The front door.
They all turned.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Slow.
Steady.
Unhurried.
The handle turned down.
The door opened.
He appeared in the doorway.
Dark hoodie. Relaxed shoulders. A flat, still gaze, as if the room held nothing in particular.
She stiffened.
He wasn't supposed to come back.
He paused for a moment. Saw the girls.
His expression didn't change. He said nothing.
Just a second of clean silence.
Her friends' eyes went wide.
"Uh-"
"Who-"
He stayed there another half second, then simply walked in. He passed them without avoiding them, without really looking at them. As if he were crossing an empty space.
He reached the hallway. Opened his door. Went in.
Click.
The sound seemed sharper than necessary.
Silence.
Her friends stared at the door for three long seconds.
Then, together -
"...YOU LIVE WITH HIM?!"
She covered her face with one hand.
"Don't yell..."
"Since when?!"
"Why didn't you ever tell us?!"
She sank further back into the couch.
"There was no need."
"NO NEED?!"
"It's just for the rent. The agency split up the apartment. Two rooms. Two leases. That's it."
Silence.
"...that's all?"
"Yes."
One of the friends slowly pointed at the closed door.
"The gorgeous silent guy lives with you?"
She made an immediate face.
"Don't call him that."
"BUT IT'S OBJECTIVE."
"It should be illegal to be that good-looking and not talk."
"He looks like he steps out of dreams."
"And says nothing. Ever."
She sighed. "Exactly."
"How do you live with someone like that?"
She thought about it for half a second, really thought about it.
"I don't live with him."
Pause.
"We just share a ceiling."
Her friends processed the sentence.
"...that's the most unsettling and reassuring description I've ever heard."
She shrugged.
"It works."
---
The next morning the hallway was silent.
The door to his room was closed.
She came out of her room, her shoulders already lower than necessary.
He wasn't there.
The air smelled of cold coffee. There was an empty cup on the table. His.
She stopped.
So he'd been there. Just before.
She opened the fridge for no reason, then closed it again. The coffee maker was already washed. Everything in order - as if the night before nothing had happened.
He had simply carried on.
She made herself some tea and stood by the sink sipping it slowly, watching the window glass reflect the empty kitchen.
---
At university the atmosphere was different.
Already from the gate you could sense something more alive in the air - groups of girls with colorful bags, boys holding roses awkwardly by the stem, giggling, whispers, glances sought and avoided.
She slowed her pace.
Her two friends caught up to her almost running.
One was waving a box decorated with a crooked bow, the other holding a full bag.
"You're late!"
"No, you two are early," she answered, laughing softly.
"Look what we made!"
Inside were small, uneven chocolates, some crushed, some perfect. The smell of cocoa rose immediately.
"They came out badly," said the first, in mock despair.
"That's not true. They're beautiful."
"And you? The ones we made yesterday?"
She pulled out a simple little box from her bag, wrapped in plain paper. When she opened it, the chocolates appeared arranged in neat rows. More even. More careful.
"You're illegal," one said.
"I just had more time," she answered, blushing slightly.
"Who are you giving them to?"
She blinked. "You guys."
"Just us?"
"Yeah."
Her friends exchanged a quick look - the kind she knew well, full of unspoken assumptions - but they didn't press.
They gathered in a circle amid the flow of students and handed each other the boxes, laughing. For a moment everything was light: chocolate, paper, comments on taste, promises to eat them together later.
Around them, other exchanges were happening the same way.
She watched the scene in silence.
It was cute. Embarrassing, sure. But also warm. Human.
"You should've made some for someone too," a friend said, lightly.
"It's not necessary," she said.
Her friends didn't answer.
---
The evening arrived faster than expected.
He was on the couch, absorbed in an anime. Eyes fixed on the screen, relaxed posture, one leg tucked under the other.
She came in. The door closed softly behind her.
He didn't turn around.
She set down her bag, crossed the kitchen, opened the fridge. She took out the cake she'd made the afternoon before - not chocolates, not "for Valentine's Day," just a cake, like any other evening - and set it on the table with a slight hesitation.
She cut a slice carefully. Lifted it gently and placed it on a plate.
She stood there with the plate in her hands a second too long.
Then she turned toward him.
"Want a slice?"
He looked away from the screen.
A neutral moment, no expression.
"Sure."
She cut her own slice. Sat down on the chair. He got up from the couch and went to sit at the table.
They sat across from each other.
He picked up the fork and tasted it.
"How is it?" she asked, softly.
"Good."
They ate in silence. Not a heavy silence - more like two people sharing something without needing to comment on it.
When they finished, he picked up the plates and got up to wash them without saying anything.
She watched him do it.