12 ground rules
I don't wake up gently.
I wake up annoyed, which feels justified considering I got woken up in the middle of the night by Jackson stumbling into the room like he forgot the concept of shared space existed, and the more I replay it in my head, the more irritated I get, which is why by the time I sit up and look over at him still passed out on his bed like nothing happened, I make a decision that feels completely reasonable.
I grab my pillow.
Then I throw it at him.
Hard.
It hits his shoulder with a dull thud and he barely reacts, just shifts slightly like he's trying to ignore it, which makes me narrow my eyes before grabbing it again and hitting him repeatedly with it, less controlled now, more intentional.
"Wake up," I say, not even trying to sound nice about it.
He groans, dragging a hand over his face, voice rough and half-asleep. "What the hell-"
"Wake up," I repeat, hitting him again for emphasis.
"I am awake," he mutters, clearly not actually awake.
"Then act like it."
He squints up at me, clearly struggling to process anything, then reaches out blindly like he's trying to grab the pillow and stop me.
"This is the worst fucking alarm I've ever had," he says, voice thick with sleep.
"Good," I reply, dropping the pillow onto his bed. "You deserve it."
"For what?" he mutters, pushing himself up slightly, hair a mess, eyes still barely open.
"For last night," I say, crossing my arms.
He groans again, louder this time, leaning back and pressing his palm to his forehead. "I'm too fucking tired for this, Coleman. And hungover."
"That sounds like a you problem."
"It is a me problem," he agrees immediately, then glances toward the clock on the wall and squints. "It's not even nine."
"It's morning," I say.
"It's early," he corrects.
I ignore that, sitting down on my bed and pulling my legs up slightly, already mentally organizing what I'm about to say.
"We need rules," I say.
He lets out a long, suffering exhale. "No, we don't."
"Yes, we do."
"We really don't," he says, dragging his hand down his face again. "We've survived this long without them."
"It's been two weeks," I point out.
"Exactly."
I stare at him for a second, then continue anyway because if I wait for him to be cooperative, we're going to be here all day.
"Rule one," I say, holding up a finger. "We let each other know before bringing someone over."
He doesn't argue with that, which I take as a win.
"Rule two," I continue, glancing pointedly at his side of the room, which currently looks like a hurricane passed through it, "we respect each other's space."
He follows my gaze, then looks back at me. "My space is fine."
"It's not fine," I say.
"It's functional."
"It's a mess."
"It's organized chaos."
"It's just chaos."
He snorts quietly at that, but doesn't argue further, which again, I take as progress.
"Rule three," I say, holding up another finger, "no girls over every week."
He actually laughs at that, a short, incredulous sound.
"Yeah," he says immediately. "No."
I blink. "No?"
"No," he repeats, shaking his head. "That's where I draw the line, Coleman. That's not happening."
"It's a reasonable rule."
"It's not," he says. "That's not even a rule, that's you trying to control my life."
"I'm trying to control our shared space."
"Same thing."
I exhale sharply, frustration rising faster than I can contain it. "You're not taking this seriously."
"Because it's not that serious," he replies, like that should be obvious.
I stare at him for a second longer, then shake my head, because arguing with him right now is like talking to a wall that swears it's right.
"Unbelievable," I mutter, pushing myself off the bed.
"Where are you going?" he asks, voice still rough, like he's not fully committed to being awake.
"Away from you," I say, grabbing my phone.
"Sounds dramatic."
"You're dramatic."
"I'm hungover."
"That's still your fault."
I don't wait for him to respond, just head for the door, pulling it open and stepping out into the hallway before he can say anything else that will make this worse.
The air outside feels cooler, calmer, and I take a breath before pulling up Logan's contact and hitting call without overthinking it.
He answers quickly. "Everly."
"I cannot do this," I say immediately, not even giving him time to say anything else. "He's impossible, Logan, like actually impossible, he brought a girl into the room last night like I didn't exist and then this morning he's acting like I'm overreacting for wanting basic rules-"
There's a pause on the other end.
"Wait," Logan says slowly. "Who?"
I stop mid-step. "What?"
"Who's your roommate?" he repeats.
I hesitate for half a second, then say it without thinking too much about it. "Jackson Bennett."
Silence. Then-
"You're kidding."
"I wish I was."
There's another pause, but this one is different, heavier, like something just clicked into place for him.
"That's the receiver," he says.
I blink. "What?"
"The one from tryouts," he continues, his voice tightening slightly. "Bennett."
Oh.
"Oh."
"And he's your roommate," Logan adds.
"Yes," I say. "Which is exactly why I'm calling you because he is driving me insane-"
"Everly," Logan cuts in, his tone shifting into something firmer, more controlled. "You shouldn't be in that situation."
I stop walking.
"I don't have a choice," I say, frustration creeping back in. "We already went over this."
"That doesn't mean I'm okay with it."
"I didn't ask if you were okay with it."
"You should have."
I let out a sharp breath. "Logan-"
"He's not someone I trust," he says, more serious now. "Not like that."
"You don't even know him," I argue.
"I know enough," he replies.
"That's not fair."
"What's not fair is you being stuck in a room with a guy like that."
"A guy like what?" I shoot back, my patience slipping.
"Someone who doesn't take things seriously," Logan says. "Someone who-"
"I'm not having this conversation," I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. "I called to vent, not to get a lecture."
"I'm not lecturing you."
"You are."
There's a pause. Then, "I'm just looking out for you."
"I don't need you to do that every second," I say, frustration boiling over now.
"You kind of do."
I close my eyes for a second. "Bye, Logan."
"Everly-"
I hang up.
I stand there for a second, staring at my phone, then let out a frustrated breath, pushing it back into my pocket as I start walking again.
"Every guy on the planet is stupid," I mutter under my breath.
It feels accurate.
By the time I reach Nola's dorm, I don't even knock softly, just knock twice and wait, shifting my weight impatiently until the door opens.
Nola blinks at me once. Then, "Oh, this is gonna be good."
"I cannot deal with them," I say immediately, walking past her into the room without waiting for an invitation, dropping onto her bed like I live there.
"With who?" she asks, closing the door behind me.
"Jackson and Logan," I say, already continuing. "One of them doesn't take anything seriously and the other one takes everything too seriously and somehow I'm stuck in the middle of both of them and-oh, hi."
I pause mid-rant, glancing over at the other side of the room where her roommate is sitting at her desk.
"Hi," she replies, clearly amused.
"That's Peyton," Nola says.
"Nice to meet you," I say, then immediately turn back to Nola. "Anyway-"
And I keep going.
I don't stop, not for a second, just unload everything, last night, this morning, the rules, the argument, Logan's reaction, all of it spilling out faster than I can filter it, because if I stop, I'll start overthinking it and I don't want to do that.
By the time I finish, I'm slightly out of breath.
Nola just stares at me for a second. Then she laughs.
Not a small laugh, a full, unfiltered laugh.
"Oh my God," she says, shaking her head. "Yeah, that's exactly why I'm a full-time lesbian."
I groan, dropping my face into my hands. "That's not helpful."
"It's extremely helpful," she argues. "I've removed this entire category of problems from my life."
"Good for you."
"It is," she says, still smiling.
I let out a long sigh, leaning back against her bed.
"Come on," she says suddenly, grabbing my wrist and pulling me up before I can protest. "We're getting breakfast."
"I'm not hungry."
"You're stressed," she corrects. "Same thing."
"That's not how that works."
"It is today," she says, already dragging me toward the door. "Let's go."
I don't fight her.
Mostly because I don't have the energy.
And partly because she's probably right.