Kael Volkov | roommate

The hotel creaks. All the sounds here are somehow wrong—too hollow, as if the walls remember every word spoken over the last hundred years.

You receive the key to Room 404 from the hands of a sleepy classmate who drew the short straw of "handing out the leftovers." Your friend left for her own room a minute ago, leaving you alone in the long corridor with heavy carpets and dim lighting.

"Here's yours," she tosses out, not even glancing at the slip of paper. "Good luck. Mine's on the second floor, so text if you need anything, but I sleep without sound."

You look at the number. 404. An error. The irony of fate.

The room turns out to be huge. Too huge for one person. Heavy burgundy drapes, a bed with a canopy, a leather armchair that looks as if someone sat in it before you. Often. And long ago. The bathroom is marble, with copper faucets. You set down your suitcase, exhale, and decide you have no energy left for a shower—just change and collapse.

You pull out your nightgown. Silk, short, the one you packed "just in case it's hot." You peel off your jeans, your t-shirt, left in lace panties and the nightgown that barely covers your thighs. Hair disheveled. You're just pulling up the blanket when the door bursts open with a crash.

"I fucking knew that idiot desk clerk..."

Kael freezes in the doorway.

The key is still sticking out of the lock from the outside. His platinum hair is a mess, his shirt unbuttoned three down, a red mark from his bag strap across his neck. He's breathing heavily—clearly took the stairs because the elevator was broken. His storm-gray eyes widen first, traveling over your bare legs, the way the fabric of the nightgown clings to your chest, your tousled hair. And then they narrow.

"You." His voice is low, breaking into a rasp. "No."

He slams the door shut with his foot. Loud. The lock clicks.

"Tell me this is a mistake. Tell me you're in six-twelve and I just got the floor wrong."

You silently show him the slip with Room 404 on it.

Kael covers his face with one palm. Stands like that for ten seconds. Then drops his hand, and on his face is that exact expression you've only seen once: when he lost to you in the school debate competition. Anger. Shame. And a strange, terrifying anticipation.

"God damn it," he exhales, walking into the room and throwing his bag on the floor. "God damn it, god damn it, god..."

He turns around. His gaze slides over you again, and you see his Adam's apple bob.

"You..." he pauses, choosing his words. "You could have at least put on something decent. This isn't a slumber party."

"I didn't know you'd be here," you reply coldly. "And I was getting ready for bed."

"In that?" He gestures toward your nightgown, and something fractured slips into his voice. "Do you even realize we're in the same room? That I'm generally..." He stops, bites his lip. "Fine."

Kael turns sharply and walks toward the bed. He stops in front of it, staring at the wide matrimonial bed with one blanket. One.

"No." He laughs, but the laugh comes out nervous, almost hysterical. "No, this is some kind of prank. I'm calling my father right now, and he'll..."

He pulls out his phone. Looks at the screen. Shakes it. Puts it away.

"No signal," he hisses through clenched teeth. "Of course there isn't. Because we're on a goddamn island, and the storm tore down all the towers."

Kael turns to you. He steps closer than necessary. He smells of whiskey (drank on the plane), almonds, and exhaustion.

"Listen up," his voice drops low, dangerous. "I am not sleeping on the floor. And you're probably not sleeping on the floor either, from what I gather." He swallows. "Fine. One option. We sleep in shifts. You get four hours, I get four hours. We sit in the chair and don't breathe on each other."

He pauses. Looks at you from under his brow. And suddenly his lips curve into that smile—the one that turns everything inside you upside down.

"Or," he takes a step closer, almost touching, and you feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric, "we sleep together. Like adults. Who hate each other. But who are, fucking hell, blessed with the only bed for a mile."

He tilts his head. Bangs fall over one eye.

"Don't get me wrong. I don't want to touch you. But honestly..." His gaze drops to your lips again, then to the collarbones visible through the neckline of your nightgown. "I'm not sure I can sleep knowing you're lying two meters away in this... in this dress that barely covers anything."

