Rose drags her fluffy slippers along the worn-out wooden floor, rubbing up and down her arms and examining her breath for clouds. It's getting colder by the day. Yet, she can't bring herself to turn up the heat in the flat, it would be too depressing. Instead, she picks up John's cardigan from the couch— the one with elbow patches he bought because it makes him look like a professor— and she slips it over her nightie. She pulls the sleeves to cover her hands although he would no doubt complain that she stretched it. They'd had that argument before, and she maintains that it was already stretch when he bought it at a charity shop. Anyway, he had no rights to complain: his arms are much longer than hers.

She picks up her old laptop from the coffee table to set it on the kitchen counter. She opens the community radio website, squinting against the harsh screen light. John's radio show is too late at night for her, but she always listens to it online first thing the next morning while he's still sleeping.

The intro jingle starts with a strange grinding sound— it's actually the noise of an old dryer— and he introduces himself as the Doctor, his radio persona, a space and time traveller.

"And today we land in 1522. What happened in 1522, you ask? I don't know, let's find out! September 6th: The Vittoria, one of the surviving ships of Magellan's expedition, returns to Sanlúcar de Barrameda in Spain, becoming the first ship to circumnavigate the world. Circumnavigate. I like that word. I should use it more often: Let's take a walk and circumnavigate the neighbourhood! Anyway, Magellan, funny chap …"

John goes on to talk, a thousand words a minute, about Magellan as if he'd known him personally. Meanwhile, the smell of toasting bread fills the small room and Rose sets the half-circle table for breakfast.

"And now, time for a song. We're all plastic by The Nestene Consciousness, dedicated to my fantastic friend, you know who you are."

She smiles, not only at the dedication but at the memory of the night this song reminds her of. The night John and a bunch of other students had thought that it would be a splendid idea to dress up as mannequin and scare the hell out of costumers at Henrik's. She was in the cellar — a place that gave her the chills to begin with— when she ran into him, and she'd screamed like a virgin in a horror movie. He'd promptly removed his mask, making his hair stick up with static electricity, and his warm smile had reassured her.

The manager was furious (wasn't he always?) but it could have been worse considering how ill-planned the prank was, he was lucky they hadn't blown up the place.

The students had bought a round for the staff afterwards to apologize. She doesn't remember which pub it was or what she drank or even what they talked about but she remembers that he hadn't talked to anyone else but her. It had been strange to have all that attention. A good kind of strange. The kind that gave her butterflies whenever their knees touched under the table.

They'd gone to a concert afterwards, although it wasn't in her habit to follow strange blokes to disused tube stations near the London Eye. But he had such kind eyes and the faked nonchalance he'd put on to ask her to come along had won her over.

The Nestene Consciousness' particular brand of electro-punk rock had turned their legs into springs. They'd bounced and sang at the top of their lungs. The crowd's energy had turned the room into a furnace. Sweat ran down their spines and their throats chafed, their bodies collided and his arms went around her waist. In the heat of the moment, she would have let him kiss her. But the cops crashed the party and John grabbed her hand and told her to run.

They'd driven around in his blue Peugeot with the windows down and the night air swirling in. Outlaws on the run, itching for mischief. They'd jumped a fence and explored the ruins of a medieval church overtaken by nature, foliage in lieu of stained glass and stone arches now the homes of owls. And there was a bag of chips and fireflies and a shared feeling of confusion about what to do with their lives. He had too many opportunities and she had too few. But this, this felt right. Planets aligned. She could spend her life working in a shop as long as there were nights like this one.

It was perfect.

Yet, when he'd invited her back to his flat, she'd declined. She had Mickey. Although, to be honest, her answer wasn't as instantaneous and definite as it should have been. She'd given him her number too. He'd called the next day and asked if she wanted to celebrate Japan's national pillow-fight day.

