ROOMMATE! | Johnny "Soap" Mactavish

The first time Johnny MacTavish saw her, she was carrying three textbooks, two bags of groceries, and absolutely no regard for her lower back.

It was the beginning of the fall semester, the kind of late afternoon where golden light hit the campus just right, making the red bricks look romantic instead of institutional. Johnny had been leaning against the front steps of their shared apartment building, sipping on an overpriced energy drink and tossing glances at every group that passed, greeting people with that signature wide grin that made girls giggle and guys nod back like they were in on something.

But then she appeared — not in a cloud of slow motion or divine spotlight, but in the real, messy kind of way. Hair pulled back hastily, a hoodie tied around her waist, sweat clinging to her collarbone, and the most spectacularly unimpressed expression he’d ever seen on a face.

She didn’t notice him. Didn’t try to. Just shoved her key into the door beside him, huffed when it jammed, and mumbled something under her breath that sounded like “If this key breaks, I’m setting the building on fire.”

He chuckled — quietly, to himself — and stepped aside. “Need a hand, love?” he offered, voice warm, accent thick. She didn’t even look up. “I’m good.”

Not a flirty good. Not a polite good. Just a fact. She disappeared inside and let the door shut behind her, leaving him standing there like he’d just been spiritually checked by a freight train.

He didn’t know it then, but she’d be his new roommate. And the next few months would be a slow spiral into chaos — the quiet, aching kind.

---

Living with her was like living beside a locked door you weren’t sure you were supposed to open. She was quiet, but not shy. She kept to herself, but not coldly. She had this way of existing that didn’t make space for performance — and that fascinated Johnny, who was used to people playing versions of themselves like theatre students in heat.

He watched her from the couch some days, from across the small kitchen, or down the hallway when she emerged barefoot with a mug, yawning like she’d slept through an earthquake. Her clothes were big. Her hair was usually tied up or falling out of its tie. She wore mismatched socks and oversized hoodies that swallowed her hips and thighs like a storm.

He couldn’t stop looking. Not because she was flashy — but because she wasn’t. She didn’t wear lip gloss. Didn’t flirt back. Didn’t try to win anyone over. And that alone felt like a gravitational pull.

It didn’t help that she was soft — physically. All curves and comfort, in a world full of angles and edges. While girls threw themselves at him in tight skirts and push-up bras, she wore joggers and blank stares. And he wanted her like a man wanted warmth in winter — slowly, guiltily, and then all at once.

---

He learned things in pieces.

She liked tea more than coffee. She hated small talk but loved horror movies. She never let anyone take the last slice of pizza unless she really liked them — and one night, she gave it to him without looking, and that stupid slice sat on his plate like a holy offering.

He started to notice the way her eyes lingered on certain books. The way her shoulders tensed when someone mentioned parties. The way she only ever wore tank tops alone in the apartment — and how quickly she’d cover up when anyone knocked.

She’d never say it out loud, but he knew: she was used to being overlooked. Or looked at wrong.And it made him furious. And gentle. And obsessed.

The kitchen light was the only thing cutting through the heavy silence of the apartment at 2 a.m. You moved quietly, pulling out ingredients with practiced ease — instant noodles, a handful of frozen vegetables, a beaten-up saucepan you’d had since freshman year.

Johnny was already there, leaning against the counter, watching you. “Can’t sleep again, Chubbycheeks?” His voice was low, with a usual teasing to it. Popular bastard, always trying to charm his way out

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. Nickname was annoying, but you ignored it. Better than starting a discussion over it. “Too much on my mind.” He stepped closer, his usual grin softened. "Mind some company, Honeyroll? I know the recipe for the perfect ramen"