"Noa, you're not gonna believe this," Ren said, phone in hand, voice halfway between a laugh and an actual emergency. "We got in."
Noa squinted at him, a plastic spoon of instant ramen hanging from her lips. "Got in where?"
Ren turned the screen toward her. A crisp, official-looking email glowed bright at the top.
> Congratulations! You've been approved for the Youth Housing Program.
> Your shared unit will be available starting next Monday.
Noa blinked once. Then twice. Then blinked again because Ren wasn't laughing.
"You actually signed us up?" she asked, setting her cup down slowly.
"You told me to!"
"I was joking!"
"So was I—until now."
Silence fell between them like an invisible anvil. Then they both laughed, way too loud, way too nervously.
The Youth Housing Program was the city's latest brainchild to solve the housing crisis—give subsidized apartments to young adults who agreed to cohabit for three months. "Reduce rent, increase social harmony," the brochure claimed. And somewhere between that ridiculous slogan and a bottle of cheap wine last month, they'd submitted an application. As a joke.
And now the joke had turned into a legally binding lease.
---
Moving day arrived too fast.
The apartment was on the 7th floor, painted beige, and smelled like freshly wiped countertops and faint despair. They stood at the door, identical duffel bags in hand, not saying much.
"This feels like a prank show," Noa muttered as Ren unlocked the door.
Inside, the place was... fine. A bit too clean. A bit too small. A bit too *one-bed-ish*.
"Wait. Where's the second bed?" Noa asked.
They stared at the queen-sized bed in the corner of the studio layout. A tiny coffee table. A mini-fridge. A combined bathroom-laundry unit. But no couch. No futon. No spare mattress.
"I... think they assumed we're a couple," Ren said, his voice climbing up an octave.
"Well, that's offensive," Noa huffed. "Modern love comes in many—wait, what if they check? What if there's a camera?"
Ren dropped his bag. "Don't say things like that."
"You don't think they're testing us, right? Like secret observations?"
Ren was already circling the ceiling, tapping the smoke detector with a broom. "I don't see a lens... but what if it's *behind* the light fixture?"
"Relax. Even if there is a camera, we just act chill."
"You mean we act like we share a bed?"
Noa paused.
Ren paused.
The air paused.
---
They set some *ground rules* by 8PM.
1. Alternating bathroom schedule.
2. Clear food labeling in the fridge. (Noa underlined this twice.)
3. Sleep rotation: one on the bed, one on the floor, switch every night.
4. Absolutely no underwear left in common areas.
That last one was added after Ren found her black lace bra hanging from the shower rod.
"Oops," Noa had said, not sorry at all. "It's called drip-dry elegance."
---
Night came fast. Ren took the floor first.
Noa lay stiffly in bed, staring at the ceiling like it owed her answers. Every creak of Ren adjusting on the futon made her blink.
"You okay down there?" she asked.
"I'm fine," he lied. "This carpet is softer than it looks."
"You're lying."
"It's either this or I risk spooning you in my sleep. I'm doing us both a favor."
Silence.
Then a soft, dangerous laugh from her.
"You really think I'd let you spoon me?"
"I think the odds increase drastically after wine."
She chuckled, then shifted under the blanket.
This was insane.
They weren't dating. They weren't even flirting. Well—maybe they flirted. Sometimes. In a "this-is-stupid-please-don't-look-at-me-like-that" kind of way.
But this? Living together? Sharing space? Sharing air?
This was a different beast.
The city had no idea what kind of romantic chaos they were enabling.
And Noa had a feeling it was only just getting started.