This was probably going to suck, but maybe not in a completely boring way.
Chapter Two: House Rules
Pulling up to Jonas's complex, I sat there annoyed.
Long enough to realize my dad hadn’t been exaggerating about the location. Jonas’s place sat right between campus and the café where I worked, which meant I didn’t even have the excuse of a long commute to complain about.
Great.
So not only was I being shipped off to live with my dad’s business partner, I was also losing one of my favorite ways to justify being late.
I cut the engine, and sat there for a second with my hands still on the wheel. Let's get this over with.
I grabbed my bag, got out, and made my way up to the unit, already mentally preparing myself for awkward small talk and whatever version of “keeping an eye on me” Jonas had decided to implement.
I knocked.
There was a brief pause, then the door opened.
My memory hadn’t been wrong.
Jonas looked exactly like I vaguely remembered, just clearer now, sharper. Tall, broad shoulders filling out a simple white t shirt, posture straight without being stiff. His hair was clean and trimmed, his face set in that same slightly sternexpression that made it seem like he always knew exactly what he was doing.
Not old.
Definitely not old.
Just very much an adult.
And annoyingly good looking up close. I'll just add it to the list of annoyances.
His eyes moved over me quickly, not lingering, just assessing like he was checking a list in his head. “You made it.”
“Yeah,” I said, shifting my bag on my shoulder. “Traffic wasn’t bad.”
He stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”
I walked past him, immediately noticing how put together everything was.
Not staged, not empty, just… controlled. Like everything had a place and was exactly where it was supposed to be. No clutter, no piles, no chaos.
It felt very him.
He closed the door behind me. “You can set your things down for now. I’ll show you around.”
“Okay.”
I dropped my bag by the entry and followed him further inside, trying not to look like I was actively comparing his place to every other place I had ever lived.
“This is the main living area,” he said, gesturing briefly. “Kitchen’s there. Bathroom down the hall. Your room’s on the first floor.”
He moved into the kitchen and I followed, leaning against the counter as he continued. “I cook most evenings. If you want to eat, you’re welcome to, but you clean up after.”
“I’ll probably just use the microwave,” I said.
He looked at me.
“I don’t have one.”