Why you mean your rival believes in patriarchy?!

Two weeks. Two weeks of sharing a dorm with Matilda. Two weeks of listening to her correct the way people pronounced Balenciaga, of watching her raise an eyebrow at anything she considered “common,” of enduring that calm, superior tone she used even when she was asking you to pass the salt. She was exactly as obnoxious as she’d always been — only now there was no escaping her. And ever since the day you saw that ChatGPT thread on her laptop, you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. How to be a good 1950s wife. The curiosity had been eating at you. So you waited. You waited until the timing felt right — late enough that the dorm was quiet, early enough that she hadn’t gone to bed yet. Her side of the room was dimly lit by the soft glow of her desk lamp. She was sitting at her desk in a silk robe, legs crossed, posture perfect as always, dark curls falling over one shoulder. Her laptop was open. From where you stood near the doorway, you could just make out the screen. You moved closer, careful with your steps. Matilda was focused, one elegant hand resting under her chin as she scrolled. She didn’t notice you at first. The light from the screen caught the soft curve of her face, the glossy finish on her lips, the way her blue eyes moved carefully over the text. You leaned in just enough to read it. It wasn’t a random article. It was a detailed guide. Sections on posture. On how a wife should speak to her husband. On creating a welcoming home. On deference, presentation, and “knowing one’s place” in the relationship — all framed in that polished, old-fashioned language that somehow still felt deliberate. She had highlighted several lines. One of them read: “A good wife does not compete with her husband. She completes him.” Matilda exhaled softly through her nose, almost thoughtful, and scrolled down to another section. Her expression remained composed, but there was a quiet intensity in the way she read — like she wasn’t skimming for amusement. She was studying it. You shifted your weight, and the floor made the slightest sound. Matilda’s fingers paused on the trackpad. Her blue eyes lifted, calm and sharp, and landed directly on you in the reflection of the dark window before she turned her head. For a moment she simply looked at you. Then, without any visible panic, she slowly closed the laptop. “...How long have you been standing there?” she asked, voice perfectly even.

The argument had started over something completely stupid. You couldn’t even remember the original point anymore — something about the shared space, or the volume of the TV, or the way she’d rearranged the common area without asking. It didn’t matter. Matilda was in full form: arms crossed, chin slightly lifted, voice calm and cutting as she explained, once again, why she was right and you were being unreasonable. “You can’t just leave your things wherever you please,” she said, perfectly composed. “Some of us were raised with actual standards.” You were already irritated. And because you knew it would get under her skin, you decided to push it further. You leaned back against the counter, looked her dead in the eye, and said flatly: “Why don’t you just let me watch my movie and go make me a sandwich?” The effect was immediate. Matilda opened her mouth — ready, no doubt, with another polished, superior remark — and then stopped. Her lips remained slightly parted. A faint flush rose across her cheeks, soft but unmistakable against her fair skin. Her blue eyes widened just a fraction before she caught herself. For the first time in the two weeks you’d been living together, her composure actually cracked. She blinked once. “...Excuse me?” Her voice was still controlled, but it had lost some of its usual sharpness. There was a subtle tightness in it now. She shifted her weight, fingers curling slightly against her arm, and the flush on her face deepened when she realized she hadn’t immediately fired something back. “That is—” she started, then stopped again. Her gaze flicked away for half a second before returning to you, more defensive than before. “That is an incredibly rude thing to say.” But she didn’t sound angry. She sounded flustered. Her posture remained perfect, her chin still lifted, but there was a new tension in her shoulders... and she hadn’t told you no.

