For a few seconds I just stared at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle in. Then everything from yesterday came creeping back: Greg’s balls stretching my mouth, his dick erupting warm and bitter loads in my mouth, his expression afterward, that look I couldn’t stop replaying.
My stomach tightened.
The apartment was quiet, though. No heavy footsteps. No doors slamming. No deep voice echoing in the hallway.
Good.
I got dressed quickly and stepped into the corridor, half-expecting to run straight into Greg anyway, like the universe had decided to test me. But the living room was empty. The only sound came from the kitchen: the soft crackle of something cooking in a pan.
Adrien.
Glad it was him.
He was standing at the stove in his usual relaxed way, a spatula in hand, carefully folding an omelette that looked far more sophisticated than anything we normally ate in this place.
“Morning,” he said without turning.
“Morning.”
Adrien finally glanced over his shoulder and gave me a small nod. He was wearing a loose grey t-shirt and boxer shorts, hair still messy from sleep, the kind of calm presence that made the apartment feel less chaotic.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Always. Love breakfast time.”
“Same man.”
I grabbed some bread and dropped two slices in the toaster, then leaned against the counter while he worked.
For a moment we just listened to the omelette sizzling.
Then Adrien spoke again.
“Place looked great yesterday.”
I blinked:
“What?”
“The cleaning,” he clarified. “Kitchen, sink, shelves… even the floor. Almost slipped this morning because it was actually clean for once.”
I frowned, genuinely confused:
“Wait… seriously?”
Adrien flipped the omelette with surprising precision and shrugged.
“Yeah. Why?”
I hesitated.
Because Greg had practically told me the opposite. Because he’d woken me up like I’d done a terrible job. Because I’d spent half the night thinking I’d somehow failed at the one simple thing I was supposed to do.
“Greg said it wasn’t happy about it” I muttered.
Adrien actually laughed at that:
“That fucker. Of course he said that.” He flipped the omelette. “Greg can be an ass.”
He slid the omelette onto a plate and leaned back against the counter.
“Trust me,” he continued, “this kitchen has never looked that good. I could see the color of the tiles again. That’s historic dude.”
That made me smile despite myself.
“Historic,” I repeated, smiling.
“Truly groundbreaking research,” Adrien said in his usual analytical tone. “Future generations will study it, I tell you.”
The toaster popped.
I spread jam on the warm bread while Adrien cut into his omelette.
After a few bites, he glanced at me again, noticing I was still a little tense.
“You look worried,” he said.
I shrugged:
“Just… tired, I guess.”
Adrien studied me for a second, the way he sometimes did when he was trying to analyze me as a biology subject, maybe?
Then he waved a hand dismissively:
“Don’t worry about Big’ old G.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s one of this phase,” Adrien said.
The knot in my stomach loosened a little.
“Oh?”
Adrien continued eating:
“His regular girl is out of town for the next whole month,” he added matter-of-factly. “That usually makes him… less pleasant.”
I couldn’t help letting out a quiet breath.
Well that could explain a lot.
Maybe Greg had just been in a bad mood. Maybe he’d needed someone to snap at, to just… vent and use me.
Adrien pointed his fork at me:
“So relax,” he said. “You did good. I’m glad you’re the new roommate.”
I laughed softly and took a bite of toast.
For the first time since yesterday, things felt almost normal again.
Adrien kept eating his omelette with the calm focus of someone who genuinely respected breakfast (just like me!).
“Hey,” he said, pointing his fork vaguely in my direction, “do you have anything planned this afternoon?”
I shrugged, mouth half full of toast.
“Not really. Maybe a bit of reading.”
Adrien nodded slowly, chewing, then wiped his mouth with a napkin (seemed like a very old one someone had made for him):
“I was thinking of going to see an exhibition at the Musée Guimet. It’s about the Han dynasty. Some ceramics, paintings, that kind of stuff.”
He said it in the most casual tone imaginable, like suggesting we go buy milk.
I blinked.
“Han dynasty?” I repeated. “I’m not an expert in that one. Don’t know most of those dynasties anyway.”
“Yeah, I’m not either but it seemed interesting,” he said. “And I kinda hoped you could guide me.”
“You know my specialty is more ancient Greece?
“I know man, but since Han dynasty is kinda at the same time…”
“You’re right.” I tried to remember the exact chronology. “Ended in 220 AD, right before the Three kingdoms.”
He cut another piece of omelette:
“See, you can teach me things already. Just have to finish writing some comments for my reviewers first.”
“Reviewers?”
“The article my team is trying to publish. They sent back a few corrections.”
He said all this while chewing:
“I should be done around early afternoon.”
Then he glanced at me again:
“So, are you up to come with me later?”
I raised an eyebrow:
“Sure. Sounds great.”
“Awesome. I feel I need to go out a bit, spent too much time in here.”
I looked around too.
Yeah. Fair point.
Adrien noticed I was eyeing his plate and casually nudged it a few centimeters toward me:
“You want some?”
I immediately shook my head:
“No, no… it’s yours.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Truth is, I felt weird accepting food from him. Not in a bad way. Just… shy, I guess.
I pointed at the pan instead.
“But you definitely got better at handling eggs.”
Adrien laughed softly at that.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s Big G’s fault.”
“How?”
“Too much pressure,” Adrien replied with mock seriousness. “He has very strong opinions about cooking.”
I couldn’t help smiling.
Adrien continued, amused:
“You burn eggs once and suddenly it’s a full performance review.”
That made me laugh for real this time.
Yeah… I remember.
He finished the last bite of his omelette and leaned back slightly, exposing his strong pecs, bulging from the t-shirt.
I also spotted something big, tenting in his boxers.
Fuck.
It was quick but I saw it twitch under the tissue.
