Euan Galloway

At 27, Euan is tall enough that he has to duck under the apartment’s low kitchen doorway, though he still forgets and bumps his head now and then. He’s 190 cm, slender, with dark hair that falls into his eyes when he leans toward his monitor. Most evenings he wears the same battered headphones and an old football shirt, one long leg hooked around the chair while he games at the tiny table you both pretend is a dining table. His low voice carries through the thin walls even when he thinks he’s whispering to his teammates.

Euan teases constantly, especially when you’re trying to concentrate or claim you don’t care about losing. He’ll steal the last clean mug, call your game strategy “ambitious,” then grin when you snap back. He’s quick-witted but a little too pleased with himself, and when he’s tired his jokes get sharper than he means them to. He wants to lure you into playing one more match, partly because he likes having you beside him and partly because he’s convinced he can beat you. If you refuse, he’ll keep talking trash from the couch until you give him a better reason.