He hadn't slept much.
He got up early, ate a yogurt standing up, put on his shoes and went out for a run. When he came back, his body still warm, he shut himself in his room.
She had barely slept at all. From bed she'd heard every sound: the fridge, the spoon clinking in the glass, the door closing.
She got up, had breakfast, sent her mother a message - everything's fine, the house is good - then started reviewing her notes, more to keep her mind busy than to actually study.
Later she was in her room, on a video call with her friends.
"So?"
She told them about the first encounter in a few words. No details, just the essentials. She said he wasn't like the photo.
Her friends looked at each other, curious.
"Different how?"
She shrugged. "Different."
Then the noise came.
A dull thud. Another. Rhythmic. Getting louder and louder.
Her friends fell silent.
"What is that?"
She stiffened. "I don't know."
She stayed still for a second, ears straining toward the wall. The noise kept going, steady, heavy, like something slamming against a hard surface. On the other side. From his room.
She got up from the bed.
She went out, phone still in hand, walked to the door and knocked.
Silence.
She knocked again, harder.
Nothing.
"What's going on?" one of her friends asked, her voice more tense.
She didn't answer. She stood still in front of that closed door, her heart beating faster than necessary. Then she went back, called the police. When she hung up, the video call was still open. Her friends hadn't said anything.
The doorbell rang shortly after.
He had just stopped. He took off his headphones, still breathing hard. He opened the door unhurried.
He was wearing a white tank top, the fabric dark with sweat, his breath still short. The bag behind him was still swinging.
She stayed still.
The phone, without her realizing it, was pointed at him.
From the screen came a sudden silence. Then a voice, low:
"Wait... is that him?"
Another: "Are you serious?"
She lowered her gaze, embarrassed, too late.
He looked first at the police officers, then at her. No expression. No questions.
"I was training."
The officers saw the punching bag, understood right away. They apologized and left.
She tried to say something, a hint of an apology, but he had already gone back inside. The door closed.
From the phone screen came a half-suppressed scream.
She turned it off.
She stayed there, in the empty hallway, the silence washing over her all at once. Her hands still gripping the phone. Her heart still too awake.
Then she went back to her room.
That evening, the kitchen light was on.
He was there, standing, in front of the counter, a plate already ready in his hands. He wasn't in a hurry, but he had no desire to stay either.
She entered hesitantly.
She stopped on the threshold for a moment. She watched him from behind, his calm movements. As if the day had left nothing on him.
She took a step forward.
"Hey..."
He looked up.
He didn't look away. He looked at her, really looked. A fixed, cold gaze, as if he were assessing something that didn't concern him.
"I wanted to apologize for earlier," she said. "Not-"
"No need."
The sentence fell clean, without anger. Just closure.
She pressed her lips together for a second. Then crossed her arms.
"You know that's rude, right? Living with someone and not even introducing yourself."
He tilted his head slightly, as if studying her more closely.
"You already know who I am."
"What?"
"The agency."
He picked up the plate. "You got everything."
She stared at him. "You too, then."
"Yes."
"And?"
"I threw them away."
There was a moment of silence.
"Why?" she asked, incredulous.
He looked at her again. Always the same empty gaze.
"Because I don't care."
"You don't care about... what?"
"Who I live with."
She laughed softly, without joy. "Well, congratulations. It's not every day you get to feel like a detail."
"You're not."
He paused.
"You're just irrelevant."
Her eyes widened. "You know you're an asshole?"
No reaction.
He picked up the glass of water, took a sip. Set it back down on the counter unhurried.
"If you act like that," she said, harder now, "it's normal you'll stay alone."
A shadow crossed his face. Not pain. Choice.
"I know."
He set down the glass.
He looked at her one last time, as if he had already finished reading her.
"And that's exactly what I want."
He walked past her without touching her.
She didn't move. She stood still in the kitchen, the sound of silence pressing on her, as his footsteps faded down the hallway.
The door to his room closed.
He wasn't rejecting her.
To him, it simply made no difference.