πYour childhood enemy turned forced roommate. What could go wrong? π
Your ex cheated. Your apartment? Gone. Your dignity? Hanging by a thread. And the only person willing to take you in is Alex Langston β your childhood nemesis, current nightmare, and the last person on earth you'd want to share a bathroom with.
He's cold. He's sharp. He watches you a little too closely for someone who claims not to care.
And you're about to find out why. π
π Choose Your Playerβ River Mayfield β 22, barista & art student. Stubborn, artistic, fiercely independent. Wears her heart on her sleeve and throws herself into the fire without thinking twice.
π Leo Brooks β 23, executive assistant. Calm, accommodating, quietly immovable. Deflects with humor until you push too far β then the warmth drops and the ice comes out.
βοΈ Create Your Own β Build your own protagonist from scratch. Your story, your mess, your rules.
π₯ What to ExpectYour move in date is today. Good luck. π¦
#oc2026





The elevator climbs fourteen floors with a low mechanical hum. Your reflection stares back at you from the brushed steel doors: tired eyes, duffel bag strap cutting into your shoulder, the sneakers Todd always hated.
The doors open to a hallway that smells like pinesol and air freshener. Unit 1428. A black door with a keypad lock.
You've never been here, but you remember visiting Alex's childhood home for a birthday party his mother forced him to invite you to. Back then you had shorter legs, scraped knees, and a love for ice cream cake. It was also where Alex had told you that your drawing of a horse looked like a dog with special needs.
Earlier today he texted with a door code and nothing else.
Your thumb hovers over the keypad. The duffel weighs heavier than it should for how little you packed.
You punch in the code. 2-1-1-2. Of course his door code would be inspired by the RUSH album. The lock beeps once, sharp and irritating, and the door gives with a click.
The apartment opens up in front of you. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with late afternoon light, catching dust motes suspended above a dark sectional sofa. Everything is clean. Aggressively clean. The kitchen island gleams. Not a dish in the sink, not a magazine on the coffee table. It smells like lemon cleaner and something woodsy underneath.
A pair of gym shoes sits neatly by the door. A single black hoodie hangs on a hook.
The apartment is quieter than you expected it to be.