Alex’s life with John, the maybe-immortal roommate with a knack for dodging questions and hoarding artifacts older than democracy, had already spiraled into a comedy of cosmic proportions. He was 99% sure John was an ageless wanderer who’d probably arm-wrestled Charlemagne, but that 1% of doubt kept him from slapping a tinfoil hat on and calling it a day.
Enter Merlin—yes, Merlin—a woman so stunning she could’ve stopped traffic in ancient Rome, with a name straight out of Arthurian legend and a face that matched the mysterious “M” in John’s Victorian locket. Oh, and she was John’s wife. Alex’s world was about to get weirder than a Renaissance fair on acid.
The Bombshell Named Merlin
It was a Tuesday evening, and Alex was sprawled on the couch, half-watching The Great British Bake Off and half-googling “how to tell if your roommate is immortal without pissing him off.” John was out, as usual, on one of his cryptic “errands” (Alex was starting to suspect he was renewing his immortality license at a secret DMV for Highlander types).
The doorbell rang, and Alex, expecting a DoorDash delivery, shuffled to the door in his sweatpants. Instead, he was greeted by a vision. A woman stood there, tall and statuesque, with jet-black hair cascading over her shoulders like a gothic waterfall. Her eyes were a piercing green that seemed to see through Alex’s soul, and her curves—well, let’s just say they could’ve inspired a Renaissance sculptor to quit his day job.
She wore a tailored leather jacket and boots that looked like they’d been stolen from a medieval armory, yet somehow screamed high fashion. Alex’s jaw hit the floor, and his brain short-circuited.
“Uh… hi?” he managed, sounding like a teenager meeting his celebrity crush.
“I’m Merlin,” she said, her voice smooth as velvet with a hint of an accent Alex couldn’t place—maybe Old English, maybe ancient. “Is John here?” Alex blinked.
“Merlin? Like… the wizard?” She smirked, and Alex swore the room got brighter. “Something like that. And you’re Alex, the roommate who snoops through John’s things?”
Alex’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato. He stammered, “I, uh, borrow pens sometimes.” Before he could dig himself deeper, John burst through the door, carrying a suspiciously heavy canvas bag that clinked like it was full of medieval goblets.
“Merlin!” he exclaimed, dropping the bag with a thud that rattled the floorboards. He swept her into a hug that was equal parts rom-com reunion and “I haven’t seen you since the Black Plague” energy. Alex watched, dumbfounded, as they kissed—a kiss so intense it could’ve powered Brooklyn for a week.
“Alex,” John said, finally noticing him, “this is my wife, Merlin.” Alex’s brain screeched to a halt. Wife? The guy who reset his own dislocated shoulder like it was a loose shoelace had a wife? And her name was Merlin? And she looked like she’d just walked off a Vogue cover shoot? Alex needed to sit down.
The Locket Doppelg?nger
As Merlin sauntered into the apartment, Alex’s eyes darted to the locket around John’s neck—the one with the portrait of “M” from 1891. He’d only glimpsed it once, but the resemblance was uncanny. Same raven hair, same sharp cheekbones, same “I could rule an empire or break your heart” vibe. Merlin caught him staring and raised an eyebrow.
“Something on your mind, Alex?” she asked, her tone teasing but with an edge that said, Don’t push your luck. “N-no,” Alex lied, his voice cracking. “Just… nice locket.”
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John, oblivious or pretending to be, grinned and said, “Family heirloom. You want wine? Merlin brought a bottle from… uh, a vineyard she likes.” Alex nodded, still processing the fact that John’s “family heirloom” was basically a love letter to the goddess now sipping pinot noir on their thrift-store couch.
Merlin, for her part, seemed to enjoy Alex’s discomfort. She lounged like a queen, tossing out casual comments that made Alex’s conspiracy brain scream.
“John, remember that vineyard in Tuscany? 1632 was a great year,” she said, swirling her glass. John coughed into his wine. “She means the label on the bottle. Retro branding, you know?” Alex didn’t know. He was too busy calculating how many years ago 1632 was.
The Immortal Power Couple
Over the next hour, Alex watched John and Merlin interact like a couple who’d been together since the invention of fire. They finished each other’s sentences, laughed at inside jokes about “that time in Constantinople,” and moved with a synchronicity that suggested they’d choreographed their lives across millennia.
Merlin, like John, had an ageless quality—could’ve been 25 or 2,500, depending on the lighting—and a knack for skills that defied logic.
When the Wi-Fi crapped out, she rewired the router in under a minute, muttering something about “better systems in the 18th century.”
Alex pretended not to hear. The real kicker came when Merlin noticed John’s “prop” sword leaning against the dresser.
“You kept it?” she said, picking it up with a fondness that suggested it wasn’t just foam core. She twirled it like a pro, the blade singing through the air, and Alex swore he saw John blush.
“Still sharp,” she said, winking at him.
John shrugged. “Sentimental value.”
Alex, clutching his wineglass like a lifeline, didn’t dare ask what kind of sentiment involved a sword that looked like it had cleaved through Viking shields.
Then there was the pain thing—or lack thereof. Merlin, apparently, shared John’s disregard for mortal limits.
When she accidentally knocked a glass off the table, it shattered, and a shard grazed her hand. Alex yelped, expecting blood, but Merlin just laughed, brushed off the cut (which was already closing), and said, “Clumsy me. Good thing I’m tough.”
John, overacting as usual, added a belated, “Ouch, babe, you okay?” Merlin rolled her eyes, and Alex caught a look between them that said, We’re not fooling him, but let’s keep the charade going.
Alex’s Existential Crisis
By the time Merlin and John retreated to John’s room (with a bottle of wine and a vibe that suggested they were about to reenact a scene from a 14th-century romance novel), Alex was a wreck.
He texted Sarah, the history major, in a panic: “John’s wife is here. Her name’s MERLIN. She looks like the locket lady. I’m losing it.” Sarah replied with a string of skull emojis and, “GET PHOTOS OF HER WITH THE ARTIFACTS.” Alex wasn’t that brave. Or stupid. He sat on the couch, staring at the locket’s empty spot on the counter (John had tucked it away when Merlin arrived).
The evidence was overwhelming: John’s “props” were relics, his skills were superhuman, and now his smoking-hot wife—who looked like she’d stepped out of a 19th-century portrait—was named after a wizard and acted like she’d seen the fall of Rome.
Alex’s 1% of doubt was clinging to life by a thread thinner than Merlin’s patience. When John emerged later to grab more wine, Alex mustered the courage to blurt, “So, Merlin’s… cool. How long you two been married?” John’s smile was infuriatingly calm. “A while,” he said, dodging like a pro. “She’s my rock. Been through a lot together.” He paused, then added, “You should try the wine. It’s… timeless.” Alex didn’t touch the wine. He was too busy wondering if “a while” meant “since the Crusades.
The Ongoing Mystery, Now With a Power Couple
Merlin stayed for a week, and Alex spent it tiptoeing around the apartment, half-expecting to catch her and John plotting to steal the Holy Grail. She was charming, witty, and terrifyingly competent—fixed the sink, spoke fluent Italian to the pizza guy, and once absentmindedly quoted Chaucer in Middle English.
John, meanwhile, was happier than Alex had ever seen him, like a guy who’d been waiting centuries for his soulmate to crash on his couch. Merlin finally left, a week later (with a promise to “visit again soon”), Alex caught John staring at the locket with a look that could’ve melted glaciers.
For now, Alex would keep snooping, keep texting Sarah, and keep living with the most enigmatic power couple in Brooklyn.
