Not at all

Stepping into the apartment Tom shared with Ben was always an exercise in self-restraint for Emma. It was a sensory ****—a suffocating blend of stale beer, damp gym laundry, and the lingering, sour musk of unwashed human skin. While Tom kept his own space relatively tidy, the common areas suffered under Ben’s influence, and the air seemed to thicken the closer she got to his domain.

There he was, sprawled on the living room couch like some unkempt, lazy beast. A crusty bowl of week-old takeaway sat on the coffee table, a film of greyish slime clinging to the edges. Ben didn't even look up when she entered. He was wearing the same charcoal sweatpants he’d been sporting for three days, the fabric dark with sweat stains around the crotch and inner thighs. His t-shirt clung to a soft, greasy midsection, and as he shifted, he let out a wet, rattling cough, followed by the sound of him spitting into a fast-food cup on the floor.

Emma felt a shiver of genuine, prickling revulsion crawl up her spine. How Tom could tolerate living with this bottom-feeder was entirely beyond her comprehension. She looked at Ben’s hair—short blonde—the dark, patchy stubble, and the general aura of decay that seemed to cling to him like a physical cloak. To Emma, he was a cautionary tale, a slob who represented everything she detested about masculinity. She tightened her grip on her purse, wanting to scrub the sight from her mind, her eyes darting to Tom’s bedroom door as if it were a sanctuary.

She thought you could do better and hated being put in situations where she had to interact with him.