The Roommate Pact: No Strings Attached

The sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows when Brendon stumbled out of his room the next morning. He was wearing nothing but a pair of grey Adidas joggers, his chest bare, his hair a tangled mess.

He went straight for the kitchen, his brain screaming for caffeine. He reached for the handle of the fridge, but stopped when he saw Kiera.

She was standing at the counter, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand. She was wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black yoga outfit that covered every inch of her skin. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, severe bun.

She looked at him, her gaze dropping to his bare torso before snapping back up to his eyes. A faint flush crept up her neck.

"Put a shirt on," she said. "This isn't a frat house."

Brendon didn't move. He leaned against the marble island, watching her. "My eyes are up here, Richards. Besides, you've seen it all before."

Kiera's expression didn't soften. She took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving his. "I've seen better. My standards have improved in the last twelve months."

It was a lie. Brendon could see the way her fingers tightened around the mug, the way her pulse was jumping in the hollow of her throat. She was just as affected as he was.

"Right," Brendon said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm sure the guys in your Gap Year were real specimens."

Kiera set her mug down with a sharp clack. "At least they were honest. They didn't hide behind a daddy's credit card and a fake personality."

Brendon felt the familiar sting of her words. He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Evian. "I'm a freshman, too, Kiera. Technically. The university put me on a mandatory leave of absence for a year during my father's investigation. I lost a year of credits when I... when I went away."

Kiera's eyes narrowed. "You didn't go away. You vanished. There's a difference."

"I couldn't call you," he said, the words feeling like shards of glass in his throat.

"Save it," she snapped. "I don't want to hear the 'family business' excuse again. You were seen at a club in the Hamptons three days after you ghosted me. My roommate saw the pictures on Instagram."

Brendon froze. The Hamptons. His father had forced him to attend a fundraiser to prove to the investors that the Hampton family was "stable" while the SEC was raiding their offices. He had been a puppet, smiling for the cameras while his heart was being shredded.

"It wasn't what it looked like," he said.

"It never is with you," Kiera replied.

She picked up her mug and moved toward the door. "I have orientation in twenty minutes. Don't be here when I get back."

"I have classes too, freshman," he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Kiera stopped at the door. She looked back at him, her eyes cold and distant. "Don't call me that. We aren't friends. We aren't even acquaintances. You're just the person who happens to occupy the same square footage as me."

She left, the scent of her vanilla perfume lingering in the air like a taunt.

Brendon leaned his head against the cool surface of the refrigerator. He felt exhausted. Being near her was like trying to breathe in a room with no oxygen. He wanted her to scream at him, to hit him, to do anything other than look at him with that icy, professional indifference.

He went back to his room and pulled on a black t-shirt. He saw his reflection in the mirror-the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

He looked like a man who was haunted.

He grabbed his bag and headed for the door. As he passed the living room, he saw her violin case. It was tucked away in the corner, almost as if she were trying to hide it.

He remembered the way she looked when she played-the way her eyes closed, the way her body swayed with the music. She looked free.

He wondered if she still played the songs he liked. Or if she had burned the sheet music along with his photos.