Things had been... weird. Ever since the afternoon in the parking lot when her tire went flat and you changed it for her without making a big deal out of it, something in Matilda had shifted. It wasn’t dramatic. She still spoke the same way. Still carried herself like she was slightly above everything. But the sharp edges had dulled. She stopped commenting every time you left a jacket on the chair. She started making enough food for two. And she no longer sounded quite so pleased with herself when she corrected you. Today you came back from the gym completely drained. Muscles sore, shirt stuck to your back, the kind of tired that made the dorm stairs feel longer than usual. You went straight for the bathroom, barely saying a word, and stayed under the hot water until your head cleared a little. When you finally stepped out with a towel around your waist, the first thing you noticed was the quiet. Then you saw it. On the edge of your bed, your clothes had been folded. Not just tossed there — properly folded. Clean shirt. Clean shorts. Socks placed neatly on top. The way someone would lay them out if they expected you to get dressed without thinking about it. On the small desk near your side of the room sat a plate still faintly warm: grilled chicken, rice, and vegetables, arranged with the kind of care that didn’t look accidental. A glass of water had been set beside it. Matilda was in the kitchenette area, back mostly turned, wiping down the counter with calm, precise movements. She was still in one of her polished outfits, dark curls perfect, as if she hadn’t done anything unusual at all. She glanced over when she heard you. For a second her blue eyes flicked down to the towel at your waist, then back up. A faint, controlled color touched her cheeks, but her expression remained composed. “You were gone longer than usual,” she said simply. Her voice was even. Almost casual. “I assumed you’d be tired.” She set the cloth down and turned fully toward you, hands resting lightly in front of her. “Eat before it gets cold.” There was no sarcastic remark. No comment about how you usually left things lying around. No superior little smile. Just the folded clothes. The meal. And Matilda standing there like this was the most natural thing in the world.

From the outside, nothing had really changed. Matilda was still Matilda. Still the composed, old-money girl who corrected people’s pronunciation, still looked at most of the campus like it mildly offended her, still carried herself like she was doing everyone a favor by existing in the same space. In class, in the hallway, in the dining hall — she remained exactly as obnoxious as she’d always been. But inside the dorm, it was different. Inside, she had become something else entirely. You pushed the door open after a long day, dropping your bag by the wall out of habit. The room smelled faintly of whatever she had cooked — something simple, warm, and properly seasoned. Soft music played at a low volume. The space was tidy in a way it never used to be when it was just the two of you existing around each other. Matilda looked up from the small table. She was wearing one of those soft, polished blouses she liked, sleeves neatly rolled, an apron tied around her waist that somehow still looked expensive. Her dark curls were loosely pinned back. The moment her blue eyes met yours, the usual superior edge softened into something quieter. More attentive. “You’re back,” she said, and there was no sarcasm in it. Just acknowledgment. She set down the utensil she’d been holding and already started moving. “Sit. You look tired.” She didn’t ask if you wanted to eat. She simply plated the food and brought it over, placing it in front of you with the same calm precision she did everything else now. Then she poured a glass of water and set it beside the plate before taking her own seat across from you — posture still perfect, hands folded neatly in her lap until she began to eat at a measured pace. For a while, neither of you spoke. It had become like this over the past weeks. Outside these walls she could still cut someone down with a single raised eyebrow. In here, she waited. She watched for your cues. She adjusted. When you finally leaned back, she glanced at your empty plate, then at you. “Was it all right?” she asked. Soft. Almost careful. There was still pride in her — that part of her would never fully disappear — but it had been reshaped. Redirected. She no longer needed to prove she was above everything. She only needed to do this well. Later, when the dishes were done and the room had settled into the usual evening quiet, she moved past you to retrieve something from her side of the space. As she did, her fingers brushed your arm lightly. Not accidental. Not demanding either. Just present. Matilda, the rival. Matilda, the heiress. Matilda, who still rolled her eyes at half the people on campus. And Matilda, who had decided — without ever making a grand announcement — that inside this dorm, she was yours in the old-fashioned way she had always privately wanted. She glanced back at you over her shoulder, blue eyes calm, a faint flush on her cheeks that she didn’t bother hiding anymore. “I’ll prepare your clothes for tomorrow,” she said simply. “Don’t stay up too late.” Then she returned to what she was doing, as if this arrangement were the most natural thing in the world.

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