Rival Roommates

11 ☁︎

prepare for an emotional rollercoaster guys. This is just the start.
*evil cackle* sorry not sorry.
—

Valentina
He's freaking out. I have no clue why, but it's a Saturday and I plan on lying in. Which is kind of hard to do when your roommate is flipping the place upside down and pacing around the living room, huffing and puffing. Deciding to just get up, I slip on my silk robe to cover my thin lace vest and shorts, tucking my feet into my fluffy bunny slippers. I run my hands through my hair and open the door, stifling a yawn as the sun pours through the open blinds whilst my roommate has all the top cupboards open.

Perching myself up on the stool by the counter, I observe him searching around for a few seconds with my head in my hands, the bottom of his shirt lifting up when his arms reach high, hinting down his toned back. I'll bet he has a nice ass too.

"Lost your mutt again? Doubt he'll be in the cupboards, sweetheart." I quip, a small grin tugging at the side of my lips. Though that falls when he turns and I see his sober expression, eyes bloodshot and tired, exhaustion lines on his forehead and his hair messy as though he's been pulling at it.

"What happened?" I ask, slipping off the stool and walking closer to him as I lean my hip on the other side of the countertop. He simply shakes his head as if I won't understand and then kneels down and opens the drawer doors with unnecessary force, dropping his head in his hands when he only sees flour and sugar, the essentials for a baker. Not me though, I'm probably banned from being anywhere near an oven for the rest of my life.

"Hello? I found your dog, I'm practically Sherlock, just tell me what you're looking for." I try again, and he shuts the drawer, standing to his full height in front of me. His eyes are dark and unforgiving, his lips straightened in a deep frown.

"Have you had a certain bottle of wine, a Bordeaux 52'? Seen it, dropped it, drank it?" He asks, crossing his arms and I would've barked out a laugh, because what is he, a middle aged woman going through a life crisis over wine?

"Wine?" I repeat, raising my eyebrows as I cross my arms too, "I'm sorry, you wake our whole building up at 8 o'clock on a Saturday to search for wine?" He brows pull closer down, that angry snarl appearing again, as he rolls his eyes and grits his teeth.

"Answer the fucking question."

"Jesus, I don't know, maybe I drank it. It's just a bottle of wine, I can buy you another one if you want." I laugh, shrugging it off, but that only deepens his frown and he stalks closer, closing the gap between us and placing on arm next to my waist on the counter.

"You drank my wine?" He drawls out slowly, his snarl turning vile as if the words taste sour on his lips. "Why are you touching my shit?" I hold his strong gaze, crinkling my eyes in confusion.

"It's just a bit of wine, chill the fuck out." I push past him, rolling my eyes. "You ate my pancakes the other day but you don't see me throwing a fit." I throw back at him, opening the fridge to pour myself a glass of OJ.

"Of course. Prove you're a bitch when I was just warming up to you." He grimaces coldly, and I stop pouring the drink to shut my jaw that currently lies on the floor. Prove I'm a what?

"I'm the bitch? You're the one crying over alcohol, get a grip!" I snap, shaking my head as I down the drink, hoping it'll give me the same high and satisfaction that alcohol does. Nope, just plain old oranges here.