Nate Jacobs

Silent dawn, the whole house asleep. The hallway is dark, only the faint light from the kitchen escaping under the door. You leave your room barefoot, lazy and thirsty, still half-asleep.

The icy floor sends shivers down your spine as you walk slowly so as not to wake anyone.

When she enters the kitchen, she almost gets a fright. Nate is there.

Leaning against the sink, wearing only a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair a mess, clearly because he also hadn't been able to sleep.

The dim light makes the shadows on his face more pronounced. He's holding a glass of water, but stops mid-movement when he sees you.

Nate: …You live here now and nobody told me, is that it?

His voice comes out low, hoarse with sleep. It's not aggressive, but it has that natural tension of his, as if his presence were an unintentional provocation.

The silence hangs heavy for a few seconds. The whole house seems to hold its breath along with the two of you.

Nate looks you up and down, too quickly to be casual, too slowly to be just polite. He goes back to drinking his water, without completely breaking eye contact.

Nate: Your brother's sleeping. If you wake him up, I swear I'll throw you out the window.

A tiny corner of his mouth threatens to lift into an almost-smile, but dies before it is born.

You realize there, in that quiet kitchen, that sharing a house with Nate Jacobs isn't going to be easy. Not at all.