Page 5 of A Deal with my Bully Roommate

It’s been three days since the explosion in the cafeteria, and the silence in Dorm 111 has changed. It used to be heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm—thick with resentment and the unspoken threat of my thumb on the "send" button. Now, it’s something else. Something fragile.

Harper has been a ghost of a roommate, but a perfect servant. She folds my laundry without being asked. She carries my heavy Constitutional Law binders across the quad, eyes fixed forward, ignoring the way her old clique parts like the Red Sea when we approach, their whispers trailing behind us like exhaust. She hasn't mentioned the "hero" moment once, the way she defended me in the cafeteria before our classmates.

“At least Avery has a personality that isn't bought with a platinum card.”

“Why?” The question is a nagging itch I can’t scratch. “Why would she do that?”

She’s my bully. She’s the girl who spent years refining the art of making me feel subhuman. She’s the girl I’m currently blackmailing into being my servant. Harper has never defended me before. She should have laughed with Chloe. She should have added a witty postscript about how the "charity case" can't even afford a decent haircut. That’s the script. That’s how this works.

But Harper Price just threw away her only safety net for me.

And she hasn’t asked for a shorter sentence or a thank you either. She’s been too compliant, too obedient, and it’s messing with my head.

I’m sprawled on my bed, the mid-afternoon sun casting long, golden bars across my duvet. My laptop is balanced on my stomach, playing a grainy episode of an obscure 90s sitcom—the kind with questionable fashion and a laugh track that feels like a warm hug. It’s my secret indulgence, the only thing that silences the voice in my head telling me I don't belong at a school this expensive.

The door clicks open. Harper walks in, carrying a cardboard tray from the cafe. She sets a black coffee on my nightstand, her movements practiced and quiet. Usually, this is where she retreats to her "side" of the room to stare at her $2,000 laptop, but today, she stops.

Her eyes catch the screen. I see her nose crinkle—not in disgust, but in recognition. I briefly consider shutting the laptop screen but decide against it. I am the one in charge here.

"Is that the one where the main character tries to join the high-stakes poker game using coupons?" she asks. Her voice is cautious, testing the water.

I freeze, my finger hovering over the spacebar. "You know The Last Resort?"

Harper scoffs, and for a split second, the old, arrogant Harper is back—but she’s directed at the television, not me. "Know it? My nanny used to let me watch the reruns when my parents were at charity galas. It was the only thing on TV that didn't feel like it was trying to sell me a lifestyle." She lingers at the foot of my bed, her gaze fixed on the screen. "That guy in the vest is about to make the most disastrous romantic decision in the history of broadcast television."

"He’s a romantic!" I argue, shifting my legs to make room without even thinking about it. "He believes in the grand gesture."

"He believes in stalking," Harper counters, sliding onto the edge of the mattress. She’s close enough that I can smell her expensive perfume—something like bergamot and rain—mixing with the scent of my cheap coffee. "The grand gesture is just a way to bypass the fact that he has zero emotional intelligence."

"And you’re one to talk about emotional intelligence?" I fire back. It’s a jab, but the sting is gone. It’s playful. It’s banter. And I don’t hate it.

"The heroine’s life isn’t riding on my emotional intelligence," she murmurs, but she doesn't move.

Harper sits down next to me, and I let her as we watch the episode together. It’s a weird feeling, watching my favorite sitcom with my bully. For the next forty minutes, the world outside Dorm 111 ceases to exist. We aren't the scholarship girl and the legacy hire. We aren't the victim and the bully. We’re just two girls dissecting a twenty-five-year-old plotline with surgical precision.

"See!" I point at the screen as the credits begin to roll. "He got the girl. The gesture worked."

"The gesture worked because the writers are men," Harper says, leaning back against the footboard. She looks at me, and for the first time, she’s laughing. It’s a real laugh—bright, messy, and genuine. It transforms her face, smoothing out the lines of curated perfection. "In the real world, she would have called the police three scenes ago."

I laugh too, the sound bubbling up before I can stop it. But as the laughter dies down, a heavy, suffocating silence takes its place. We’re sitting on the same bed. We’re inches apart. I can see the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose that she usually hides with foundation.

The realization hits me like a physical blow: I have the same sense of humor as my nemesis. We find the same things absurd. We speak the same language of sarcasm, feminism, and niche references.

It’s terrifying. The bullying was easy to handle; I knew how to survive that. But this? This feeling of being seen by her, of sharing a moment that wasn't dictated by the deal? This is more dangerous than any rumor she ever spread.

I see her throat bob as she swallows, her eyes dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before she snaps her gaze away. The air in the room suddenly feels much too thin.

"I... I should get back to your Case Law notes," she says, her voice suddenly stiff. She stands up, smoothing her silk pants with trembling hands. "The citations for the contract law section are a mess."

"Yeah," I say, my own voice sounding thick. I pull the laptop back toward me, but the screen is just a blur. "Midnight, Harper. Don't be late."

"I won't be," she whispers, walking back to her desk.

I stare at the back of her head, my heart drumming a frantic, confused rhythm. I was supposed to ruin her. I was supposed to make her crawl. But as I take a sip of the coffee she brought me—exactly the temperature I like—I realize I’m the one who’s losing.

I’m starting to like my demon. And that’s a war I have no idea how to win.

A few days later, the air in Dorm 111 is humming with a different kind of electricity. The "sitcom afternoon" hasn't been discussed, but it lingers between us. Harper and I have been growing closer, something I’m desperately trying to ignore. Spending all my time with my bully must be messing with my head. We’re hunched over the shared desk that afternoon, our shoulders nearly brushing as we prep for a Contract Law seminar.