This Time of Year | wlw

chapter one

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Eilidh

I didn't expect that my roommate would listen to me when I asked her to stop having her hookups over at three in the morning—or, at the very least, to stop having such loud sex at three in the morning. There's nothing quite like trying to get to bed before you have to wake up and get ready for your hour-long commute, and you find you can't concentrate on the simple act of falling asleep because your roommate's light, breathy, yet quite loud moans are echoing about the hallowed halls of your shitty little Montclair, New Jersey, apartment.

She listened, almost. Sure, she stopped having sex at three in the morning. Eleven a.m. sounds good to her, because she is truly, undeniably the worst.

They've been at it for at least an hour when I break for lunch. I work from home most days now that I'm a full-fledged agent, with our Manhattan office only requiring me to come in person maybe once a week, if that. It's a new-ish development, but it's one I thought my roommate, Sabrina, would have been more aware of. She's seen me at home nearly every day this week.

Foolish of me, to expect Sabrina would be aware of ... well, really, anything.

I'm in the middle of raiding the fridge (which is mostly full of Sabrina's groceries, each of which are either already rotten or are teetering on the cusp of expiry) when her sharp cries reach a crescendo. I hate that I can tell when she's on the verge of finishing. I lean into the fridge, pretending to inspect it while the cool air wafts across my flushed cheeks, and fighting the urge to slam the fridge door into my head.

There are a few horrible, horrible grunts from who I assume is her gentleman caller. Sabrina drowns them out with something along the lines of, "Oh, don't stop, don't stop!" and the barely muffled shouts of some man's name. Aiden? Braden? Kaden? I can't tell. Out of everything, a name is the part I can't quite make out. I swear, it's always a different guy. One (who was shitting with the door open and decided to say "Well hey there" when I walked by) said he was named Rock. Just, "Rock."

Finally, with one final "Oh my god!," silence settles over the flat at long last, broken momentarily by a short giggle.

If only our flat were a few levels higher. A more jump-able height.

There's not even time for me to actually grab my lunch and creep past Sabrina's doorway to my room when I hear her bedroom door swing open. I'm shutting the fridge door and am about to say something potentially snide when I'm met by Sabrina's astonished face: her eyes wide, her mouth in a perfect circle.

She is completely naked.

"Oh my god?" I say.

"OH MY GOD!" she cries, immediately contorting herself into this awkward little ball—practically dropping to the floor with her legs half-crossed, her hands coming to her shoulders to try and hide her chest. "OHHH, MY GOD."

"Oh my god," I say, opening the fridge and hiding my face behind the door. Oh my god. "I'm so, so sorry." I'm not sure why I'm sorry, but I am.

"No, no, I'm sorry. God, BRADEN! Braden, can you—actually, no, I'm just gonna go back to my room. Oh my god. Ohhhh, my god. I am so sorry, Eilidh. Ahhh! Oh my god. Ah!"

"It's okay!" My voice is a strained squeak. Naked. Naked Sabrina. Naked, evidently irrefutably hot Sabrina.

There are panicked footsteps, Braden's gruff, "What's wrong?", and Sabrina's bedroom door slams shut.