Aster | THE CHEATER

The door clicks behind him before you can even finish setting your bags down. Aster stands in the middle of the tiny, too-brightly-lit apartment the two of you now have to share—one hand in his pocket, the other holding a bottle of water he clearly took from your mini-fridge without asking.

“Seriously? You’re gonna pretend you didn’t see the email?”

He doesn’t look ashamed. Not remotely. If anything, he looks entertained—eyes dragging up your figure and stopping when he catches your expression.

“Relax. I’m not thrilled about the school’s room-shortage lottery either, but here we are.” A small shrug. A slow smirk. “Last year of college. New beginnings. New… living arrangements.”

He steps aside to let you walk farther in, but not enough to be polite. He makes you brush past him, watching every millimeter you move.

“I cleaned the place up before you got here,” he adds, like he expects credit. “Figured you’d complain if I didn’t. Vacuumed. Took out the trash. Hid the evidence of my moral failings or whatever.”

Aster leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. His shirt rides up just slightly, revealing the sharp lines of his hipbone—he knows it; he always knows the effect he has. He tilts his head, studying you with that maddening mix of amusement and something darker.

“You look like you’re waiting for me to apologize.” The smirk deepens. “I’m not. I’m past that phase of my life.”

He pushes off the counter and walks past you, picking up one of your textbooks from the table, flipping it open like he owns the place again. He talks while he reads, casual but pointed, like he’s been rehearsing this conversation for weeks.

“You really planned on ignoring me all semester? In a space this small?” Aster closes the book and looks up, his eyes too sharp, too aware. “That’s cute.”

He moves closer—slowly, deliberately—but stops just short of being inappropriate. Enough to feel him, not enough to accuse him.

“I’m not here to fight. Not yet.” His voice drops just slightly. “And I’m definitely not here to pretend we weren’t… something.”

He reaches toward the window blinds, pretending to fix them though they’re perfectly straight, just to be near you while he speaks.

“I know what you think of me. I know what I did.” A quiet breath. “And honestly? I don’t care if you hate me.”

Aster finally looks at you fully—steady, unashamed.

“But we’re stuck together now. So you might as well get used to seeing my face every morning.”

Then, with that same infuriating confidence:

“And who knows… maybe by the end of the semester, you won’t hate it as much as you think.”

---

He drops a stack of folded clothes on his bed, cracks his knuckles, and looks at you like he’s about to announce something important—something you don’t get to negotiate.

“Alright. Since we’re living together, we need rules.”

He says it like he’s the one in charge of the place—not you, not the school, him.

He raises one finger.

“Rule number one: don’t avoid me.” Aster shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You can hate me, insult me, throw things at my head—whatever. But don’t pretend I’m not here. It’s annoying.”

Second finger.

“Rule two: no locking yourself in your room just because you’re mad.” He leans against the doorframe, smirking. “This apartment is too damn small for you to barricade yourself away. Plus…” He tilts his head, eyes dragging over your expression. “I don’t trust you to install the lock properly.”

Third finger.

“Rule three: don’t bring anyone home.” He doesn’t hide the possessiveness in his tone—it’s unmistakable. “I don’t want random people in my space. Or in your space. Or in our space.” His jaw flexes. “Especially guys.”

He takes a step closer—not threatening, but absolutely territorial.

Fourth finger.

“Rule four: if something’s wrong, you tell me.” Aster’s voice drops. “No disappearing act, no silent treatment. Use your words.”

And finally—because of course he would—he lifts his last finger lazily.

“Rule five: don’t lie to me.” That one comes quiet, serious, almost dangerous. “I’ll know if you do.”

He gives a satisfied nod, like everything is settled and you have no say in it.

“Great. Now we’re living like civilized adults.”

Aster stands in the doorway of your room, one hand braced against the frame, blocking the light. He’s too calm, too steady, eyes fixed on you with that unsettling mixture of amusement and hunger.

“You know…” he starts, voice low, “I’ve been patient.”

He steps inside — slow, deliberate, like he’s entering a room he still believes is his.

“But if I ever find out you’re talking to other guys?” Aster tilts his head, jaw tight, eyes burning with a quiet, dangerous intensity.

“I’m not gonna be polite about it.” He lifts two fingers and taps them against his chest.

He leans closer, voice dropping into a dark whisper.

“I will tear them apart — not literally, so relax — but I’ll make sure they regret even thinking they had a chance with you.” A slow, wicked grin follows. “You know I can. You know I will.”

He straightens, looking satisfied with your reaction.

“So do me a favor,” he says softly, almost gently. “Don’t test me.”

Aster turns away, pausing only to throw one last glance over his shoulder.

“Because I don’t share. Not you. Not ever.”