The guy I had not seen in three years.

He wore a black t-shirt and jeans, his long legs stretched out under the coffee table. He didn’t even blink. His dark eyes flicked from my messy hair to the fresh hickey on my collarbone.

"So," Adrian said, his voice completely flat. "You're into that type now?"

My face burned so hot it hurt. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I moved in early." He pointed to a duffel bag on the floor. "The landlord gave me the keys at noon."

"At noon?" I choked on the words. "You've been sitting out here since noon?"

"I didn't want to interrupt. Sounded like you were busy."

He heard everything. Every single sound for the last three hours.

Julian stepped out of the bedroom behind me. He was still buttoning his crisp dress shirt. He noticed the tension immediately. He didn't ask questions. He simply wrapped a heavy arm around my waist and pulled my back flush against his chest.

"I'm her boyfriend," Julian said, his tone daring the guy on the couch to challenge him.

Adrian tilted his head. "Congratulations."

"Who are you?" Julian demanded.

"The new roommate." Adrian stood up. He was an inch taller than Julian, and the shift in the room's atmosphere was instant. "And the ex."

Julian laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Right. Well, grab your bags. You're not staying here. I'll write you a check right now. Double whatever you paid for the deposit. Get out."

Adrian shoved his hands into his pockets. "I don't need your money."

"Everyone needs money. Name your price."

I shoved out of Julian's grip. "Stop it, both of you. I'm breaking the lease. I'll pack my things right now."

"Don't stress about it," Julian murmured. He stepped into my space again and smoothed a hand down my arm. "Just come stay with me. The Manhattan penthouse is completely empty anyway. You won't have to worry about rent or roommates."

Adrian picked up a racing magazine from the coffee table.

"When did you start relying on men to solve your rent problems?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. My spine stiffened.

"Excuse me?"

Adrian flipped a glossy page. "You heard me. You used to work night shifts just to pay your half. Now you just pack a bag and move into a penthouse?"

"My financial situation is none of your business," I snapped.

"Clearly."

I glared at him. Three years ago, I prided myself on never asking him for a dime, even when he was winning championships.

"I'm not moving," I said.

"Elena, babe, come on," Julian started, his tone coaxing. "Don't let him get to you."

"I said I'm staying."

Julian stared at me. His eyes darted to Adrian, then back to my face. His jaw tightened. The easy confidence he carried all afternoon vanished. He finally realized the stranger in the room knew exactly which buttons to push to make me stay.

"Fine," Julian said. He grabbed his jacket from the chair. "I'll call you tomorrow."

He didn't look at Adrian as he walked out.

The front door clicked shut, leaving the apartment dead silent.

I hid in my bedroom for an hour before the thirst became unbearable. I walked into the kitchen for a glass of water and froze in the doorway.

Adrian leaned against the counter in the dark. Three crushed beer cans sat by his hip. He held a thick highball glass in his right hand, staring out the window at the streetlights.

"You don't drink," I said. "Not during racing season."

"Things change."

"You shouldn't be here."

"I signed a contract."

"If you're mad about this afternoon, get over it." I marched to the fridge and yanked it open. "So what if you heard? We've been broken up for three years. I am allowed to move on."

Adrian stared at the amber liquid in his glass. "Yeah. I know."

Crack.

The thick glass shattered in his grip. Shards rained onto the linoleum floor. Blood dripped from his palm, pooling on the white counter.

"Are you crazy?" I dropped my water bottle. I grabbed a dish towel from the oven rack.

I closed the distance between us, yanking his wrist toward the sink. I turned on the faucet and ran cold water over the deep cuts. My thumbs pressed into his skin, searching for glass splinters.

"Drop it," he muttered, trying to pull his hand back.

"Shut up and hold still."

He didn't pull away again. He stepped closer. His chest brushed my shoulder. The scent of pine and stale beer clouded my head. Old habits flared up—the way I automatically knew how to hold his hand, the way he tilted his wrist to make it easier for me to wrap the towel