Roommate with the CEO

Emily Lawson clutched the tattered flyer in her hands as she stood outside the creaky wooden door of her apartment. The bold, black letters practically screamed her desperation back at her:

> ROOMMATE WANTED: Split rent, no drama, no pets, no creeps. Immediate move-in.

She had posted that ad two days ago. And now, a tall, brooding stranger was standing in front of her building, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, sunglasses shielding his eyes, and a smirk that said he'd either kill her or charm the life out of her.

Or both.

"Emily Lawson?" he asked, voice smooth like velvet but sharp enough to cut.

She narrowed her eyes. "That depends. Are you the guy who replied to my ad, or a serial killer?"

"Bit of both," he said dryly, then extended his hand. "Nick. Nick Hale."

Nick. She knew the name was fake. Not just because it sounded like something out of a spy movie, but because the man oozed mystery and money-even if he wore a plain hoodie and jeans.

Still, rent was due in four days, and unless she wanted to spend the rest of June couch-hopping or begging her ex for a loan, she needed someone-anyone-to split the bill.

She stepped aside. "Come in. But I swear, if you touch my cereal, I'll report you."

Nick chuckled. "Noted."

---

The apartment was small-just two bedrooms, one bath, and a living room that doubled as a dining area and workspace. But Emily had managed to make it feel like home, with cheap fairy lights, mismatched cushions, and half-finished canvases leaning against the walls.

"You're an artist?" Nick asked, dropping his bag near the door.

"Trying to be," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I work at a bookstore and do commissions when I can."

He nodded once, then scanned the place like he was memorizing the layout. "It's... lived-in."

"That's code for messy, isn't it?" she said, crossing her arms.

He shrugged. "I like it."

Emily blinked. That was unexpected.

---

Over the next twenty minutes, she gave him a half-hearted tour of the apartment, laid down her rules-no overnight guests, no loud music after ten, and for the love of God, no stealing her almond milk-and then handed him the spare key.

He accepted it without argument, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest second.

Tingles. Unwanted, inconvenient, and completely inappropriate tingles.

She cleared her throat. "So, uh, what do you do for work?"

"Freelance tech stuff," he said, vague enough to mean nothing.

"Like coding?"

"Sure."

That should've been a red flag. But again-desperate times.

He excused himself to unpack, and Emily tried not to stare too obviously as he disappeared into his room. The door closed with a soft click.

---

Three Days Later

Living with Nick was like sharing space with a ghost-quiet, composed, and slightly terrifying. He barely spoke unless she asked him something directly. He didn't hog the bathroom. He didn't leave dishes in the sink. He didn't even complain when her Spotify playlist looped the same three heartbreak songs over and over again.

It was unnerving.

But it was also kind of... nice?

Until Friday night.

She came home late from a shift at the bookstore, drenched from the sudden rainstorm and soaked to her socks. The apartment was dark, save for the flicker of the TV.

Nick was sprawled on the couch in nothing but a pair of gray sweats and a towel around his neck. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and his bare chest glistened from what she guessed was a post-shower glow.

Emily froze. So did her breath.

He turned, looked her up and down casually, then pointed at the paper bag in her hands. "You brought Chinese?"

"Uh-yeah. You want some?"

He shrugged. "I could eat."

That night, they sat together for the first time, chopsticks in hand, a comedy playing in the background while rain tapped gently against the window.

"So..." she finally asked, sipping her tea, "Why did you need a roommate so badly?"

"I didn't," he said.

She blinked. "Then why answer the ad?"

Nick leaned back, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Let's just say I needed to disappear for a while. Lay low. Your ad said 'no drama.' Sounded perfect."

Emily frowned. "You know, people only say 'no drama' when their life is full of it."

He didn't deny it. Just held her gaze like he was challenging her to push further.

She didn't.

Not yet.

---

One Week Later

By day seven, Emily had learned three things:

Firstly, Nick never brought friends over, but he got mysterious calls he always took outside.

Secondly, He drank his coffee black and read the newspaper-like a sixty years old businessman.

Thirdly, He had an insane body. Like, criminally sculpted.

But more than that, he was slowly becoming less of a ghost.

They bickered over laundry space. He teased her for talking to her plants. She stole his hoodies when she got cold. He pretended not to notice.

And then came the closet incident.

She was trying to reach a box of sketchbooks from the top shelf of the hall closet when the step stool wobbled beneath her.

She yelped as her balance gave way-only to land squarely against a very firm, very shirtless Nick, who had opened his door at the exact wrong time.

His arms steadied her.

Her breath hitched.

Their faces were inches apart.

His scent-clean, warm, addictive-wrapped around her like a blanket she didn't ask for but suddenly needed.

"You okay?" he asked, voice husky.

"Y-Yeah," she breathed, trying to stand upright, but his hands lingered a second too long.

And then, like a switch flipped, he stepped back.

"You should be more careful," he said coolly.

Just like that, the warmth was gone.

So was he.

---

That night, Emily lay awake staring at the ceiling.

She hated how her heart jumped every time she heard his door creak.

She hated how safe she felt around him... even if he was a walking question mark.

But mostly, she hated how curious she was about him. Who exactly was "Nick Hale"? And what kind of tech freelancer had a Rolex watch, designer sneakers, and a habit of checking the news like it was personally about him?

Something didn't add up.

She rolled over and grabbed her phone, typing his name into Google.

Nothing.

Next, she tried searching images-reverse style.

And there it was.

A picture of him.

Only... not as Nick Hale.

The headline read:

> NICHOLAS HALE: Tech Billionaire Steps Down Amidst Scandal Rumors

Her breath caught.

Her roommate wasn't just some guy hiding out from life.

He was Nathaniel freaking Carter-CEO of Hale enterprises.

And she had just served him leftover tomato pasta while wearing bunny slippers.