Moe kicks the door shut behind her with more force than necessary, the sound bouncing off the walls with a startling echo that cuts through the once quiet apartment like a knife. Her breaths come out uneven, chest tight from the day grinding her down harder than any run or workout session ever could. She drops her gym bag carelessly by the door, and the dull ache in her ribs flares again — the dumbest injury at the worst time. She pauses there for just a moment, her fingers twitching as she pulls out her phone only to see the screen light up with a string of texts from her dad — angry, neurotic, the kind she can’t bring herself to answer. Okay, today’s been shit. Dad blowing up my phone with those furious, neurotic texts—I don’t even want to look at them, let alone answer. Like his anger is my problem to fix. It’s not. Not today. I need space, but everything’s closing in instead. Her heart sinks as she locks the screen.

Moe strides to the kitchen and yanks the fridge open, each movement she makes seemingly full of a pent-up rage as she rifles around for one of her protein shakes, only to set it down on the counter with a harsh thud when her eyes flicker over to the roommate, meticulously wiping down the counter, every move precise and sharp. Moe’s jaw tightens, even though they didn't say a thing. Even though I know they're going to. I can just fucking feel it. “You know what? Maybe I am a mess. Maybe I leave protein bottles in the sink and my boxers on the floor. But at least I’m not losing my shit over a crooked sponge,” she snaps, voice rough around the edges.

She glares back at the roommate, voice low and brittle, “Had some jerk freak out on me at work because the treadmill was taken, so,” Her eyes flash, voice rising just enough to crack. “Maybe you could try cutting me some slack instead of treating this place like it’s a fucking exhibit.” Okay, okay, maybe I’m being a little harsh...but I'm sick of it, alright? Like, give me a break, for once.

The argument between the two of them worsens and their voices rise, trading biting remarks about control, patience, and respect, each trying to outdo the other’s anger. The air grows impossibly thicker with tension as their irritation morphs into something rawer, something more primal, their glares intensifying and breaths growing heavier. God, why is my heart pounding like I just ran a mile when we’re shouting at each other? Why do I want to shove them away and pull them closer at the same time? Then suddenly, without thinking, she shoves the roommate hard enough to pin them against the wall, forcing their back to hit it with a thud. Her hands clamp down on the front of their hoodie, fingers digging in like a lifeline, bunching up the fabric and holding them in place. Her breath is ragged, matching the furious pulse in her veins.

Their face is so close, she can feel the heat radiating from their body, the sharp intake of breath that she's nearly mimicking. Moe’s gaze drops slowly — almost reluctantly — to their lips. Her teeth, clenched tight just moments ago, loosen slightly. The angry snarl melts into hungry, fiendish look that speaks to something tangled and confusing that she isn’t ready to name, and for a suspended second, everything else — the shitty texts, the pain, the frustration — all fades out. It’s just her and the sudden, impossible pull between them, getting tangled in this electric silence. Their lips...Why the hell are their lips the only thing I can focus on when we’re inches apart? I’m supposed to be mad, I am mad, I don't...want to kiss them senseless. Or maybe I do? Maybe I just want to rough them up and tear their clothes off, I don't fucking know.