And they never stopped. She never said no, so he always asked her. His wallet was full of odd membership cards and access passes that allowed them to enter the strangest places: 17th century catacombs, the roof of The Shard, Regent's Park after lock down. Nonetheless, they still managed to get into more trouble than she cared to tell her mother about. Trouble was only the bits in-between. In-between laughter and heart stutters.

She used to think that adventure was only for rich people.

Then her flatmate moved out, and Mickey said he wasn't ready to move in with her and John needed a place to stay (he'd dropped out of uni because he couldn't make up his mind about what to study and therefore couldn't live on the campus anymore) and that was it. He pulled books after books out of cardboard boxes that didn't seem big enough to contain them all, and her stomach did a strange little flip when she saw his toothbrush next to hers.

They've been living together for six months now. It's a bit of a hectic life, they don't have much of a routine, she'd promised him they wouldn't. They cook for each other, and she takes off his glasses when he falls asleep on the couch, and he holds her hand when she cries while watching The Land Before Time.

The song ends and after a brief advert, John starts talking about cows mooing in regional accents.

Rose brushes a few crumbs off her nightie and opens the cupboard to retrieve her favourite mug— the one with an elephant trunk as the handle— and she finds a piece of paper tucked in it.

Fun fact of the day: Caffeine can increase the amount of calcium that is flushed out in the urine which might weaken the bones. What I'm trying to say is, be grateful I finished the coffee and forgot to buy more.

Have a nice day!

John xx

P.S. Sorry

P.P.S. I finished the milk too.

Rose rolls her eyes, she usually loves these little "fun fact" notes he leaves behind for her, but this one isn't as pleasing. Still, she can't complain, he's a great flatmate— that is, once you get past his little quirks like taking apart electronics and collecting "human artefacts" as he calls his junk.

She neatly folds the piece of paper into a crane and uses a clothespin to add it to the garland across the bay window. He'd taken to writing his facts on colourful origami paper for this purpose. Then, she sits on the window seat and pulls her nightie over her knees, looking out as morning light trickles through the frost plumes on the glass.

She stays there until the end of John's show, sometimes she loses track of what he's talking about and zones out, but she likes the rhythm of his voice.

By the end, she's still feeling groggy. She knows that it wouldn't take much to wake up fully, she really only has to shake herself a bit, yet she maintains her sleepiness, feeding it with slow blinks and yawns. She doesn't have to be at Henrik's before one o'clock so there's really no point in staying up if there's no coffee.

She walks back to her room but hesitates in front of John's door. It's only fair that he pays for his carelessness, he knows how much she needs her morning coffee.

They'd done it before, sleeping together. Sleeping sleeping, not the other kind. Usually after a horror movie watched too late or a bad news, although the reasons to do so seem to have multiplied lately.

His room is pitch black except for a line of light between the two curtain panels. Thankfully, she's been in here enough times to easily locate the bed. She pats the mattress until she finds his sleeping form and then the edge of the blanket, under which she slips carefully.

John groans.

"Rose?" He turns on his side to look at her with half-opened eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Occupying your bed until you circumnavigate your arse to Tesco and get me coffee."

John bursts out laughing, a sleepy laugh, thick like honey. He runs his hand over his face and through his hair, shakes his head to clear his thoughts.

"Lemme get this straight: you thought the best way to get me out of bed was to get in my bed?" He snuggles up to her, molding his lanky frame to her back and pressing his nose to the crown of her head. "You didn't think this through, did you?"

"Shut up."

She feels his chest rumble with another sleepy laugh and she covers his arm with hers.

"I'll go later."

"You better, mister," Rose replies but her voice has turned into a whisper.

She closes her eyes, breathing in traces of his cologne left on the pillow. She's already drifting off to sleep.

"Is that my cardigan?" he asks as his hand slips under the wool and around her waist.

"Mmhm."

"You'll stretch the sleeves again," he mumbles.

"Too late."

He tightens his arm around her and she smiles, knowing he's not really mad.

"Find another flatmate if I'm so terrible," she jokes.

"Never. You're stuck with me."

"Well, that's not so bad."