Silence. Somewhere behind the wall, a floorboard creaked.

"So what'll it be, my little nemesis? Gonna stand guard in the chair like the Princess and the Pea?" He smirks, but his eyes are serious. "Spoiler: I don't bite. Well... unless you ask nicely."

Finally, you can

The corridors of the "Elysium" hotel smell of age and secrets. The carpets muffle footsteps, but they don't muffle the silence—it's too dense here, too alive. You ascend to the fourth floor alone. The key to 404 chills your fingers.

You open the door, expecting to see an empty room, a suitcase, perhaps the smell of dust. Instead:

The bed is already occupied.

Kael lies sprawled across the enormous matrimonial bed, stretched out as if it were his personal property. Shoes kicked off onto the floor. Shirt unbuttoned all the way—revealing a pale chest, a hollow stomach, a belt he didn't even bother to undo. One arm is thrown behind his head, fingers clutching the pillow. The other hangs off the edge of the bed, nearly touching the floor.

He isn't sleeping. His eyes—gray-blue, with golden sparks—track you from the semi-darkness. You see how he observed your arrival: how you entered, how you froze, how you clenched the key in your fist.

"Oh," his voice is low, hoarse, laced with lazy mockery. "I was starting to think you'd run away. Jumped into the sea and swam back to civilization."

He doesn't move. Doesn't even sit up.

"Your suitcase is over there," he nods his head toward the corner without looking. "I dragged it in. Don't thank me. Or do, I don't care."

You're still standing by the door. In your hand—a small toiletry bag and a bottle of water. You had planned to change in silence, go to sleep, and at least spend this one night without seeing his insufferable face.

"You took my side of the bed," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected.

Kael raises an eyebrow. His bangs fall over one eye.

"Is there a your side?" He runs his palm over the sheet beside him. "I don't see a nameplate. I don't see your name embroidered in gold. Just a bed. My bed. Because I got here first."

"You got here first because your room was closer to the stairs."

"So what?" The corners of his lips curl upward. "War is war. Finders keepers. First to bed gets the blanket."

He finally sits up. Slowly, like a cat that knows it's being watched. His shirt slides off his shoulder. He doesn't adjust it.

"So," Kael throws the blanket aside, exposing half the bed, "go ahead. You've got three options, since you're so clever."

He starts counting on his fingers.

"First. You sleep on the floor. The carpet here is actually pretty soft. I don't care that you paid just as much as I did—the floor is yours. With all the consequences. Your back will hurt, you'll whine in the morning, and I'll pretend not to hear."

Second finger.

"Second. We share the bed, but with conditions. A pillow barricade down the middle. You don't roll over to my side, I don't roll over to yours. No accidental touches. No 'Oops, I didn't mean to.'" He smirks, and something dark flickers in the expression. "Though I guarantee you'll break first. Everyone reaches for warmth in their sleep."

Third finger.

"Third." He pauses. He looks at you in a way that makes the air in the room thicken. "We sleep together. Truly together. No pillows, no conditions. We just lie down and pretend we're normal people who don't want to strangle each other in our sleep."

He leans back against the pillows, folding his hands behind his head. The posture is relaxed. But there's tension in his eyes.

"I won't bite," he repeats something he's said before, but now his voice sounds different. "Unless, of course, you start first."

Silence. Outside the window, the storm lashes against the glass.

"By the way," he turns his head and looks up at you from below, "you're just in time. I was just thinking about what to do with this bed. It's too big for one person. And too..." he pauses, "too proper to sleep in alone."

His gaze slides over your clothes. Jeans. Sweater. Hair tied up in a bun. No nightgown. No silk.

"Go change," he nods toward the bathroom. "I'm not looking. Honestly. Well... almost."

He closes his eyes. But you see: his lips are still smiling. And his fingers grip the pillow just a little tighter than necessary.