THE FLATMATE RULE

Ethan’s Perspective 

I already don’t like my new flatmate.

She’s too bright. Too cheerful. Like a shaken bottle of champagne. And I hate champagne. 

Hate the noise, the fuss, especially the kind of people who drink it like water while laughing too loudly in my living room.

I’ve never been so grateful for a night shift.

I pat my pockets, warrant card, keys, wallet, then pull my bedroom door open and step straight into chaos. Music thumps through the flat, rattling the walls. If the neighbors don’t call in a noise complaint, it’ll be a miracle.

A tall red-headed stumbles into my path. She smells like alcohol and way too much perfume, swaying slightly as she smiles at me.

“Hey,” she slurs, dragging a pointed nail down my chest. “Mia said her new flatmate was hot. We thought she was joking. Mind a drink?”

Before I can answer, Mia crashes into her, eyes wide with panic.

“Oh my god! Ethan, I’m sorry. Ignore her. I didn’t say that. I mean, I did, but not like that, God, I mean….”

“I’m heading to work,” I cut in, saving all of us from this painful moment. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yes… yes, of course,” Mia says quickly, cheeks flushed as she looks around the room. “We’ll be done before you’re back. I promise.”

I nod, though one glance at the bottles scattered across every surface tells me she’s lying to herself.

Mia and I need rules. Our lease is for a year, and it’s only been a week. If this is her normal, we’re going to have problems.

On second thought… maybe a noise complaint would help make my point.

---

Seven hours later, I regret everything.

I didn’t join the police to babysit idiots, yet here I am, stuck in a hospital corridor because a burglar claims he swallowed a battery. It’s a trick. They do it to get out of a cell and into a hospital bed.

If it were up to me, I’d let him sweat it out. But it’s not.

So I sit there, listening to the radio crackle with calls I can’t attend. A fight at a pub. A domestic at a hotel. A crash with fatalities.

When Nate offers to attend the domestic alone, my jaw tightens.

By the time I finally head home, my patience is already gone.

I unlock the door.

The smell hits first, beer, spirits, and that same damn champagne. 

Empty bottles everywhere. Pillows on the floor. Plates stacked where they don’t belong. Takeout boxes near the bin. Shattered glass beneath the TV.

The TV, somehow, survived.

I slam the door harder than necessary and step inside, heart pounding as I move toward my room. If they trashed that too, I swear—

I push the door open.

Clean. Untouched.

Relief barely settles before a quiet voice floats from behind me.

“Um… hi.”

I turn slowly.

Mia stands near the sofa, wrapped in a fluffy pink robe, brunette hair piled messily on her head. 

“I’m really sorry,” she says, gesturing weakly at the mess. “I’ll clean everything. I’ll replace whatever’s broken. We hadn’t seen each other in a year, and things just… got out of hand.”

She won’t meet my eyes.

“Fine,” I say, exhaustion winning over anger. “Just try to keep it quiet.” I say turning to my room desperate for sleep.

She nods fast, then swipes at her eye. Great. Emotional hangovers.

Not my problem.

I wake up to the smell of bacon.

For a brief, blissful second, I almost believe yesterday never happened.

Then I step out of my bedroom and stop.

The place is… clean.

Not just tidy,properly clean. The living room looks like it belongs in a furniture catalogue. Empty bottles are stacked neatly in the recycling. A tied bin bag waits patiently by the front door. Even the air smells fresher.

So she is feral, but apparently a responsible kind.

“Uhmm… hey.”

I turn toward the kitchen and find Mia standing by the stove. She looks nervous in a way that makes me soften my bitchy hormones.

“Living room looks good,” I say. “Thanks.”

Her shoulders relax a little. “I bought a new blind. I didn’t want to wake you by drilling, so I’ll put it up later when you’re out. I’m really sorry. About everything.”

“I can do it tomorrow,” I reply. “I’ve got rest days.”

It’s easier that way. Less chance of crooked holes in the wall.

She hesitates, then blurts out, “I made you food. Breakfast. Or dinner. Or… whatever this counts as when you’ve just woken up after a night shift. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I went with bacon because it feels safe. But if you want something else, that’s okay. I won’t be offended.”

She absolutely would be offended.

The bacon smells incredible. And she clearly made an effort. I should meet her halfway.

“Bacon’s fine,” I say. “Thanks.”

Relief spreads across her face, followed by a small, hopeful smile. Either she feels genuinely bad about last night, or she’s a people pleaser.

Probably the second.

“I can do eggs too,” she says quickly. “Scrambled, fried, whatever you like. There are hash browns in the oven, and I can heat some beans…..”

“Uh, no beans,” I interrupt. “Not a fan.”

Her eyes light up. “Me neither!”

Then why do you own them? This adds weight to my people pleaser theory.

She plates everything up and hands me a tray. We eat in awkward silence—me in the armchair, her curled up on the sofa. After the first bite, guilt creeps in.

It’s really good.

“How was work?” she asks quietly.

“Rough.”

I should elaborate. She’s trying, after all.

“Busy. Got stuck babysitting a burglar who pretended he swallowed a battery.”

She blinks. “Pretended? Why would someone do that?”

“Because some people would rather waste everyone’s time than face consequences.”

She nods slowly. “Yeah… that tracks.”

The swear word sounds strange coming from her soft voice. I wonder if she’s trying to match my tone. Bridge the gap.

“So,” I ask, “what do you do?”

“I’m at uni.”

I already knew that, but I let it go.

“Studying what?”

“Hospitality management. With Spanish. I just got back from a year in Chile.” She pokes at her eggs. “All my friends graduated while I was gone, so I needed somewhere to live.”

“And they couldn’t make space for you?”

“There was no room for me ,” she says lightly. Too lightly. “So… here I am.”

I watch her closely this time. The tight shoulders. The forced brightness. The way she avoids looking at me.

“These the friends from last night?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “It was nice seeing them. I just felt like…” Her voice trails off. She shakes her head and pastes on a smile. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

It kind of does, especially if they’re going to keep trashing my flat. But I’m not her therapist.