Page 20 of The Roommate Experiment

I walk to her door, hesitating a second before knocking. “Hey, everything alright in there?” My voice comes out still gravelly from sleep.

After a brief pause, she responds with a frustrated, “I’m fine,” that doesn’t soundfine at all.

I raise an eyebrow, suddenly more awake. “You sure? It sounds like you’re wrestling a wild animal in there.”

More rustling, another grunt, and a soft thud. I knock again, this time a little louder. Okay, maybe it’s not a beast she’s fighting, but whatever it is, it sounds like it’s winning.

“Hunter? Can I help?” I offer, concerned now.

There’s a pause, then an exasperated sigh. “Alright, just… don’t laugh.”

Not reassuring, but definitely intriguing. I wonder what could be happening behind that door. Is she assembling IKEA furniture at 6a.m.? Practicing some bizarre new yoga pose?

“Promise. No laughing,” I pledge, unsure if I can keep my word. It’ll depend on what I’ll find on the other side.

After a reluctant, “Come in” from Hunter, I cautiously open her door and step inside her bedroom. And freeze.

I blink, processing the scene before me. Hunter is thrashing in the center of the room, tangled in a too-tight shirt that’s stuck over her head. The top covers her face and most of her upper torso,thank goodness. Her arms are raised above her, trapped in the sleeves as if in a sort of straightjacket. During the struggle, her bra has lost the fight to stay clasped and is now dangling beneath the blouse. There is a little under-boob showing.

Hunter looks like she’s been wrestling this outfit for a while, and the shirt is definitely winning. My eyes trail down to her flat stomach where a sparkly belly button stud pierces her skin. Has she always had that? I shuffle to my mental catalog of all the summer visits she’s paid to my parents’ place, but I can’t remember… The fact that I can’t recollect bothers me more than it should, and I don’t know why.

Hunter lets out another muffled cry.

The scene is comic, but somehow, I can’t find a single laugh within me. Instead, there’s this burning warmth settling in, something that twists low and leaves me rooted on the spot. I swallow past whatever it is I’m feeling at the sight of that belly ring and the peek of under-boob.

I tear my eyes away and scan the rest of the room—immaculately tidy, ready to pass a military inspection. The bed is pristine, not a single crease or pillow out of place, and every surface is spotless. Even the books on her shelves are stacked with precision. The only thing out of order is an overflowing laundry basket near her bed.

I take a step closer to Hunter to figure out the best way to help her out of this predicament without making things more awkward.

“Uh… need a hand?”

“No, Dylan, I’m practicing a new interpretive dance routine,” Hunter retorts, her voice muffled by the fabric. “Yes, please, help me.”

I approach her with the same caution I would use for a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement and reach for the hem of the shirt, trying to untangle her without accidentally copping a feel.

“Okay, just… hold still,” I instruct, grasping the fabric and tugging. “We need to coordinate. Exhale on three and I’m going to pull.”

She nods, the shirt bobbing with the movement. I count down, “One, two, three,” and tug.

The blouse doesn’t budge. Hunter lets out a frustrated groan that would be adorable if she wasn’t so clearly annoyed.

“I’m going to try again,” I reassure her.

“Put more elbow grease into it.”

“I won’t take the bait and make a joke about lubricant.”

“Dylan, please, I can’t breathe.” Even underneath the frustration, she sounds amused.

“Okay, one, two, three…”

We manage to pull the shirt down on the third try.

The fabric slides down her torso, snapping into place. Her bra stays twisted underneath. Hunter, her face flushed, tugs her top down further, avoiding eye contact.

“There. You’re free. Fashion emergency averted.” I keep my gaze high, away from her chest and the tantalizing lacy pink fabric of her bra.

Hunter looks part mortified, part defiant as she meets my eyes, 100 percent deliciously tousled. “Not a word.”

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