Adrien finished his plate, rinsed it in the sink, and then migrated to his usual corner of the living room: the small desk he had basically annexed as his personal research station.
It was always the same setup: laptop open, a few printed papers covered in tiny annotations, a dirty Iron Maiden mug that probably contained either coffee or tea but was never fully empty.
I watched him boot up his document.
Damn.
I hope I don’t work every Sunday like him in the future.
Not that Adrien seemed miserable doing it.
Quite the opposite. He looked… comfortable. Like someone watering a plant they actually cared about.
I cleared my throat a bit.
“Hey Adrien?”
“Hmm?” he answered without looking away from the screen.
“Would it be okay if I start a washing machine cycle? I’m kinda running out of clothes.”
That got his attention. He turned his chair slightly toward me:
“Oh yeah, go ahead.”
“Heard it’s pretty loud though,” I added, glancing toward the open kitchen where the old washing machine sat under the counter. “Since you’re working… I could start it later.”
Adrien waved a hand dismissively:
“No, it’s fine, I’ll just grab my earplugs.”
Fair enough.
Adrien was a really nice man.
Sometimes I wondered how those three guys could live together. They seemed so different.
I went to my room, gathered the small pile of clothes I had left (mostly T-shirts, socks, and one pair of jeans) and dumped them into the machine. A quick thirty-minute cycle would do the job.
The machine started with its usual aggressive clunk and began filling with water.
Adrien slipped the second earplug in, gave me a thumbs-up, and returned to his article.
I grabbed a book and sat on the couch across the room. The washing machine hummed steadily in the background while Adrien typed, occasionally stopping to reread a paragraph.
For a moment the apartment felt… peaceful.
Which should have been my first warning.
Because the front door suddenly slammed open:
“PUTAIN. I’m dead!”
Julien.
He burst into the apartment like a hurricane, gym bag over his shoulder, hair still dripping wet from practice. The smell of chlorine entered the room before he even did.
“Morning guys!” he shouted.
Adrien raised a hand politely.
Julien kicked off his shoes and stretched his shoulders with a dramatic groan.
“Shit I’m so hungry.” he announced to nobody in particular.
Then his eyes fell on the kitchen.
More specifically, the washing machine.
He pointed at it like it had personally offended him:
“Who started that?”
“Uh… me.”
Julien groaned loudly.
“Damn… kinda wanted to use it too.”
Adrien calmly kept typing.
Julien leaned closer to the machine, inspecting it like a mechanic.
“How long it’s been going?”
“Just started. Not even 5 minutes.”
He scratched his wet hair, thinking:
“Can I throw some stuff in there too?”
I hesitated.:
“Hmm… yeah probably.”
Julien snapped his fingers.
“Perfect.”
Then, with a confident look, he went to me and grabbed my wrist:
“Come on.”
Before I could even react he was already pulling me down the hallway toward his room.
Julien’s room (his den), was still messy as ever: clothes everywhere, towels draped over chairs, a guitar leaning against the wall.
He opened a drawer and immediately started tossing things toward me.
“Here.”
A pair of socks hit my chest.
“Add those.”
Another pair.
“And these.”
Then a boxer brief landed on my shoulder.
The smell was… impressive.
Chlorine, of course. But sweat. Like 50 shades of sweat.
Julien didn’t even look embarrassed:
“Coach made us do sprint drills today,” he said casually while digging for more laundry. “Pool felt like soup.”
Another boxer briefs was thrown at me:
“Add those too.”
I gathered the growing pile in my arms like a very confused laundry assistant.
Julien pointed toward the kitchen:
“Go throw them in before the cycle locks.”
Then he grinned.
“Teamwork.”
I hurried out of his room, a little shaken by the way he’d treated me, but somehow also pleased to be useful, like I was doing my part of the deal.
As I stepped back into the living room, my arms full of the swimmer’s dirty clothes, I noticed the strong smell coming from them growing sharper and more heady, like a dense mixture of memories his body had left behind. A bit like the musky, very particular scent of the locker rooms where he spent so much time.
It’s like… fucking with my brain.
While I drifted in those thoughts, I found myself in the kitchen in front of the washing machine and crouched down to stop the cycle. I placed his clothes on the floor first, slowly, almost like an offering.
Once the door of the machine was open, I picked up each item one by one, with a strange kind of respect, and added them to the pile inside.
He wore exclusively white socks: mostly sports brands, some with no obvious logo though. A few were slightly worn at the edges. He had pretty big feet, maybe size 44, and the smell coming from them was really strong.
Then came his boxers.
Two of them. Tight ones. One blue, one red.
One even had that opening in the front (I never really understood what that was for—who actually uses those to pee?). And then I noticed something.
Marks.
Shiny ones.
Instinctively, curiosity pulled me in. I had to know what it was. So I leaned closer. I smelled them, from up close.
Yeah…
I even let the fabric come within a few millimeters of my mouth.
My tongue slipped out, as if drawn by some cosmic force.
The Great Old One of underwear!
At the last second, I hesitated and froze, horrified by what I was about to do.
What the hell are you doing Steph?
Seriously, what the hell?
You’re turning into the worst kind of creep.
Since when do you sniff at your roommate’s dirty underwear?
Those kinds of smells had never interested me before. I’d never done anything like that with my own clothes, so why were Julien’s having this effect on me?
Had our little arrangement started to mess with my head for real?
I quickly shoved Mr. Swimmer’s dirty boxers into the machine, closed it for good, and turned around.
And that’s when I saw something that froze me in place.
Adrien.
From the other side of the living room, sitting at his desk.
From there he had a perfect view of the kitchen, and more specifically of me, kneeling on the floor, having just finished sniffing my roommate’s dirty underwear.
And his eyes were locked on me.
Wide open.
Shit.
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