Chapter 4 Roommate Rules and Wedding Photos
Stella's POV
"I can help—" Ethan started, rising from his seat.
"No!" I cut him off, already stacking his empty plate on top of mine. "You already did all the cooking. It's only fair."
And I need space to think.
I didn't wait for his response, just gathered the dishes and fled to the kitchen. The water came out scalding hot, and I jerked my hand back with a hiss.
"Careful," Ethan's voice came from behind me. I spun around to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me.
Of course he's just going to stand there and watch.
"I'm fine," I muttered, adjusting the temperature and squirting dish soap onto the sponge. The bottle made an obscene squelching sound that made my cheeks heat up.
I could feel his eyes on me as I scrubbed, and it made every movement feel clumsy. The wooden fork slipped from my soapy fingers and clattered into the sink.
Get it together, Stella.
I picked up his water glass, and my hand froze. The condensation was already evaporating, leaving faint streaks where his fingers had gripped it. I touched the glass—it was warm. Actually warm, like he'd been holding coffee instead of ice water.
What the hell?
"We should establish some ground rules," Ethan said suddenly, and I nearly dropped the glass.
I set it in the drying rack and turned to face him, wiping my wet hands on my jeans. "Ground rules?"
He straightened slightly. "If we're going to be living together, we need a system. One person cooks, the other cleans up. We can alternate bathroom cleaning, split the laundry."
I stared at him. He's talking about living together like we're signing a roommate agreement, not dealing with the fact that we woke up married.
"You're really just... jumping right into this, aren't you?"
Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe? "Would you prefer we stand around being awkward about it instead?"
"Professor Blackwood," I started, then caught myself when his eyebrow lifted. "I mean—Ethan. You're really not considering what I suggested earlier?"
The amusement vanished. "No."
"No?" I repeated. "But... but we're not..."
"That's it." He pushed off from the doorframe and took two steps closer. "Divorce isn't a good idea right now, Stella. For either of us."
"Why not?" Frustration crept into my voice. "We made a mistake. We can fix this."
"Can we?" His voice was calm, rational. "Think about what would happen if we filed for divorce right now. You're a student. I'm a visiting professor. The scandal would follow you through your entire academic career. Every job interview, every reference—you'd be the girl who drunkenly married her professor in Rhode Island and divorced him a week later."
My stomach dropped.
"And my career would be under review," he continued. "The job itself doesn't concern me, but the scrutiny would be unnecessarily disruptive."
I bit my lower lip, trying to find a flaw in his logic. Damn him for being right.
"So what are you suggesting?"
"We maintain the status quo. Live as roommates for now. When enough time has passed, we can revisit the conversation." He tilted his head. "It's the most practical solution."
I turned back to the sink, grabbing the sponge. "Fine. We'll do it your way."
"Good." I heard footsteps retreating. "I have some work to finish. Make yourself at home."
I kept scrubbing until I heard his door click shut.
I finished the dishes on autopilot. When the last wooden fork was in the drying rack, I wandered back to the living room and collapsed onto the couch.
The TV flickered to life, some late-night talk show already in progress. I stared at the screen without seeing it.
Three days ago, I was stressing about my midterm paper. Now I'm married to Professor Blackwood and eating with wooden utensils because he's allergic to metal.
I let out a slightly hysterical laugh that I quickly smothered.
I pulled my knees up to my chest. My brain kept replaying the last forty-eight hours—the Spring Break masquerade, Rhode Island, the wedding photos, the wooden utensils, the way Ethan's skin felt too warm.
Allergic to certain metals. What does that even mean?
I heard his door open. Ethan emerged with an empty glass and headed toward the kitchen.
The overhead light caught the angles of his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. He'd changed into a dark gray sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
And suddenly, I was hearing Lucy's voice from last month.
"Professor Blackwood is literally the hottest professor on campus. His classes have a hundred percent attendance rate, and I'm pretty sure it's not because of his riveting lectures."
I'd laughed it off at the time. He was just another professor.
But now he was standing in our kitchen—our kitchen—and I could see exactly what Lucy had been talking about.
Stop it, Stella. He's your professor. He's also your husband. Oh my God.
I grabbed the throw pillow and hugged it to my chest, forcing my eyes back to the TV. My face felt hot, and my heart was doing something weird and fluttery.
This is just proximity. Stress. It doesn't mean anything.
A phone started ringing, and I automatically reached for the coffee table. My phone sat there, screen dark and silent.
Not mine.
The ringing was coming from somewhere else—the dining area. I stood and followed the sound, spotting a black iPhone vibrating on the dining table. By the time I reached it, the ringing had stopped.
The screen was still lit up, showing the home screen.
And that's when I saw it.
The wallpaper.
A photo of us. From Rhode Island. Standing in front of that tacky chapel with its neon sign glowing pink and blue behind us. I was wearing the white vintage dress, he was in a dark suit.
And we were smiling.
Not awkward, drunken smiles. Real smiles. I was grinning so wide my eyes were crinkled, dimples showing, and he was looking down at me with this expression that made something in my chest twist painfully.
He changed his wallpaper. He made our wedding photo his lock screen.
My breath caught in my throat. I stared at the photo—at the way his hand rested on my waist, at the way I was leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Why would he do that? Why would he make this his wallpaper if he's treating this like a practical arrangement?
Heat flooded my face. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
This doesn't make sense.
The phone suddenly lit up again, ringing in my hand. I nearly dropped it. The screen now showed an incoming call overlaying that photo of us.
I should give this back to him.
I walked down the hallway to his room, the phone still ringing in my hand, feeling heavier with each step. I raised my fist and knocked on the door, maybe a little harder than necessary.
"Your phone's ringing," I called through the door, my voice coming out higher than normal. "Someone keeps calling."
