[18+] Mark just wants a quiet life. With plenty of action at work, he has no interest in bringing the drama home with him. But he does need a flatmate, and when blonde bombshell Zoe crashes onto the scene, she's more than he bargained for.
Zoe is a...
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February 2008
MARK
I'm stirring risotto on the hob when Zoe bursts through the front door. Cheeks flushed, she barrels straight past me without acknowledgment and disappears into her room. The lock clicks, a quiet yet clear signal she wants privacy.
As the rice starts to bubble in the pan, I adjust the heat and glance at the oven clock. Impatience to check on her tugs at my gut. Six months has passed since she started her grad scheme, and apart from a few wobbles, she's nailing it. I love that passion in her. The drive to succeed. But I suspect today hasn't been so great.
After ten minutes, I stride to her door and tap my knuckles against the wood.
No response.
"Zo." I shove my hands in my pockets to resist the urge to knock again. "You want dinner or shall I put your portion in the fridge?"
"Not hungry," comes her muffled reply.
I grind my teeth. If she's upset, now isn't the time to lecture her on the importance of nutrition. Still, unease ripples through me at the thought of her lying there in distress. Alone. Trapped inside her head. Probably hungry even though she says she's not.
"Want to talk?" I offer.
"No."
"A hug?" It's my trump card, one that I only play when I'm out of other options.
Tonight, though, it's not about winning her over. It's about giving her what she needs.
Silence drifts through the white door separating us.
"Later," she eventually replies. "I just want to be alone right now."
That doesn't appease me as much as she'd want it to, but I respect her wishes and step away from her door. Back at the hob, I set aside a plate of risotto, picking out all the mushrooms because I know she hates them, and leave it to cool.
I linger on the sofa after I've finished eating, only getting up to move her portion into the fridge and do the washing up. Normally that would be her job if I've cooked, but I don't know when she's planning to emerge from her room and seeing the dirty dishes is bothering me. Plus she could probably do with a night off if she's had a bad day.
I'm an hour into a sudoku when she finally appears. Without a word, she pads over to the kitchen and takes out her plate to heat it up in the microwave. Relief washes over me. I try to concentrate on the puzzle, but my eyes keep drifting over to her.
She sinks into the armchair, legs curled underneath her, and slices her fork through the risotto.
"No mushrooms." She peeks up at me.
For a second, I'm distracted by the redness lining her eyes. A tight lump chokes my throat, and I cough to clear it.
