The Flat

1

Ever since my flatmate left for a new job on the other side of the world, it had been up to me to start looking for a replacement. I had a great apartment in Croydon, just outside of London. It was the first floor of a three story flat with two bedrooms, a full bathroom, a fairly large living room and renovated kitchen, off-street parking and a verandah overlooking a park. The rent was steep and I didn't want to move, so I put an ad up.

A lot of replies were discounted because they had pets, were smokers or just sounded way too weird. I was about to give up when I saw Harry's response. I never considered a male flatmate, but wasn't opposed to it either.

I set up a time for him to come and see the place. He was prompt. I opened the door to see a fit, handsome, tall, around 6 feet guy. He had stunning green eyes, a gorgeous smile and a head of messy thick curly hair. He was painfully stylish without trying. The kind of guy who was kryptonite to the average London girl.

"Vivian?" He asked in a melodic baritone.

"Yes." I responded.

"Harry." We shook hands and I let him in. We sat down and soon jumped into conversation.

After about two hours of excellent rapport, I was convinced Harry and I knew each other from a previous life. He informed that his flatmate was getting married and would be taking over the entire flat where they lived. He worked as an environmental monitor in London and my location would be an easy commute. He was easy to talk to and lovely to look at. I hoped I could adjust to having a fit guy living in my flat.

I had some misgivings about sharing my space with a guy. I always had female roomies. I wondered if it would be awkward. What if I brought a guy home? I laughed. A slim chance of that with my recent dating history. What if he brought girls home? Well, I wasn't his mother, so fuck that.

By the first week of June, he moved in with the help of his old flatmate and his fiancé. They carted in all his belongings and helped him get settled to an extent before leaving. Harry spent the rest of the day settling in.

When evening rolled around, I offered to get some pizza and lagers and he readily accepted. Later as we sat in the living room we began to fill each other in on backgrounds. He looked dubious when I informed him that I was a publisher. I assured him it's a lovely job with a great pay-check. He worked strange hours, so he might work three, twelve-hour shifts in a row and then be off for three or four days.

We settled into a simple routine. I was usually up and out as late as eight. On the days he worked, he had to be at work in the evening, so we didn't see too much of each other. On his days off, we usually had dinner together in the parlour.

Soon enough we started becoming good friends.

After about a month, the weather turned warm. The flat had no air conditioning, so we tried to keep cool by a couple window fans, open windows and by not wearing a lot of extra clothes.

I couldn't help but admire Harry's body. In running shorts, his favourite Nike ones, his long, thick legs were nothing short of awe-inspiring. He favoured running shirtless, exposing multiple tattoos, not-overly-broad chest, pecs, toned abs and v-line. He looked especially phenomenal covered in perspiration.

We both enjoyed running and would often take a four mile run in the evenings. One night it was really hot and humid and we returned drenched. I said he could take his shower first and after mine we could hit an air conditioned neighbourhood pub.

I had just finished a tall glass of water and was headed to my room, when Harry came out of the bath. He held a towel in front of him and we almost ran into each other. We apologised and he turned to head into his run. His back was completely exposed. I looked at his butt and blurted out, "Fuck me."