Nate is clean.

Objectively, this is a good thing. Especially during a pandemic. When I got here yesterday, I breathed a sigh of relief. It's never attractive when you're picking your way through sweaty, dirty socks, old takeout containers, and a layer of grime clings to everything. It really puts a dampener on the sexy mood you've been building so carefully.

However, it's also not particularly attractive to be told to take the hair out of the plug in the shower, and have the guy lurking in the doorway to make sure you do it properly.

"You're a neat freak," I tell him.

In the handful of hours into our week of quarantine, I have lost count of the number of times he has sighed. Because I didn't use a coaster for a cup of tea. Because I put an empty glass on the floor, and again because I forgot about it and kicked it over, spilling water on the rug. Because I made a sandwich, and got crumbs in the butter, and on the counter.

"And you're sloppy," he bites back. He turns away, muttering under his breath, "Glad I'm not stuck at your place."

I know he didn't mean for me to hear that, but I bristle, glowering at his back. So what if the walls in my place aren't a nice, boring shade of magnolia, and maybe have a couple of damp spots under the wallpaper in some rooms? Mr High-and-Mighty who probably dusts the skirting boards and doesn't have a single expired product in the fridge...

I pull a few faces at him, but decide not to say anything. I probably shouldn't pick a fight with Nate, when he's being generous enough to let me stay here for the week.

(Not that he's got a choice, but he has been very decent about the whole thing.)

(He also let me order some extra clothes on his credit card, and told me he wouldn't take any money off me for the food delivery order he managed to get. Which was really sweet of him, actually.)

I hear Nate filling the kettle in the kitchen, and stick my head in.

"Go on, then."

He sighs, shaking his head, but gets an extra mug out to make me some tea, too. I blow him a kiss and retreat to the living room. I throw myself down on the sofa, opening up Instagram to see if there's anything new in the last six minutes.

"Remind me what you do?" he asks me, once he's back in the living room. He sets the tea down on coasters on the table in front of the sofa, and gives a pointed look at my feet. I tuck my knees up to make room for him, but immediately put my feet back in his lap.

"I'm a primary school teacher. And you work in project management at a bank, right?"

Nate looks genuinely surprised I remember, and runs a hand through his blonde hair. It's not so neat now, but it's fluffy and it's a cute look on him. So are those grey jogging bottoms, actually, now I think about it...

"Right. Yes. I do remember you saying, now you mention it. So, er, are you working from home much?"

Crap, that's a point.

"I'm supposed to video chat with my class for an hour a day, and send some stuff out to parents. But I guess they'll have to cope without me. Damn, I should – I should probably... send a message..."

I click out of Instagram, looking for the group Whatsapp with the other teachers. It's not ideal, sure, but I can access some of the things I'd prepped for this week on Dropbox, and I'm sure someone else can pick up the video calls for me for the week. I'll offer to swap. It won't be a big deal – and I'm sure some of them will get a kick out of this story.

"You're staring at me," I tell Nate, not even looking up. I can feel his eyes boring into me; I'm just not sure if it's a 'let's go to bed' look, or a more scathing one. I glance up just as he turns away, but his cheeks flush a faint shade of pink.

"Sorry. It's just... you don't strike me as the teacher-y type, you know?"

I know, because it's what Lucy tells me on a frequent basis, and it's nothing I haven't heard before from my family.

But because he's blushing, and I'm still a little annoyed about all the huffing and puffing over how I don't live up to his precise standards of cleanliness, I cock my head and frown at him and say, "No?"

Nate almost seems to steel himself for a minute, stalling and sipping his tea. He sets his mug back down and then says to me, not quite able to look at me, "I don't know, you just seem a little... chaotic, I guess."

Oh.

Oh, wow.

WOW.

Free-spirited, absolutely. Fun and fancy-free, you know it. A zest for life, one hundred percent. Immature, even, I've heard that plenty.

But straight-up 'chaotic'?

Ouch.

"You know," he goes on, not noticing that I'm sat here like a slack-jawed idiot, "just your whole attitude. The whole persona you've got going, the party girl thing, like you don't care about anything. It's just... not what you'd expect from someone who teaches little kids, I guess."

He's right: my whole persona is major party girl vibes.

But the way he says it...

It's not with that sort of long-suffering 'we love you anyway' sigh I'm used to getting from my parents, or my uni mates.

It's not particularly judgemental, either. If anything, it's very matter of fact, the way Nate says it.

And...

It doesn't sound like such a good thing.

I'm thrown back to Luce answering the phone and immediately assuming I was in trouble and needed to borrow money. It's a funny, sweet little in joke.

But it's also totally, almost painfully true, and...

And I get the feeling if I were to joke about it out loud – not just to Nate, but to – well, anyone – it would sound... kind of sad.

Well, what does he know?

Who does he think he's calling chaotic?

I chew on my response for a little too long; Nate cringes, his shoulders hunching and he twists towards me, cradling his tea in his hands.

"I just meant..."

"I know what you meant," I tell him, my voice sounding unusually cold and curt. I would love to stand up, toss my hair, tell him where he can stick his stupid opinions and what a fantastic fucking human being I am, that what he thinks of as 'chaos' is just pure excitement and I'm so sorry his life is so mundane, and storm on out of here with my head held high, ready to tell my friends about what a prick Honeypot Emoji is.

Except, I can't.

(And he's not that much of a prick.)

Nate begins to stammer out an apology, and I think of all the brilliant stories I have that could prove him wrong. The all-night bender the night before the school nativity last Christmas, and showing up to school in the same outfit, wrapped in tinsel and with glitter on my face, and everyone thinking I was just in a particularly festive mood. The massive party I threw for my mate Jaz when she officially properly qualified as a doctor, which she claimed made all the years of studying and training worth it. The Beanie Baby I tracked down for my mum for her sixtieth birthday, because she loves collectables like that, and I had to go all the way to Edinburgh to collect it, and it cost me £100 plus a signed McFly CD, and my tire blew out halfway home and I didn't have roadside assistance so got my dad to come and collect me and help fix it, in the middle of the night.

My life is a myriad of adventures.

It's goddamn delightful.

My bank balance, not so much. The constant leak in the kitchen sink and the permanent smell lingering in our lounge, not so much. But what do those things matter?

But anyway, I tell myself, I don't need to prove myself to Nate. Nate-Nathan-Nate, the one night stand I've been talking to for the last week or so, who doesn't have a single pack of biscuits in his kitchen cupboards.

"It's fine," I tell him, to shut him up.

Nate falls quiet quickly, but is clearly uncomfortable. And I can't say I blame him. I'm scowling and clenching my jaw so hard I can practically see the storm clouds clustering around me.

I give my teeth one last grind and pry my jaw apart, doing my best to smile at him instead.

"Do you want to watch Tiger King?"