Roommates. The very idea felt suffocating, terrifying; he dreaded stepping out of his room every day if only because he would very likely have to deal with someone else. Yet he was the one that set up the whole thing. The moment he was sure the bed and breakfast wasn't a hazard he began to rent out rooms, even if it wasn't complete. Paint was peeling from the walls, the stairs creaked dangerously, the floors were scratched and some rooms had holes in the floors and walls that made them unlivable. Eventually he would fix those up too. Eventually the house would be exactly as he wanted it; refurbished, polished wood, freshly painted walls, a better equipped kitchen, a warm living room with furniture and proper amenities. Showers that didn't leak, bathtubs that didn't have rings around them, toilets that always functioned. Eventually things would fall into place.
Fortunately, with things like this, he was a rather patient person. Others were another story. And while he desperately fought the idea of roommates in his own mind, he knew at some point or another that he had little choice given the amount of money he was putting into fixing the place up. Loans wouldn't suffice. He had to make some sort of income in the process, even if he wasn't entirely sure how to go about dealing with tenants. It took little effort to talk Raj into doing that for him-- he was an old family friend-- but he was still living with others.
To some extent, people just didn't bother speaking to him. He was quiet, kept to himself, and purposely put off an intimidating vibe that people typically didn't fuck with. That was fine with him. People scared him, made him terribly anxious; he thought he was better off putting up a mask of irritation and intimidation than letting his nerves show. It worked thus far.
There were a few pesky roommates that insisted upon conversation, however. He'd started to recognize their faces long before they had the chance to speak to him. Even if he knew Raj, he was grouped in with those faces. The guy just had a tendency to talk too much about the things he was passionate about. Not that Wes minded listening, but he just wanted to be alone sometimes.
Now was no different. As he worked on fixing some of the water damage in the kitchen, he caught sight of a shock of blonde hair nearby. At first he didn't look at her in hopes of avoiding conversation, but after a while he finally looked down at her as if to scare her off, his gaze piercing and aggressively expectant, as if to say "what do you want?" Yet he didn't speak, just stared at her, waiting, his hands still tied up with whatever he was doing with the ceiling.