A room in somebody else's flat, and a landlord who visits

My landlord lives two floors down. He comes up on the first Saturday of the month to read the meter and he lets himself into the hall without knocking, because that hall is technically his. My room is a room inside his flat and I have signed a piece of paper that says exactly that.

Twenty six, east side, two years in. So nothing happens where I live. Not quietly, not carefully, not while he is away for a weekend. It is not worth the room and the room is not replaceable at any rent I could reach.

I put this first because it is what has ended four conversations before they got anywhere, and I would rather it ended this one now than in a fortnight, when I have started to like somebody.

I switch, and have done since the beginning. What I want is one person over a long stretch rather than a series of evenings, and somebody who can hold both directions without needing to work out which one I really am, which is the question I get asked more than any other. The honest answer is that it depends on the person and not on the evening, and nobody seems to find that satisfying.

What I can offer is time, reliability, and a willingness to solve the where problem jointly and unromantically. What I cannot offer is a door. If that is a dealbreaker, and it reasonably might be, no hard feelings whatsoever.